Disposition of Remains Page 9

  “Can I call you?” Wilbur asked.

  “I don’t have a phone, remember?”

  “What if I got you one of those pay-as-you-go phones that aren’t as easy to trace?”

  “Like drug dealers use?”

  “At least then, in case of an emergency...”

  I agreed it would be sensible to get another phone, but I didn’t want to be sensible. A part of me wanted to keep in touch with Wilbur, the part that wished I’d met him in another fantasy existence. One’s end-of-life agenda should not include falling for someone new, even if that someone would have been perfect when I was uncomplicated and healthy.

  After we traded strained goodbyes, I approached the ticket window with no particular destination in mind. As it turned out, the train only traveled to one place anyway: Williams, Arizona. Williams’ claim to fame was that it was situated along Historic Route 66, and that it was nicknamed “The Gateway to the Grand Canyon.” Only, I was looking for the gateway out.

  I spent the short train ride racking my brain to formulate a plan—consciously refusing to think about Wilbur, but subconsciously, failing miserably. I needed a computer. Jerry had always insisted that Google provides the answer to everything. When I exited the train in Williams, I asked a young woman where I might be able to get onto a computer. She aimed me in the direction of an Internet café, at which I arrived after a ten-minute walk.

  All that the Internet café had to offer, besides online access, was coffee and pretentious coffee-related products, tea, and pastries. I had been a coffee drinker at one time, but since my illness had taken over, I found even the smell of it revolting. Then there was tea: Even the thought of it made me cringe. Every time I looked a little green or under the weather at work, the annoying office manager, Margaret, would try to shove tea at me. I hated tea almost as much as I hated her. Drinking raw sewage sounded more appealing. I settled for a doughnut and a bottle of water.

  I stared blankly at the computer, hoping some Divine inspiration would hijack my mind and create a plan of action. I knew with reasonable certainty that I didn’t wish to live out my days in Williams, Arizona. I began to Google things like “bucket-list destinations” and “100 places to see before you die,” but nothing illuminated that imaginary light bulb in my head.

  I thought about what Misty had told on the way to Sedona: If she were in my shoes, she would visit all the people she had ever loved. I had loved only two people in my life, and I wasn’t ready to reunite with my mother just yet. That left only Michael.

  My initial online search for Michael Pendergast brought up dozens of results. Since I didn’t know where he lived, it could have been any of them—except for the one listed as a porn star, I hoped. Next, I searched for Zulema Pendergast, his mother, for which there was only one result. I even recognized the phone number and address when I saw it; she hadn’t moved. Reaching for my phone, I remembered that it was left in pieces under the tire of Paul’s truck and that I had declined Wilbur’s offer to buy me a new one. After a thorough search, I finally located a pay phone. My nerves tingled as I punched in her number. After all, I had broken her son’s heart.

  “Hello?” she answered in a cheerful voice.

  “Hello, Mrs. Pendergast. This is Stacia Altman—I mean, Uqualla.”

  “Oh my goodness! How are you, dear?”

  She sounded to be the same sweet woman I’d known in my youth, but I wasn’t sure how to answer her question. I’m coming completely unglued because I’m dying was the first thing that came to mind.

  I opted for a more socially correct reply.

  “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

  “I’m good, dear. Getting old!”

  Lucky you, I thought to myself, but instead I responded, “I’m sure you still look great.”

  After a few minutes of listening to her prattle on about the physical limitations that come with old age, I changed the focus of the conversation.

  “So listen, I’d like to get in touch with Michael. Is he still in Nevada?”

  “Oh no, dear, he moved years ago. He’s living in Italy now,” she said so matter-of-factly that she could never have known about the dagger she was plunging into my heart. He had gone. He had actually gone. He’d gone and lived my dream, while I was having the life sucked out of me by a ruthless parasite.

  “Do you have a number where I could reach him?” I asked, wondering if I was really just going to ring him up after seventeen long years? What on Earth would I say?

  “Mrs. Pendergast, can I have his address as well?”

  “His e-mail address?”

  “No. His street address. I’m the old-fashioned, letter-writing type,” I lied.

  She set the phone down for a moment. When she picked it back up, she rattled off a phone number and an address in Florence. I thanked her, and after exchanging a few more pleasantries, I hung up. I knew it was crazy to just go there, and that was exactly why I wanted to do it.

  I thought about how I would get to Florence and when; after all, I didn’t know how long I would remain able-bodied enough to travel. It would be difficult to find a hotel in Arizona that wouldn’t require a credit card, so I decided that departing right then and there would be my best and only option.

  What I needed was an airport. I approached a teenaged counter clerk of a deli across the street from the pay phone.

  “What can I get for you, Ma’am?” he asked with an overly exaggerated, toothy smile.

  “An airport.”

  For a moment, it looked as if I’d short-circuited his brain; his smile faded and he cocked his head to one side.

  “I don’t think we…”

  I didn’t have the patience for stupid, so I elaborated, “An international one. Whichever one is closest.”

  “Uh…I think the closest would be in Phoenix,” he finally offered.

  “Great. Thank you,” I replied as I dropped some change into his tip jar before making my exit.

  I hustled back to the train station. Luckily, I hadn’t ventured off very far. I caught the next train to Flagstaff, then a bus to Phoenix. I figured I would sleep a little in transit but I was too excited. I was going to Italy! No one could stop me, though the only one who would have wanted to was Evan.

  The bus dropped me off right at the airport. The international terminal had so many airline options that I didn’t know where to start. I’d had my passport for years, even renewed it once after the Christmas incident, but I had never actually left the country. I’d never even been on an airplane.

  Then I spotted a sign for Alitalia. The logo was green, white, and red—the colors of the Italian flag. I waited my turn in line.

  When I arrived at the window, I asked “Do you have a flight to Florence for today?”

  After typing what seemed like a novel into her computer, the ticket agent replied, “Yes, we have a 7:05 flight this evening via JFK airport in New York, then another stop in Rome, landing in Florence at 8:13 p.m., local time.”

  “Great! I’ll take it.”

  She looked a little surprised when I handed her in cash the $2,347 that it cost to buy a last-minute ticket to Italy. But that was nothing compared to the look she gave me when I said I had no bags to check. I grabbed my boarding pass, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and made my way to the gate as if I knew what I was doing. It was still several hours before my flight so I pulled out my mindless romance novel.

  Not only did I need to get my mind off of my failing body, but I also wanted to forget about kissing Wilbur. The incredible experience I’d shared with him had come undone in a split second when I’d discovered that his reality of the situation and mine were vastly different. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t help what he knew. But nonetheless, it had changed everything.

  CHAPTER 11

  I melted into my airplane seat and almost instantly fell into a deep sleep. It had been an exhausting twenty-four hours. Before I knew it, I was being awakened by a steward who informed me I was in New York. I apologized
profusely to the gentleman next to me for having drooled on his shoulder, then quickly made my way down the aisle and out of the plane.

  The flight to Rome was quite a bit longer than the first leg of my journey had been. I remained wide-awake the entire time, my eyes glued to the digital map marking our progress. I recalled my mother’s doctor stating that blood clots were a possible complication of cancer. They were also caused by long stints in planes—“Economy Class Syndrome,” I believe they call it. So I was at double risk for keeling over from a suddenly thrown clot. I was definitely not ready for any more complications, especially one that included instant death. Walking and drinking water were supposed to fend off the possibility of deep vein thrombosis, so I alternated between drinking gads of water and walking to the bathroom, driving the rotund Italian opera singer in the aisle seat nuts as I climbed over her again and again. I hovered over the porcelain god (or in this case, the stainless steel, blue-watered god) right after takeoff and just before landing. But at least the time passed quickly and I was thankful for that.

  Seeing Michael, if I were able to, was likely to complicate things a whole lot more for me, but it was a necessity. If I were to ever move on into the acceptance phase of my diagnosis, I needed some closure, for lack of a better word, and there was a possibility he needed some as well.

  I had been so in love with Michael at one time. All of my memories of him were wonderful. I met him in high school, long after I’d realized that Jerry was not a romantic option. Michael was tall and thin with brown wavy hair that flopped over to one side. I was an introvert in school; I had the social skills of a wombat. Not Michael—he was outspoken and extroverted, even verging on popular. I was shocked when he asked to be my study partner in Art History.

  On that first day we studied together, we didn’t get a whole lot of studying accomplished. Michael just kept staring at me, telling me that I looked like Princess Jasmine from Aladdin. He would compliment my eyes, my skin, my hair, even my feet at times. I devoured it all, but at the same time, it was embarrassing; I wasn’t used to being the center of attention, let alone affection.

  Then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, he kissed me. It wasn’t one of those awe-inspiring moments. I didn’t see it coming. It was sort of slobbery and spastic, but not so horrible that I didn’t want to try it again…and again.

  Our first sexual experience was much the same. I didn’t have a father or a brother, and the Internet hadn’t yet been invented, so the anatomy of a male was completely alien to me. I poked at him as if he were a mold of Jell-O rather than the object of my affection. I couldn’t keep from laughing when he grabbed my breasts. I learned quickly that boys do not appreciate being laughed at when they are trying to be intimate with you. They tend to take it personally, as an affront to their masculinity. But damn, it tickled!

  Our sexual encounters were few and far between, as we both lived with our parents and my mother treated him as though he had the bubonic plague.

  I was forced to grow up quickly. I’d wanted to please my mother and in so doing, I’d inadvertently ruined my own life. She thrust me onto Evan, then she was gone and I was just an empty shell of existence. My mother had stolen and discarded my one chance at happiness and my suppressed feelings of wrath toward her began to smolder.

  CHAPTER 12

  My anger vanished long enough for me to admire the red rooftops through my airplane window as we approached the runway. Florence was just as I’d imagined it. It was after eight o’clock in the evening, and it was still light outside. I considered strolling through the suburbs to take everything in, but I soon faced the fact that I was in a foreign country with no place to stay.

  I grabbed a taxi from the airport and asked the driver if he knew of a hotel that would accept cash. He informed me that a hostel would be my best option and drove me to the Leonardo Hostel, which charged $28 a night. I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow.

  I woke up at 4:10 a.m., Florence time, and jet lag dictated that I would not be able to go back to sleep. I read until the sun rose, then showered and walked out the door. I felt amazingly well considering the time change and my condition.

  Since the looming prospect of Evan locating me had dissipated, my stress level dropped significantly. The more I thought about the daily struggle to keep him from becoming disappointed in me, and the total control he took of my life, the less guilty I felt about leaving him in the dark about my illness. I’d read somewhere that stress can cause malignancy. If that were true, then Evan was to blame, and my reward for staying in a shitty marriage was to get sick and die. My guilt about Evan was rapidly changing to full-blown hostility.

  Florence was to be my home once upon a time, and I couldn’t believe I’d waited so long to finally make the journey. My life with Evan had made Florence such an unattainable goal and yet, ultimately, getting there had been incredibly easy.

  For the next couple of hours, I strolled along the mostly empty cobblestone streets. I decided to forget the map and simply turn whichever way my whim inspired. The hostel was very close to the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (otherwise known as the Duomo), which was large enough to be seen from anywhere, making it very difficult for me to get lost.

  I stumbled upon the Piazza della Signoria, a major square in Florence and the hub of the city’s political life. There were already quite a few people amassed, given the early hour. I took some time to fully absorb the sights at the Palazzo Vecchio, including its replica of Michelangelo’s David, which stands majestically in front of the Palace. I gazed in awe at the Loggia dei Lanzi, the Tribunale della Mercanzia, and the Palazzo Uguccioni, whose styles of architecture are vastly different but still blend harmoniously together under the Tuscan sky.

  I noticed a line forming further down in the piazza and remembered that the Uffizi Gallery, which contains the Birth of Venus, is located there. I scurried over and jumped into the line with excited anticipation. While I waited in line, I distracted myself by rifling through the wares of the peddlers selling prints of Botticelli’s masterpiece on umbrellas, mugs, shirts, and a vast number of other tchotchkes. I rejected them all as personal sacrilege.

  When I finally made it inside the Uffizi, I wandered around atop the pristine marble floors and under the magnificent ceiling frescoes. I soon found my way to the Botticelli Room. Quivering with anticipation, I purposely kept my eyes averted as I crept toward my favorite painting, not wanting to see it until it could be viewed from just the right angle. When I was sure I was situated exactly front and center, I at last lifted my head and took it all in for the first time. It was much larger and more heavenly than I had imagined. I stood in awe for over an hour, scrutinizing each magnificent inch of the Birth of Venus. I found it to be the most beautiful man-made thing I had ever seen.

  Through Botticelli’s magical brushstrokes, I was witnessing Venus, the goddess of beauty emerging from the sea nude on a seashell as a fully grown woman, blown to shore by the entwined Zephyr and Aura, god of the west wind and goddess of the breeze. Horae, the goddess of seasons, the personification of nature, was there to clothe Venus’ naked body. Even after twenty years I still remembered the meaning of his painting. Venus’ physical beauty was intended to inspire man to appreciate spiritual beauty. If I didn’t see another thing in Florence, I would have been satisfied with my trip. The rest of the museum was a blur, as I remained intoxicated by Botticelli’s masterpiece.

  As I exited the Uffizi and my buzz began to fade, I had to remind myself that I’d come to Florence with a purpose: Michael. I pulled the crumpled paper with his address out of my backpack and strode off in search of a map. Via Palestro turned out to be only a fifteen-minute walk from where I was. As I strolled down the cobblestone streets against the backdrop of the setting sun, I located Michael’s address with relative ease. I sat on the curb outside his door attempting to formulate my approach and considering which words to use. One way or another, I had made up my mind that I was not going to tell Michael my sad truth. I di
dn’t want it to cloud anything. I wanted whatever was going to transpire to be free from the influence of that poison. I felt strongly that our long-overdue reunion should not be tainted with the reprehensible stench of pity.

  It suddenly seemed like madness, having traveled all that way to see him, but there was no turning back. I held my breath and knocked—at first, so softly that no one could realistically hear. In retrospect, I think I was nervously trying to convince myself that if no one answered, no one was home. Then I could tell myself that I’d tried my best. But this was one of my life’s few experiences in which I wasn’t willing to take the easy road. I knocked harder, this time willing him to answer. My heart pounded in my throat when I heard the approaching footsteps, when suddenly, the door swung open.

  The man who stood before me resembled an older version of the Michael I remembered from my youth. He was still tall and thin with deep-set hazel eyes and his now silver-flecked hair that flopped to one side. I watched in stasis as his expression morphed from one of neutrality to one of confusion.

  Finally, with a stern gaze, he demanded, “Posso esserle d’aiuto?”

  I was taken aback. He didn’t recognize me.

  “I’m sorry…I don’t speak—”

  “Can I help you?” he asked impatiently.

  “Michael, it’s me, Stacia.”

  His brow wrinkled with confusion.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Stacia. We dated once…”

  “Oh. Of course, Stacia. Come in,” he offered as if I were a girl scout selling cookies.

  It was definitely not the warm welcome that I had anticipated.

  Michael offered me some tea and we sat. I stared down at the vile cup of tea, searching for the words that wouldn’t make me sound like a bumbling buffoon. It was incredibly awkward.

  “I got your address from your mother,” I finally managed.

  “Oh, how did she sound? I need to call her.”