Page 6 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
‘That’s right; you’re home now. And I’m not letting you go this time.’ She ducks her head into the car and turns the key in the ignition. I take a breath and squeeze into her tiny orange Fiat. The ceiling is covered in enamel pins from concerts, holidays, and there are at least fifteen saying, ‘FLOSSING IS FUN.’
Anika. I close my eyes as she pulls the car in reverse. If only you knew how much I want to say. How badly I want you to know. My throat burns. We exit the airport parking lot, and I stare out the window. Welcome, the blurring shades of green scream, we thought you forgot us!
4
MAGDALEN
I lie on the white linen sheets of my childhood bed, warm from baking in the afternoon sun. It is difficult to explain the sun in Italy. The light is different here; it radiates with archaic strength. Perhaps God loves Italians more. Flesh touched by the Italian sun seems irrevocably golden, penetrating into personalities as much as their skin. But the sweat that trickles down my temple is cold and, to distract myself, I pick at the chipping white paint of the frame, listening to my breath, sedated and pleasant, savouring the silence. Growing up in this house with three other siblings, quiet was a rarity. My siblings Joseph, Luciana and Dante, the adoring trio, were always good at taking up space. Joseph, the eldest and most serious out of the four. Eager to speak about the latest developments in the museum’s marketing campaign. We tend to avoid any mention of our website if we don’t want the latest analysis of his conversion rate optimization. Luciana is practically made of light. Radiant, intelligent, gorgeous. The only one who followed my father’s footsteps as an archaeologist and, for that, I feel she’ll always be the favourite of the three. A seasoned world traveller. Unafraid of the dark. The girl doesn’t even wear concealer! If it was anyone else in the family’s wedding, I’m certain I could have skipped it. But it’s Luciana! And in this family, her name carries weight.
And then there is Dante. It’s impossible to think of him without smiling. Taking after my mother, Dante is blessed with the ability to talk about anything to anyone. Even the older ladies at the market stop him to chat. Tanned skin and too much hair gel. Despite being five years older than me, he is forever seventeen. Foul-mouthed and chasing his next dream. Last time I checked, he and Anika were planning on opening up a wine bar in the south of France. Anika and Dante are inseparable, possibly in love. But I’m not sure either one of them knows that yet. Who am I to spoil the surprise?
Thinking of my siblings, it’s difficult not to feel my differences. When did it happen? Maybe as children, our heads all under that same christened water in the local church in Chivasso.
Chivasso is a small enough town to know the who, what and when of everyone the moment they stand in front of our duomo. We are nosey people, curious for details, lovers of drama. Our front door has no lock and people often walk into our house whenever the mood strikes. It is welcomed, never seen as an intrusion or nuisance. Conversation, the spontaneous and unplanned kind, is beautiful to these people; it is a blessing to communicate. And my mother is always home; with the door propped open with a battered textbook, she sits and waits for a stranger to knock on the door. She gave up her career when the four of us were born, but after so long away from work, her comfort suppressed her ambitions. The museum, which is where she worked, where my dad and Jo still work, and which the Sinclairs co-own, annually begs her to come back. To write another book. But she shakes her head and laughs.
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can hear their laughter downstairs, despite being secluded on the third floor. You can hear everything in old houses, the soft pedalling of footsteps to the kitchen at midnight, a gentle creak of the gate at dawn, the drunken whispers of Dante and Jo arguing after a night out. Even if everyone is asleep in this house, there is never deafening silence, not when the house itself is awake.
My eyes shoot open against the setting sun and I realize I’ve drifted off. Shit. Dinner must be soon. I hurry to get off the bed. The bathroom mirror is waiting and, when I sneak a look, my forehead is pale and clammy and my lips are chapped. Morte, I poke my cheek. I look dead. Stripping in front of the mirror, I feel offensively naked. The bathroom mirror at Oxford was cracked and a few inches too high, meaning I haven’t properly looked at myself in over a year. As I stare, it occurs to me that no one has ever seen what I see at this moment. I am confidential. Turning around, I examine myself fully, noticing the dimples and marks that trail up my body. Those pesky scars. It feels intrusive to look at myself so intimately. Do I want this to be a secret for ever?
Thinking about it for too long makes me nauseous. How would I begin to reveal? My hair starts to stick to my neck and I look away from the mirror to find a hairbrush. When I look back, it’s difficult to meet my own gaze. I settle instead on the ends of my hair.
5
MAGDALEN
‘Ah, Eccola qui! La regina stessa!’ Here she is, the queen herself!
I enter the kitchen, bracing myself for our neighbours from down the street or the vegetable vendor from the piazza with some homegrown cime di rapa.
I stand by the doorway. The kitchen is crowded with people, my mom sits at the table, chopping away, with Dante and Jo sitting around her. In the corner is my dad, who nurses a glass of grappa, and sitting on the counter is Anika. She is all I see.
‘Anika!’ I yelp, never expecting to see my sister, unrelated by blood but tethered by soul, sitting in my kitchen.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over?’
‘It was supposed to be a surprise! I thought you were sleeping, I never would have come now.’ She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I was supposed to change and look better than you!’
‘You idiot, you look perfect!’ I hug her tight, the warmth and nostalgic perfume making me realize just how much I had needed to come home.
‘You look skinny, non sembra magra?’ She squeezes my hips and I giggle, despite the pang of insecurity at her observation. I make a mental note to introduce Emily and Anika. It seems I am a beacon for the loud and confident – they need someone next to them, to absorb their excess so they don’t drown in it themselves. I breathe deep, a tremor of anxiety surfacing as I take in the fact that I am the empty vessel in this scenario.
‘It was finals, I was stressed!’ I get out, hoping it’s enough to stop everyone examining me. My dad’s eyes flicker to my ankles and I subconsciously press the pad of my foot over the clear outline of my bones.
‘Lo fa, le ho detto che Oxford era troppo stressante per lei.’ You see, I told her Oxford was too stressful for her, Dante chimes in, the cherub older brother who didn’t see the point in university.
Anika winks and rubs my shoulders, trying to suppress her laughter. ‘You see, perché non hai ascoltato Dante?’ Why did you not listen to Dante? She tsks mockingly while patting my head, as if making sure I’m really here.
‘Alright, I’m skinny and stupid now, va bene?’ I roll my eyes and grab an apple. ‘Are you all happy?’
The chatter continues and Anika and I look at each other from across the kitchen, silently agreeing to sneak outside to talk. Our secret code, mastered from years of escaping weekly family dinners. It is an indistinguishable blink of the eye, a short breath in, a tap of the foot. We’ve had twelve years of practice, and by now it’s become a science. I toss my apple in the bin and Anika fills her glass with more wine and we exit through the back door; the chatter doesn’t falter.
‘I can’t believe you’re home. It feels like years since I’ve seen you,’ Anika’s Scottish accent is undetectable compared to the rest of her family. The Sinclairs are treasured in Chivasso, half Scottish, half Italian; they’re the first outsiders to have ever stepped foot in this sleepy town and are protected by the old townsfolk down in the piazza. When they came here, they changed everything. Dexter Sinclair became co-director of the Museo Egizio with my father in Torino, transforming it from a museum you go to on a rainy day to an epicentre of tourism. Foreigners began to flood the city just to see the exhibits that Dexter assembled. My papa never had the knack for marketing, too busy stuck in history.
I stare at the moving pattern of leaves the afternoon shadow has created and breathe in. ‘I didn’t think I would come home, to be honest.’
‘Do I repel everyone?’ Anika groans. ‘First Theo and then you. This last year has been fucking torture.’
‘My poor Anika.’ I squeeze her knee and lean my head against her shoulder. ‘You’re the one who brought us back, babycakes.’
