All the Way to Heaven

by Becky Doughty

  The crowd milling and murmuring around us added to the awkwardness of my situation, and my humiliation made me keep my head down.

  The little girl turned to her father and began speaking in a rush of words, her high-pitched voice rising insistently, hand gestures emphasizing each statement.

  “Mi scusi.” Her father knelt in front of me, placing a hand on my shoulder, and I flinched, hoping he wouldn’t try any more kissing. It would hurt me more than him if I had to haul off and smack him. “Hai famiglia qui?”

  I could tell he was speaking slowly for my sake, like my dad did whenever he met someone from another country, regardless of whether or not they spoke English. “Family? No. No famiglia. I’m here alone.” I shook my head, keeping my eyes averted. No family. No friends. No purse. Just me and my broken heart. And now my broken body.

  He glanced over at Simone, his eyes questioning, and the two of them slipped back into Italian.

  I just needed to get back to my room. Once there, I could think straight. I could figure out what to do next. In my suitcase, I had a list of emergency phone numbers, along with photocopies of all my legal documents. And my laptop. Even though I couldn’t make international calls from Alla Dolce Vita, at least I could get the ball rolling on the immediate necessities, like figuring out how to file a police report and contacting the U.S. Consulate in Florence to find out how to get a new passport so I could get home. And emailing my mother.

  No longer caring what kind of impression I made, I dabbed at my eyes with the cuff of my sleeve and looked around. There was a bench a few feet away. Clenching my teeth against the pain, I leaned forward and used just my fingertips to brace myself, preparing to stand.

  “No, Miss!” Simone’s father lurched up and slid an arm around my waist to support me. Someone else, another man from the growing group of onlookers, hurried to my other side, and the two of them talked rapidly over my head as they helped me hobble to the nearby bench. They continued discussing me—I could tell by the way Simone’s father kept waving his free hand back and forth between his daughter and me—and I tried not to worry too much about what they were saying. I gingerly brought my leg up onto the bench beside me, knowing I needed to get my foot elevated. I needed ice, too. And good drugs.

  “I want my mommy,” I whispered.

  Simone stepped close and touched my knee. “Papa say you go to the hospital.”

  “Oh, please, no!” I blurted out, lifting my head to look up at the two men still discussing my fate. “Please. If someone would just help me get back to my room at Alla Dolce Vita, that would be great.” I had decent medical insurance, but even if I was carrying the best coverage, I had nothing with me to show for it. My proof of insurance, along with the credit card I’d need to pay for whatever it cost to go to the emergency room, was in my purse. “It’s not far, I don’t think. There’s a bakery, too. A panetteria, l’Aurora.” For one desperate moment, I wondered if I could convince someone to push me home on my bike… and felt a bubble of hysteria rise up in my chest at that recipe for disaster. “I just don’t know how I’m going to get there,” I finished dully.

  I closed my eyes in frustration, wishing for all the world I could get a do-over of this day.

  “I know l’Aurora.” My eyes popped open as the other man turned around, almost reluctantly, it seemed, and I gulped when I recognized Mr. Rude Guy from the train.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  His storm cloud mood, apparently, had not lifted, and he didn’t seem any more thrilled at having to come to my aid this time, either.

  He leaned down in front of me, bending at the waist and resting his large hands on his knees. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him so I stared at his fingers instead. “Are you sure you are all right? This man says he will pay for you to see a doctor.”

  “No, no. I’ll be fine. I just—I just need to get back to my room. I… my purse….” I faltered, fighting to keep my composure. For some uncanny reason, I’d shoved my key in my back pocket. At least I could still get in. Getting up the stairs was another matter altogether, but I couldn’t afford to think about that at the moment.

  “Yes, he says your purse was stolen when his daughter knocked you off your bicycle?” It was a statement in the form of a question. He straightened, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, looming above me. Up close, he was taller than I’d thought. I looked away. “Do you have anyone you can call? Anyone who can help you?”

  I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, grateful for this unlikely hero. Even though he didn’t seem any more thrilled to be here than I was, at least he was sticking around to help. Again. And he was speaking English. I could handle a lot of rude if it meant I didn’t have to try to translate.

  “I’m here by myself. I stupidly put my money belt in my purse this morning, instead of wearing it, so everything important, my passport, traveler’s checks, my credit cards, all that stuff was in my purse. And I know I should have worn it over my shoulder—my purse, not my money belt. That goes around my waist—and I shouldn’t have set it down even for a minute. I know I should have had it on me, even while riding, at least my money belt, but it just seemed pretty safe sitting there in the basket in front of my face while I rode. I truly did not expect to be taken down by—” I broke off abruptly. I was rambling. I glanced up at his face to see if he’d noticed. The pressed line of his mouth confirmed he had. I wrapped things up quickly. “There’s no one. I need to get to my room so I can make some arrangements, but I’m not sure how to get there with my leg.”

  “Hm.” He made a noncommittal grunt, crossed his arms, and rocked on his heels a few times. Then he turned and spoke in Italian to Simone’s father who was hovering nearby, his arm around his daughter. The conversation picked up speed and I sighed.

  “Please,” I said, waving my hand to get their attention. “I’m fine, really. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  They ignored me, so I took advantage of Mr. Rude-But-Growing-on-Me-Guy’s averted attention to study him. His shoulders were wide, his back tapering to a trim waist. Today he wore a snug black button-up shirt over dark jeans, and thin-soled leather shoes. His hair was still a little unruly, but it didn’t look quite so unkempt today.

  Finally, he turned back to me. “We are going to call the police.”

  “Oh no!” I exclaimed. “No police! I’m not upset about this. It was just an accident.”

  “You need a ride to l’Aurora, yes? You cannot ride your bicycle, and even though Mr. Ricci did offer to push you home on it, he is not much bigger than you are, and I thought that would not be such a good idea.” His eyes darted up and down the length of me, as though sizing me up and finding his assumptions to be spot on. I opened my mouth to protest, but then closed it again, remembering I’d come to the same conclusion myself. “You will need a ride; it is more than two kilometers,” he continued. “Only the police are allowed to drive motor vehicles on the wall, and you must file a report for your stolen purse. We can hit two birds with one stone, yes?”

  “Oh,” I whispered. “Right. Of course.” I couldn’t tell if he didn’t quite know his axioms or was just too nice to want to actually kill birds.

  The policeman arrived shortly, driving up the ramp with lights flashing but thankfully, no siren, and after another demonstrative exchange of words, the three men helped me get situated in the back of the officer’s tiny little blue and white car. Simone stood by and giggled behind her hands at our clumsy antics.

  “Officer Bertini will take you to Alla Dolce Vita,” Mr. Rude-and-Thinks-I’m-Too-Fat-to-Push-Home-on-my-Bike-Guy assured me.

  I nodded, dismayed at the fresh tears gathering at the back of my throat. I couldn’t tell which hurt worse, my hands or my ankle, and between my bruised body and bruised pride, I was a mess.

  “What about the bicycle?” I asked, glancing over at the abandoned rental. “I got it from the shop in the piazza at the end of the street where I’m staying. Via Fillungo. I can’t remember the name of
it and my receipt is gone.”

  “I know the place. I’ll take it in for you and explain what happened.”

  “You’d do that for me? Th—thank you.”

  “Prego. The last thing you need to worry about is the bicycle.”

  A thought crossed my mind, and before I really considered how it might sound, I asked, “You will take it back, right? I can’t afford to replace it, and he does have my credit card number on file—”

  His left eyebrow almost disappeared beneath his curls, but he held up his hand, three fingers raised in a very American gesture. “Scout’s honor.” I blushed and hoped it was at least a little becoming. I had to trust that this guy would actually return the bike like he promised. He did assure me in front of a police officer.

  One who didn’t appear to speak any English.

  Simone had gathered up the rest of the things that had fallen from my bike basket. When I noticed her eyeing the bag of baked goods from l’Aurora that had somehow gone unscathed by the hullabaloo, I insisted she have them. She promptly sat on the bench I’d just vacated, and enjoyed a cream-filled pastry horn while her father wrapped up his part of my rescue.

  Reaching for my seatbelt, I grappled with the strap for a few moments, trying to tug it across my lap using just my fingertips, but I couldn’t get the two ends of the buckle to lock in. Mr. Rude Guy leaned into the already ridiculously cramped space of the tiny back seat, reached across me, and gently took the two ends from my clumsy grip. The click was loud in the sudden stillness, and I took in a shallow breath of surprise through my nose.

  Lord have mercy. My nostrils filled with the achingly familiar scent of… of a man. Other than my father, my face hadn’t been this close to one since Jacob, and even though this guy had a distinct sun-soaked quality not shared by my ex, there was no mistaking that certain underlying note that women just didn’t have. I breathed in a little deeper, covertly, I thought, but he turned to look at me, his face less than a foot away, and smiled. A real, genuine smile. Even the fatigue that seemed to hover around his eyes receded for just a moment.

  Then he was backing out of the car, slowly, careful not to bump his head on the low door frame. He stayed bent down in the opening though, his eyes serious again. And I was suddenly deflated, drained of all my bravado, embarrassed at being caught sniffing him, and more than a little daunted by what lay ahead of me.

  “Thank you… I—I don’t even know your name.” I brushed away a stupid tear with the back of my wrist.

  “I’m Paulo. Paulo Durante.” He spoke gently, his eyes kind.

  “I’m Anica Tomlin. Ani.” I started to offer my hand to shake, and then lowered it. A half-laugh-half-sob popped out of my mouth, but I think I covered it well with a polite, “I’m glad to meet you, Paulo. And thank you for going out of your way to help me. I mean it.” I smiled bravely up at him.

  He was younger than I’d first thought, maybe even around my age. Even so, as I studied him, I saw the weariness creep back and settle into the shadows around his mouth and eyes.

  “I will come check on you, Anica Tomlin, okay? I will return your bicycle, and then come by Alla Dolce Vita to make sure you arrived safely.” I felt like I should protest. He’d already done so much for me, but I was moved by his chivalry and feeling so completely alone. Instead, I nodded gratefully.

  “I’d like that. Thank you.” Embarrassed by my uncharacteristic boldness, I glanced past his shoulder at Simone who sat on the bench a short distance away, licking her fingers, a smear of cream on one cheek. “Thank you for helping me to be brave, Simone,” I called out. She nodded, but didn’t speak, and her father joined her, his arm around her narrow shoulders. I dipped my head in his direction, and he returned the nod.

  Paulo stepped back. “I will see you soon, okay?” Then he closed the door firmly, without waiting for my answer.

  The officer turned around in his seat, reached back and patted my thigh, his fingers lingering a little longer than I thought appropriate, even for Italy.

  “You in my hands now, beautiful lady.”

  So he did know a little English after all. At least the important stuff. It took a great deal of effort not to roll my eyes. “Thank you, officer.”

  As we pulled away, I glanced out the back window in time to see Paulo Durante casually pull the neckline of his shirt out with both hands and lower his face to the opening. Yes, Mr. Durante, you smell just fine. A giggle slipped out and I quickly pressed my fingertips to my mouth when I saw the officer’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively in the rear view mirror at me.

  He drove much more carefully than I’d feared he would, taking turns widely and honking a fair warning to those walking in the narrow lanes ahead of us. He didn’t try to speak to me, a small mercy, but sang softly to himself, glancing back at me often. Grateful for the reprieve, I tried to slow my thoughts down long enough to figure out my next course of action.

  My hands were on fire, and my ankle throbbed angrily, even with it propped up on the seat beside me. Please let it not be broken. I couldn’t even entertain the possibility. The pain was beginning to overwhelm me, and I took a few deep breaths in through my nose and blew them out slowly, my lips forming a tight ‘O.’ Curiously, the aroma of Paulo Durante still lingered in the air around me, and it made me feel slightly less alone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Madalina was outside l’Aurora changing tablecloths when we pulled up. The moment she recognized me, she dropped her stack of folded cloths on a metal chair and hurried over to us, calling her questions out to the officer through his rolled-down window.

  She didn’t wait for an invitation, but yanked open my door and bent in to examine me. The two of them jabbered back and forth over the seat back so quickly, I didn’t even try to sort out what they were saying. I fumbled with my seatbelt, glad for the push-button release, my hands shaking almost too much to cooperate.

  Madalina tsk-tsked, her hands on her hips, shaking her head. “You are here one day and you are in trouble, Princess Grace.” The officer got out and came around to stand beside her.

  “You come sit at a table and I will help you.” She reached for my hand and I jerked it away before she could grab it, holding both palms up so she could see them. She rolled her eyes at the scope of my ineptitude. She spoke as much with her facial features as she did with her hands.

  With their assistance, I hobbled over to the closest table under the shade of the large awning. I leaned against the officer, who was only too happy to oblige me, while Madalina positioned one chair for me to sit on and another on which to prop my foot. Then I lowered myself gingerly, longing for the privacy of my room where I could cry openly over my remarkably dumb luck.

  “I will help you tell the police what happened,” Madalina informed me. Of course. The police report. “He tells me he heard the story from a man, but I told him he must listen to you.” She winked at me, and then turned a dazzling smile on the officer who had just dropped into a chair across from me and was opening up a notepad. “Volete espresso, vigile?”

  He nodded, but his eyes didn’t make it all the way up to meet hers, derailed on their way by the bounty of her bosom. So it wasn’t just me. The man was just a perv. But Madalina only grinned cheekily and asked me if I’d like some coffee as well.

  “Just water, please. Do you have a straw?” I didn’t think I could pick up a glass.

  “I bring you water to drink and water to wash. And ice for your foot. You will take off the boot?” She waved a hand at my foot on the chair.

  “I don’t know,” I grimaced. “I’m not sure I should take it off until I’m up in my room where I can lie down.” I was a little afraid of what I might find, and I didn’t want to panic in public.

  “I will bring ice, then we will decide.”

  The moment she was gone, the officer looked me in the eye and raised his eyebrows suggestively. “How you feel, beautiful lady?”

  I smiled back tentatively and took the bull by the horns. “I’m fine. Thank you, of
ficer. Grazie. Lei è molto gentile.” I’d committed that particular phrase to memory in an attempt to present myself as a well-behaved tourist as opposed to a rude American, as much of Europe was wont to label us. His grin turned almost lecherous and his eyes dropped to my neckline. Great. How did one turn “You are very kind” into “Do you want me?” Talk about lost in translation. I was greatly relieved when the bells jingled to let us know Madalina was returning.

  In her hands, she held a large metal mixing bowl full of water which she brought over and placed on the table beside me. Behind her came her grandmother, carrying a tray with a glass of sparkling water for me, coffee for the man across from me, and a platter of pastries. She took one look at my hands and made a very grandmotherly clucking sound. She patted my cheek gently and said, “Madalina vi assista. He help,” before heading back inside.

  “I clean your hands and you tell us what happened,” Madalina instructed, her tone matter-of-fact, as though she did this kind of thing on a regular basis. She arranged two towels beside the bowl and reached for my left hand. I tried not to resist, but the moment she plunged it into the warm water, I let out a strangled yelp, and jerked my hand away, splashing water everywhere. She eyed me with long-suffering. I glared back at her, breathed hard through my nose, and returned my hand to the bowl slowly, better prepared for the next round of torture.

  She asked me questions, relaying my responses to the officer, all the while doctoring my palms. I was only the slightest bit concerned that she seemed to expound greatly on everything I said, but I realized what she was doing; keeping me busy with my testimony so I would have something else to focus on while she dug tiny pieces of gravel out of my flesh with a sharp paring knife.

  No, Simone Ricci did not purposely knock me off my bike. No, I did not want to press charges. No, I didn’t see anyone take my purse. It was there when my bicycle went over. It was gone when I turned to look for it. No, no one called out for the thief to stop. Yes, all my identification, my money, my credit cards, and my cell phone were in my purse.