Sorrento (part four)

I decided not to tell Marc. Sunday evening passed and he still hadn’t talked to me, so I figured it would just be easier to deal with him when I got back, whenever that would be. I called my parents to let them know not to worry because I wasn’t going to call in to work until I was in Italy. I thought I might be able to come up with an excuse about retracing my steps for my upcoming second book by the time I got there.

My ticket confirmation came through email on Sunday afternoon, and I planned on leaving Monday morning for my noon flight. I waited until Marc went to sleep on Sunday night to pack; Monday morning, my luggage was ready and sitting in my bathroom. I woke up early Monday, before Marc woke up and carried my large backpack out to my car. The morning air had just begun to warm in the climbing sun. Airport parking would be exorbitant, but I had no qualms about paying to avoid asking Marc for a ride. I walked back up to the apartment and toasted a quick breakfast. I could feel my nerves on edge—waiting, expecting. I drained the tart cup of orange juice and poured another. Somewhere beneath the nerves, I sensed a great well of hope, restrained by necessity, eager to break. I finished the toast, and slowly and deliberately washed the dishes. I knew I had to gather myself for the upcoming trip. What could I even let myself think? I had to assume it was another con. On Sunday evening, I travel-proofed all of my credit cards and bought travelers checks online. I grabbed my smaller backpack and walked out the door; I could hear Marc stirring in his bedroom.

I drove, first, to the bank to exchange the cash for the travelers’ checks. The process mirrored the procedure of the previous year; I was pretty certain that it was the same displeased teller. Travelers’ checks were a hassle, apparently. After a string of sighs and eye rolls, I had plenty of time to make my flight. I’d grown accustomed to the constraints of foreign travel. The cheapest parking lot left me a half-mile from the terminal, and the Michigan winter encouraged me to keep moving. I slung arms through the large pack and buckled the waist supports. Even in the frigid air, the pack sat comfortably around me. I held my smaller backpack in my right hand and began the journey toward the terminal—or a transport bus—the pack was not comfortable enough to turn down a ride. I narrowly remembered to check my parking section—CC—I squinted at the sign that was now a distance away. It may have been OO. I should have checked earlier.

He must have found the confirmation on my computer. I heard an engine racing and tires squealing in the next row of cars. I saw the car in flashes, appearing and disappearing behind the cars between us. It seemed to be frantically looking for a parking spot. As it rounded the corner and started down my row, my heart dropped. It was Marc’s old Saab, racing towards me. He almost passed me without noticing in his desperate attempt to find a spot. A few feet past me, he noticed my tell-tale pack. The car was grinding to a halt as he opened the door. He came after me in a burst.

Watching him come toward me, I wondered what was about to happen. Are we really about to fight? I wondered to myself. I began to nonchalantly unharness the pack. As he got closer, his facial expression showed a dynamic mixture of betrayal, anger, and confusion. I had just set the pack down when he reached me.

He stumbled over the words. “What—What?!” He looked at me, bewildered, trying to find a place to start. “What, the hell, are you doing!?” A good place to start, I thought, all things considered.

“Do you want to know the answer to that question, Marc?”

“I saw the ticket on your computer. You’re going to Italy.” I nodded. “Please don’t tell me you are going back to Italy for her. Please.”

“Sorry, Marc.” I shook my head. “I got an email on Saturday, and she asked me to meet her back in Sorrento.”

“You left that email up, too. I read it. You don’t have any idea if it was ‘her’ or not!” He was yelling. “It could be anyone—anything! You could literally be walking into anything. Who knows who organizes that sort of thing?”

I responded evenly—“So you pretty much know what I’m doing; and it seems like you know why,” leaving the conversation up to him.

“This is ridiculous, damn it!” I wondered if he might hit me after all. “Even if it is her—if it is the girl you spent three weeks with—she played you once, what makes you think she’s not going to screw you up and disappear again? You are leaving your job, your home, paying thousands of dollars, traveling across the world on a ticket that will probably lead you into getting your heart broken all over again. Nevermind kidnapping or, possibly,” he paused…”possibly anything!” He stood there, seething, almost wanting to understand.

As usual, I stood there silently, staring right back at him. “Listen, Marc, I don’t expect you to understand. I never have.” I paused, collecting myself for my final plea. “Alright, let’s say I go, and it turns out to be legit—she has a good reason for disappearing, and she eventually makes it back here with me. Maybe then, once you meet her, then you will understand what I understood all along.”

“But there’s no way for you to know!” He continued his protest, and the warm air from his breath stormed out against the blue sky. “There’s no way for you to know you aren’t blindly walking into an impossible situation.”

I smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I have no way of knowing that for sure. I never said I did.”

“Well, then why? Why in the world would you take a chance on something so stupid?” He was still incredulous.

“Marc—you can’t possibly understand this, and I know that! This decision isn’t stupid. But you’d have to know her—to know what I’ve come to know—to truly understand that.”

He still wasn’t satisfied—“So you’re just gonna waltz over and pretend that there aren’t a thousand different possibilities that end up with you robbed, kidnapped, or dead?”

“Well, wait a minute, Marc.” It was my turn to lift my voice. “What if you’re looking at this whole thing backwards? What if she is the one who has something at risk—what if she needs my help?” He looked at me confused. “Think about it,” I said, gaining momentum. “What if she had no other way of doing this—if there is something that prevented her from telling me everything, just like she said that night?” I pointed back and forth between he and I—“Look at us; the two of us, standing here arguing. What good are you to her? Even if she needs your help, you can’t give it to her, because you don’t trust her. And that’s ok, because you never met her; but I have!” I hoped my face showed the honest resolve that I’d seen on Annie’s face in Sorrento. “So what good am I to her? I don’t know—maybe none—I honestly don’t know. But she asked me to trust her, and she asked me to go. And because I know her—because I know who she is and what she’s like, I’m going to go. Even if you think it’s blind and stupid.”

As I finished, I felt better. I felt the well of hope begin to leak out on everything around it, and I was a little less worried about letting it splash out. I could see that I hadn’t persuaded Marc. His face lacked the rage of his arrival, but his anger had been replaced by sheer consternation. His baffled look disappeared only as he turned and walked silently to his car. I stared sadly after him, wishing I could do something more. Perhaps if I could bring Annie back, I thought. The closer I could get to her—the better his chance of understanding.

I checked my watch, suddenly aware of my approaching flight.