All the Way to Heaven

by Becky Doughty

  “Un altro glorioso giorno, Signora Adimari!” I caught the words “glorious day” in the greeting, and I found myself smiling at the exchange, the cliché of it satisfying the tourist in me. I lifted my puffy eyes to the sky. All suffering aside, it truly was a glorious day. The sun was out, paint splotches of clouds sprinkled the blue canvas dome overhead, and the music of the charming Italian town resounded in the air.

  I took another deep breath, this one a little steadier. Pushing thoughts of Jacob away, I succumbed to the siren call outside my window, and turned to rifle through my suitcase for something to wear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I had landed in Pisa early Monday afternoon, and spent my first night in Italy at a Holiday Inn there, abandoning my plans to visit the famous leaning tower. I surrendered, instead, to the desperate need to sleep. My fatigue was only partly due to the nine-hour time change. More specifically, it was because of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding my overnight flight from Los Angeles during which I’d planned to sleep.

  My overnight flight during which I did not sleep.

  The somewhat portly gentleman in the seat beside me didn’t suffer similarly. It was, in fact, his snuffling and snorting, along with his wildly bobbing head, which kept me in a state of tense and awkward wakefulness. He must have taken some kind of sleep aide, because after an hour of his chest-rattling coughing and sneezing that had me breathing only when absolutely necessary, he passed out and didn’t come around until the flight attendant shook him rather forcefully when it was time to buckle up for landing.

  As tired as I’d been, though, I’d tossed and turned until finally falling into a deep sleep after midnight. I was late checking out the next morning and had to sweet talk the concierge into not charging me for a second night. He scolded me, flirted outrageously with me, and then casually held out his hand for a tip for his generosity.

  I wondered how much of my carefully budgeted cash would go toward making amends for my tourist blunders.

  The day, unfortunately, continued to unravel around me. In my flustered state, I boarded a train going in the opposite direction from Lucca, toward Livorno, but spent the first thirty-five minutes blissfully unaware of my mistake, making silly faces and playing peekaboo with a brown-eyed cherub in a stroller across the aisle. The infant’s mother sat nearby reading a magazine and smiling as her daughter cooed and blew bubbles in delight over my antics. It never ceased to amaze me what a fool I’d make of myself for a baby’s slobbery, toothless grin. Not that I had any desire for one of my own. I had absolutely no idea what to do with them once they stopped smiling and starting crying instead.

  When I finally realized the names of the train depots we were passing were not on the route I’d so painstakingly plotted, the soft-spoken mother took pity on me, seeing my mounting panic as I perused my map and travel guide. Her voice was gentle, soothing, even though I didn’t understand a word she said.

  “Mi scusi. Non capisco.” I’d had every intention of learning enough Italian to get by before coming to visit, having even registered for an online language as an elective during my last semester of my senior year. But as a result of expediting my travel plans, the best I could manage was a few default phrases committed to memory, courtesy of the travel companion English-Italian dictionary I had tucked in the outside pocket of my purse. “Excuse me. I don’t understand,” was one of them.

  “I will help you?” The woman pointed at the map on my lap. Gulping down the bubble of relief in my throat, I put my finger on the dot labeled Lucca.

  “Vado... Lucca,” I stuttered. “I’m going to Lucca.”

  She smiled at my wretched attempt at Italian, then with much gesturing, one- and two-word phrases, and encouraging pats on the shoulder, she steered me in the right direction, her broken English far more decipherable than my broken Italian. She laughed when I hugged her fiercely and blew a kiss at the baby as we parted ways at the next stop. Tish would have been proud of my public display of affection.

  I dragged my bags clear of the track and the train whooshed off without me, leaving me the sole passenger waiting on the platform of a very small and unmanned depot.

  A wave of excruciating vulnerability washed over me, and I white-knuckled my suitcase handle, palms sweating and armpits tingling. I took in the crumbling brick exterior of the compact building with its chained door and graffitied facade. There were two long benches under the shade of an awning off to one side, but I opted to stand out in the open to wait for the train that the woman had assured me would arrive “in little time.” I was exposed, yes, but on my feet, can of pepper spray in hand, ready to flee should any unsavory sorts approach. Where I’d run, I didn’t know, but run I would, even if it meant abandoning my luggage. I’d seen the movies, read the horror stories of lone travelers never heard from again… of abandoned train stations harboring the dregs of society.

  It was another forty-five minutes before a train pulled up to the bay. Two others had swept through without stopping, and I was beginning to think vile things about the mother and child playing me false. I thought I might swoon from the sheer relief of seeing those doors swing open, and I scrambled onto the train, dropping into the first seat I found.

  The passenger across from me wore sunglasses, but not the dark kind that completely hid his eyes. He watched me openly as I settled my things around me, so I took advantage of his attention. “Mi scusi. Is this train going to Lucca?” He frowned slightly, nodded, then leaned his head on a squashed leather satchel he’d propped against the window and closed his eyes. I hoped he wasn’t just brushing me off, and that we were, in fact, heading in the right direction at least.

  Having gotten so far off course, I mourned the fact that I was spending my first full day in Italy this way, sitting across from a brooding man who was not my idea of a cross-country traveling companion. His hair was sloppy, flattened on one side from his catnaps, and the shadow on his jawline indicated he hadn’t shaved in at least a few days. His shirt was wrinkled and ill-fitting and he looked kind of rumpled and frayed around the edges. I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps that’s how the word ‘frumpy’ came about; rumpled and frayed.

  He glanced over and caught me studying him. Embarrassed, I smiled politely and began digging industriously though my backpack for nothing in particular.

  With a sigh, he slipped the shoulder strap of his man purse over his head, staggered to his feet as though the thing weighed a ton, and headed down the aisle.

  Well, excuse me. Thankful no one else was sitting close enough to have witnessed my humiliation, I ducked my head, letting my hair hide the blush I could feel creeping up my neck.

  I arrived in Lucca two hours later than scheduled, several euros shorter, and more than a little rattled. I’d planned to make the leisurely half-mile walk from the station to my guesthouse, but now it was quickly growing dark. Overwhelmed, and still reeling a little over my own incompetence, it occurred to me that I’d come woefully unprepared for mishaps.

  I prided myself on being independent and capable, although maybe a little reserved for the average college co-ed. Not unattractive, and well into my senior year earning my Bachelors of Science in business administration, I had two different companies courting me from internships I’d done last year. I had no known phobias and loved roller coasters, had paid off my little red and white Mini Cooper two years ago and still thought it was the cutest car in the university parking lot. I even knew some quick and dirty self-defense. My street-wise Tae Kwon Do instructor made it a priority to teach his female students how to protect themselves in the real world.

  When asked my reason for joining the class a year ago, I had packed all the sophistication I could muster into my response to Instructor Tim. “I find most forms of martial art just that; art beautifully expressed by the human body.”

  He nodded sagely, and replied, “Tae Kwon Do is indeed an art. But to be truly beautiful, you must also be dangerous.”

  I loved the class and took to it l
ike a fish to water, but about six months in, things started to get awkward. Instructor Tim would come up behind me, startling me with a greeting spoken so close I could feel his breath against my skin. Sometimes he’d brush his fingers down my arm or slide the flat of his palm across my back when passing me. It wasn’t anything terribly inappropriate, considering the class was all about body slamming and hand-to-hand combat. Even though it never turned into anything more, never led to anything like an outright come-on, it just felt too intimate for me to be okay with it. It didn’t help that he was ridiculously good-looking, and I was pretty sure he was aware that I was aware of that fact.

  At first, my discomfort had me shying away from him, apologetic and self-conscious, as though I was the one overstepping the boundaries. One day, however, on the verge of quitting the class, I turned on him, putting everything he’d taught me to good use.

  From his position flat on his back, my elbow at his throat, he nodded approvingly. “Good job, Anica. Never let a man intimidate you, no matter what position he holds in your life.” Then, with an almost imperceptible shift of the weight in his hips and shoulders, he flipped me over his head, and I was the one sprawled on the mat, Instructor Tim standing over me. I lay there, not sure if I was going to cry, laugh, or attempt to throw one more kick for good measure.

  “And that is why I am the instructor, and you are the student.” He grinned, stuck out his hand, and pulled me to my feet, then bowed deeply. Straightening, he winked and said, “Next time, though, kick me in the groin, knee me in the nose, and run. Just like I taught you. This is not the time to be nice. None of this proper form business, understand? Remember what I said. If you want to be beautiful, Anica, you must also be dangerous.” And that was that. Lesson learned. His methods were a little wonky, but I got the point far more effectively than if he’d simply kept telling me to be dangerous. I liked the idea of being able to kick someone’s head off their shoulders in theory, but he turned the idea into reality, which made me realize I actually had it in me to be dangerous. And I wanted to be dangerous.

  Every time I thought about Jerkob, I wanted to be especially dangerous.

  At that moment, however, sagging against my suitcase on the front steps of the Lucca train station just outside the security of the city walls, I felt anything but dangerous. Deflated. Defeated. Discouraged. Yes. But not dangerous.

  Using precious international minutes on my cell phone, I called the guesthouse owner to let him know I was still coming. “One more thing. I don’t mean to bother you even more, but do you have the phone number for a taxi?”

  His good-natured chuckle grated across my already frayed nerves. I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger to hold back the tears when he said I’d wait thirty minutes or more for a taxi. Glancing around at the elongating shadows and increasingly darkening corners, I didn’t think I could stand the thought of spending the next half hour sitting alone in yet another nearly empty depot. “I come in five minutes, okay? I do not want you to get lost in your first night of my town.”

  My knees went a little weak at the thought of being rescued by someone who seemed to care what happened to me, someone by the name of Fabio, no less—not kidding. I thanked him profusely and hung up.

  “Excuse me.” A low voice from behind startled me, and I stood abruptly, knocking my suitcase onto its back. Mr. Rude Guy from the train. He reached me in three long strides and bent down to grab the extended handle of my bag, presumably to right it. But I was suddenly a little freaked out that he was here, and that other than the two of us, the station was pretty much empty.

  He was tall and looked fairly solid. Could I take him? I widened my stance and opened and closed my fists at my sides a few times, readying myself for whatever might happen next.

  He must have seen something in my eyes. He stood the suitcase up, took one step back, and lifted both hands in a gesture that said, “See? No harm done.”

  I relaxed incrementally. “Thanks. You startled me.”

  “I am sorry. I did not mean to scare you. I only wanted to make sure you were okay before I—” He broke off suddenly, as though reconsidering his decision to speak to me. He glanced at his watch, then past me in the direction of the sun disappearing below the horizon. He obviously had somewhere to be and I was keeping him.

  “I’m fine. Fine,” I assured him quickly, remembering all too well how unfriendly he’d been on the train. “My ride will be here any minute.” I turned my back to him, dismissing him the same way he’d done to me earlier.

  The same way Jacob had done to me in Brigatines.

  Then I heard him sigh, still only a few feet behind me. “Please do not be alarmed,” he said. “I am going to wait. Over there.” I turned again to see him pointing at a row of benches just outside the entrance to the station. “It is not safe for you to be here alone after dark.”

  Taken aback by his begrudging kindness, I stuttered. “I—you—I’ll be fine. You don’t have to wait.”

  “I will wait.” He crossed to the benches, dropped to the first one, and leaned against the wall at his back, crossing his arms over his chest with finality.

  I stared at him in the fading light for just a few more moments, then murmured, “Thank you.”

  He nodded curtly, but said nothing else.

  It was only after I sat back down on my suitcase to wait for Fabio that I realized I’d just had a whole conversation in English. No painful translations on my part or his. No Italian-to-English-and-back dictionary necessary.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Just as promised, no more than five minutes later, a man pulled up to the front of the station and climbed out of his little hatchback Volkswagen, waving vigorously at me. I stifled a slightly hysterical giggle as I sized up the guy who had definitely not graced the covers of any bodice-rippers I’d ever seen. A beanpole with laugh lines around his eyes, casually dressed in jeans and a polo-style shirt, he looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, about the age of my dad. He wore his brown hair cropped short and it was definitely thinning on top.

  “Hallooo!” Hurrying forward, he reached for my suitcase, nodding repeatedly by way of greeting. “Welcome, welcome. I take you to my house now.”

  After stowing my bags, he opened the door and stood aside, indicating that I get in. I faltered, the absurd thought that he wanted me to drive making me momentarily immobile.

  It took me all of five seconds to remember that the steering wheel was on the other side of the car, and I clambered into the passenger seat, feeling insecure all over again. A prickle of tears threatened to embarrass me even more.

  If I did nothing else while in Italy, I was going to find the OFF switch to my stupid tears.

  Glancing over at the gregarious stranger as he slid into the seat to my right, I hoped he wouldn’t notice my emotional turmoil. But as soon as he closed his door, a new concern arose as a fissure of fear traipsed up my spine. My eyes darted over toward the now empty bench where my surly guardian had been only moments before. Stealthily, I reached for the door handle, clutching my purse to my chest with my other hand. Turning to meet my driver’s open gaze, my voice shook ever so slightly. “Please tell me you’re Fabio.”

  A very careless move on my part, a girl alone, climbing into the car of a strange man, day or night. I bit my bottom lip hard as the possible implications of my actions spun out of control in my mind. Instructor Tim would have my neck in a choke hold if he could see me now.

  “I am Fabio,” the man assured me, smiling broadly, his large teeth glistening in the street lights that had just blinked on outside the station. “I am from Alla Dolce Vita!”

  “Whew!” I sighed dramatically, making light of my concern. I held out my hand. “I’m Anica Tomlin. And I’m sorry for thinking you might try to kidnap me just now.”

  The brief silence that followed was awkward, and then Fabio chuckled. “You must not be sorry for being careful. Especially a beautiful lady alone in the night time.” He reached over
the gear shift between us to shake my hand, then patted my leg. For whatever reason, the gesture didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, only thankful for his graciousness. “But I tell you this; Lucca is full of light and joy. If you look for it with open eye and open heart and open hand, you will find happy here, okay?”

  I nodded appreciatively. I could do with a little light and joy and happy. “Okay.”

  “Okay!” Fabio stated affirmatively and we zipped out of the parking lot.

  Fabio operated the little guesthouse where I planned to stay for my first ten days in Italy, taking day trips to visit places like Sienna, Florence, Cinque Terre, and more. After that, I’d move on to Rome and squeeze in day trips to Naples, Pompeii, Sorrento, and wherever else I could, depending on what kind of money I had left.

  Fabio didn’t live on the premises, which caused a flicker of trepidation over the question of security, but he assured me that his home was less than five minutes away. “I live five minutes from everything of Lucca!” If I needed anything at all, I only had to call. He’d shown me the wall phone in the kitchenette and his number, along with several other important local phone numbers, on a piece of paper tacked up beside it, including the polici, the ospidale, and several words ending in -ria and -teca. Trattoria, osteria. panetteria. Enoteca, discoteca, even a biblioteca. He explained that although local phone calls were no extra charge, there was no international connection.

  Use of the Internet, however, was included in my room rate. “It is wireless!” he said with enthusiasm, handing me a business card with the password I’d need to access it. I was thrilled, having thought I would need to find an Internet cafe in order to write home. After my train ordeal, I didn’t feel brave enough to leave my room tonight. “We share with the panetteria downstairs. You can sit under the sunshine and Skype to your family so they will see how fortunate you are to stay here in Lucca.”