Roman Holiday Page 12

  You. Decide.

  But it was always her. As President Harry S. Truman used to say, the buck always ended with her – and that was massive.

  She glanced back down at her phone, doing what she did daily, deciding. Toby was already at the airport. He was supposed to wait there for about an hour till she could take the bus from the terminal in the city, collect him and take the trip back together. But he was there. Now. Excited and eager to be independent.

  She found it so hard to let him out of her sight at times, especially since he’d been involved in a kidnapping a few months earlier. Granted, it had been a brief overnight thing, and he was unhurt and the perpetrators were subsequently caught, but . . . Christ, she’d almost gone out of her mind with worry and now simple things like him riding the bus in a new city scared her beyond anything. Bing, her phone went again.

  Please . . . I know you’re worrying about me but think how cool it’ll be if I can do it, and all in Italian! How proud you’ll be! How proud I’ll be! Mum, I need this . . .

  Oh that sly, clever, manipulating little darling . . . He needed this, did he? And yeah, he probably did. She took a deep breath.

  Okay. I’m trusting you. See you at the Termini. Text me when you are on the bus and give me an ETA. Be safe, sweetheart. xoxo

  Grazie, Mamma, ti amo.

  Right. I love you, too. For better or worse, the decision was made. He needn’t know how sick her stomach was right now. That she could literally down two litres of water, her throat had gone so dry. That until she wrapped her arms about his young body and held him safe, rusty prayers would be on a continual loop in the back of her brain and her hands would remain clammy.

  She could do this. No, he could do this. And until she knew the time frame, the papers on her desk weren’t going to get any more corrected as long as she kept ignoring them.

  Toby knew that most thirteen-year-olds were way cooler than he was. He didn’t care. Mostly. He had an amazing mum, really decent aunts and uncles, and the best grandparents ever. It would be nice to have a sister or brother, especially a brother, but hey, these were the breaks, right?

  He wasn’t even nervous asking at the airport where the connecting bus into the city was, how much it cost, and the departure and arrival times. His Italian was pretty good and he knew, because his tutor told him, that his accent was almost flawless.

  So, right now, on the bus, he felt cool. He was doing something his school friends would never do. Even back home in Dublin they were often not allowed do some of the things he could. Maybe it was because his friends all had both parents – though not all were together, and maybe if you had a dad as well, things like decisions could get complicated. He was lucky that way. He would ask his mum something and she would say yes or no. Easy-peasy. No “wait till your father gets home”, or “we’ll have to see what he says”, or “your dad would never let you do that”. He and his mum trusted each other. They had to. It had always been just the two of them. And yes, all the relatives. But mostly just them. And it worked.

  Toby pressed his nose to the window, trying to take in every single bit of scenery flashing by, every colour, every shape. He was so excited to be here, to get to see Rome and explore all the awesome monuments, especially the Colosseum, the Forum and the Pantheon. He had googled pretty much every historical attraction and even looked at some of Grandpa’s encyclopedias to get a different viewpoint.

  The reality of actually being in this beautiful ancient city was making his tummy bounce and gurgle. Maybe he was just hungry. No. It was excitement and for some odd reason, nerves. He didn’t analyse it too much but Toby knew himself pretty well. As an only child with a very analytical and creative mother, you kinda had to discuss a lot of stuff, whether you wanted to or not. And usually he didn’t mind. Some of the chats he had with his mum were challenging and went over his head a bit, but he absolutely loved that he could ask her anything, anything at all, and she’d tell him the truth. No matter how hard.

  It was why he was so nervous now.

  He’d decided it was time. He needed to know. And he’d a pretty good idea his birth father was Italian. He didn’t get his chocolate-brown eyes and sallow skin from anyone on either side of the Fitzgeralds. And his ease with the language was a big hint. He never asked and she never told. That was the unspoken deal.

  When he was very small and first realised that other kids had dads, he’d asked the obvious, where is mine? And his mum had said simply that he wasn’t around and that one day, when he was old enough, she’d explain.

  Well, “one day” was now.

  His soon-to-be aunt Frankie had never known her father and it had caused all sorts of craziness over the past summer, and he’d been kidnapped as part of it. Everyone thought he’d been very brave but, truthfully? He’d been pretty much knocked out the entire time and only woke to find a police officer bending over him. That’s when he’d got scared.

  But Frankie found her answers too late and Toby didn’t want to face his teen years without having some clue as to who he was from his dad’s side. What was his father like? Did they look alike? Was he funny or smart? Did he like history and cooking? Was he left-handed like Toby? Did he love chillies? Was he allergic to seafood? So many simple, silly, ordinary things had been gnawing away in Toby’s mind for some time and he knew he was going to ask his mum, straight out, who his dad was and, drumroll, please, could they meet.

  It was terrifying and thrilling to imagine a real dad, who maybe looked like him and sounded like him! How cool would that be? They could do things together and get to know each other like a real family. Toby wasn’t in any way a romantic. Sure, he liked a girl in his maths class, but he knew the chances of his mum and dad getting together and being a couple, well, that was for TV specials on rainy Sunday afternoons.

  It made him think of that show with the twins separated at birth. What’s her name? The one before she lost the run of herself and appeared drunk on every tabloid newspaper. Toby flopped back into his seat as the bus pulled into the station. Oh, now, imagine that . . .His dad might have a family – he might have a brother, after all . . .

  “Mum!”

  There she was. Waiting on the pavement, arms crossed at her chest, cardigan thrown over her shoulders. She looked thinner. Paler. Toby knew how dreadful she was at feeding herself and couldn’t wait to check out the food markets so he could cook her something delicious and hopefully fattening.

  “Mum!”

  He rushed into her hug, delighted to be her boy again, small and secure and so loved. He’d missed her more than he could have imagined.

  “Darling.”

  Wrapping her strong, caring arms about him, she held on tight. He peeped up at her and though she was never a crier, he thought he could see tears.

  “You’ve grown a foot!” she declared untruthfully and held him back to study his face.

  Toby raised his eyebrow in his particular way.

  “Okay, maybe not a foot, but you have grown, see.” She flattened her hand on the top of his head and slid it across to where it met her chin. “Last time you were only here.” And she lowered it a couple of inches to her shoulder.

  “Grandma had to buy me new jeans for this trip,” he agreed, “so maybe I did stretch just a little.”

  They grabbed his bag and walked across two bus lanes to hop on a local one, which would bring them near to her apartment. Toby handed the driver the change and exchanged a few words with him. He looked up to catch his mother’s eye and she grinned widely at him.

  “Bravo, sono così orgogliosa.”

  She was proud of him and as he took a seat next to her, he was, he admitted, pretty proud of himself.

  “Mum,” he said in a quiet voice, “when we’ve caught up on all the news, we have to have a proper conversation, you and me. A serious one. Okay?”

  His mother curved her hand gently over the back of his head and closed her eyes briefly. Was she cross? Sad? Hard to tell with her sometimes as she was pretty good
at hiding things she felt he was too young to know.

  “Mum?”

  “I know, darling. I know. We’ll definitely be having some serious conversations. But not tonight. Tonight is for welcoming you and settling you in and eating!”

  She ruffled his head and he ducked away, conscious of other people on the bus. And then he remembered, they were in Roma – and everyone ruffled hair, hugged, kissed, held hands here – it was okay. He grinned back at his mum.

  “Okay, later. But yeah, let’s eat! I’m starved, and I have extra inches to feed!”

  Chapter 9

  “Oh.”

  Toby fell silent and Caro risked another look at him. He’d hardly asked any questions at all and that was worrying her more than anything. Her boy was so curious, so interested in all manner of things. He never didn’t ask questions. It was what made him such an interesting companion even for grown-ups. And he was quick-witted and would know what kind of questions he should be bombarding her with now.

  “Darling, are you okay? I know it’s a huge shock and it’s not what you were hoping for on this trip . . . or, what am I saying, any time. Ever. No one wants to hear that the dad they never knew has gone. Before you even had a chance. God, Toby . . . ” Her voice caught as she ran a hand down his arm. “I’m so very, very sorry.”

  Toby pulled back a little, away from her touch, and that stung. He always let her hug him, snuggle him, kiss him even, still. But a coldness had settled on her young man and it was all her fault. She did this to him. Broke his dreams in two – smashed them dead – and she felt like the worst louse in the world. Had she handled it wrong? Was there a right way to tell a kid “Hey, that dad you were so excited to meet, that (I now discover) you were hoping to meet this week. Yeah, well, he’s dead. And all the time you could have had with him? I’ve taken it from you.”

  Caro took a drink of water from her glass and set it carefully on the coaster next to Toby’s arm. He remained silent, looking out over the Rome skyline from their little balcony where she’d set up their food. It was supposed to have been a “welcome to Italy” meal with, granted, takeaway pizza, but it had fallen spectacularly flat. The pizza was discarded now, only a few slices demolished with gusto – it was delicious – before the sword of Damocles had fallen. How could she not have seen this coming? What kind of god-awful mother was she that she’d done this terrible, terrible thing to her baby?

  Caro took another cooling drink. Her stomach was knotted and she felt as if she could actually throw up at any moment. She’d just had the hardest conversation of her life and had obviously bungled it appallingly. Was there a memo she’d missed on dealing with shitty situations in a way a thirteen-year-old could get? She didn’t think so – no such fucking luck. She dropped her head into her hands, dragging them over her taut skin. She was even cursing in her mind and that never boded well.

  “Say something, Toby, please. Tell me how you feel,” she begged.

  He rose from the wrought-iron chair and stumbled ever so slightly. Automatically, her hand shot out to steady him. He recoiled.

  “Leave it. I’m going to bed. I’m really tired.”

  And he turned from her, walked directly to his room and firmly shut the door.

  Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit.

  What a mess she’d made. Her throat tight, Caro got to her feet. She reached for her jacket and draped it over her shoulders as she stared vacantly into space, the railing the only barrier preventing her from falling. Toby never went to bed angry. They’d had plenty of rows because, well, they were almost normal, but it was his rule always to make up before sleeping. Maybe it came from there always just being the two of them, no other person to bounce things off, to complain to, vent with. But he’d never just left like that.

  A single tear slid down Caro’s face. She could feel a lump forming and her own breath starting to hitch. No. Ab-so-fucking-lutely not. She was not going to start crying over this. She wasn’t remotely ready to deal with that amount of tears and her concern, her only concern, had to be Toby’s welfare. His emotional state when he awoke in the morning was going to dictate how the next few days played out. This was not about her.

  As darkness settled and the evening turned even cooler, Caro chose to remain sitting outside. The chill was a welcome reality to the mess her brain was in. Over and over like a broken record, she played the fateful conversation in her head. The one she’d hoped she could steer when the time came but Toby – bright, happy, eager Toby – simply couldn’t wait another second. Of course he couldn’t. Not with something this huge on his mind.

  “Mum, it’s time. I’d really like you to tell me about my birth father.”

  And then even worse, “I’d like to meet him, get to know him, maybe. What do you think? Would you be okay with that?”

  Okay.Would she be okay with that? Hell, yes. She would have been if she’d got her elbow out of her ass years ago and tracked him down, then maybe, her broken-hearted son, stretched out on his bed, stunned, hurt and miserable, would have had a chance to know Toni, to learn from him. To love him. Shit. Caro scrubbed away another errant tear.

  No. No. No. Not. About. Me.

  And what excuse could she give her fatherless child? None. Zero. Nada. There was no excuse except crappy, bloody awful fucking timing. The image of Toby’s whitening face as she’d told him, slowly but truthfully – oh yeah, she was all about the honesty – all she had learned about Toni di Luca, well, that image was stuck in Caro’s heart, wrenching and painful.

  Oh, Jesus. What have I done to him?

  Caro felt her insides churn nastily and she raced to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet bowl before the contents of her stomach emptied in bitter, retching heaves.

  “I want to meet them.” Toby put down his spoon very carefully on the table next to his cereal bowl.

  Caro was fixing her earring back and whirled to face him, mouth agape.

  “What?” She surely hadn’t heard correctly. “Meet who?”

  Oh, God, she knew full well who. But maybe if she was shocked enough he’d drop it.

  “My di Luca grandparents.”

  Not dropping it, then.

  “But, darling, they don’t even know you exist – it would be an awful shock.”

  Caro studied the bent head. He was so distant, so quiet.

  “It’s your fault they don’t know about me!” Toby said with horrible clear logic. “Not mine. Or theirs,” he added.

  Ouch. He picked up twisting the knife pretty darn quickly for a boy who was normally of a relaxed and easy-mannered nature. Caro sighed. She had to be very careful how she dealt with this son she didn’t recognise. She’d already caused immeasurable hurt and wanted to avoid more. Yeah. That wasn’t going to happen.

  She sat down across the small dining table from him and waited till he raised his eyes to meet hers. His were blank. Dull. Shocked. She took a deep breath to steady her rapid pulse and figure out how to answer. She went with the truth.

  “I honestly don’t know if they’ll want to meet you, Toby. I really don’t.”

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  She tried again.

  “They’re still grieving deeply and I haven’t told you this before, but you’re the image of your father. And that may inadvertently make things worse for them.”

  “So, you mean that because I happen to look like my dad, which is, as far as I know, a pretty normal occurrence in families, you’ve decided that my dad’s parents shouldn’t get to know me. Or me them. Because of how I look. Mum, that’s just stupid.” He rose from the table and placed his empty bowl and spoon carefully in the kitchen sink. “Are you saying if I looked like Grandpa Fitzgerald I could get to meet them?” He shook his head at her, his lovely soft mouth turned down in a sneer.

  Oh, dear God. He was changing before her eyes. Speedily backtracking, Caro spoke gently.

  “Look, I have to go to work and I’ve arranged that tour for you, which leaves in twenty minutes from the piazza, s
o we need to get going. I promise to give some thought to what you’re asking and we can chat about it this evening, okay?”

  Toby grabbed his backpack from the chair and headed to the door.

  “Whatever.”

  Caro did what she usually did in times of stress – poured herself into her work. She knew Toby was safe – the tour she’d picked was for young people and arranged by the college, where she was teaching during the day. He’d enjoy himself – if he let the historic conversation of last night – the conversation that would change his life forever – if he just let it go, for today. He needed this day – a time to relax and enjoy the Rome of centuries ago. His love of history was what drove her to choose this specific one and if last night hadn’t happened, she’d bet her life that he’d be in orbit by this evening. Unfortunately, she didn’t know which boy she’d meet off the bus later.

  She taught her two scheduled classes and was absently pleased with how they went. She had a few hours to kill, so she planned and checked and replanned her adult lectures for the next few weeks. They were so much fun and it was so satisfying as she brought her students on their journey of modern Irish art. She refused to let the nagging voice in her head have a place – the one that said if she hadn’t wanted this Italian semester of teaching so badly she’d have been able to avoid this awful scenario with her son.

  But.

  That wasn’t actually true.

  One day, sooner or later, Toby would have brought this topic up, or she would have. Every child had the right to know who their parents were – she believed that. She’d always known this day would come, but she’d imagined such a different play, it was laughable. Idiotic, really. Who had she been kidding? Herself. That’s who. And no one else.