package of Italian cookies too tantalizing to pass up.
I bought a couple of pounds of sliced salami from the butcher’s stand and some bread from the baker next door. The fruit stand was at the end of the hall and I maneuvered that direction, cursing the stroller, which really wasn’t fair since it was actually Timmy’s age and corresponding little baby legs that were the problem. Despite how many people lived in Rome—and considering how many of them either had children or were once children themselves—it is not a city conducive to maneuvering with kids.
This was not a Fun Fact that I remembered from my days living here.
We made it without banging into any unsuspecting pedestrian’s shins, running over any toes, losing Boo Bear, or encountering a pickpocket. We hadn’t even bought any fruits and vegetables, and already I considered the venture a success.
I grabbed a flat-bottom totebag lined with linen. It had a rather pathetic drawing of St. Peter’s printed on one side and an image of the Italian flag on the other. It cost fifteen American dollars and I’d be surprised if it lasted the week.
I didn’t even hesitate. I plunked my bread and sausages into the tote, hooked it over my shoulder, and started to inspect the fruit, trying to decide what everyone would eat. A white-haired woman in a green apron peered at me through narrowed, pinprick eyes. Considering the stroller, I couldn’t believe she thought I was going to bolt, but I reassured her just in case, enjoying another chance to speak my rusty Italian.
Not even three words were out of my mouth when her dour expression shifted, her eyes widened, and her face took on a warm, friendly vibe. I didn’t bother telling her that today I was a tourist. We’d bonded, she and I, and I listened as she reviewed in painstaking detail the quality and flavor of each of her wares. “Try,” she said in Italian, slicing off part of a fig and holding the juicy morsel out to me. “And for your little one, too.”
Timmy wasn’t strapped into this stroller, and he was on his feet and reaching for the fruit in seconds. The woman beamed, and as I watched her smiling at my son—my precious little almost-three-year-old—I saw just a flash of a girl on the other side of the stand. Allie ?
For a second fear clutched me, but then the crowd shifted and I saw the girl again. Not Allie. This girl’s hair was blonde and shorter. But the shape of her face was so similar. And those eyes—her eyes were so like Allie’s it was uncanny.
Without thinking, I took a step toward her, which was absurd because not only did I not know that girl, but there was a huge display of melons in front of me. I didn’t touch the fruit—I’m certain I didn’t even come close—but suddenly I was caught in an avalanche of melons. The entire display seemed to be tumbling to the ground, and Timmy was standing there, hands flailing, suddenly squalling, and trying desperately to turn around and run away from the fruitapalooza.
“Tim!” I reached for him, but he went down too fast, slipping on a splattered melon. I bent to help him, but another pair of arms scooped him up first.
Time does a funny thing when you’re terrified, and I was scared to death in that moment. I saw right away that the arms belonged to a woman, but I didn’t know her, and my thoughts ranged from kidnapping to demons to black magic rituals involving innocent children. A mother’s fears surrounding her children were vivid enough—throw my particular profession into the mix and scary didn’t even begin to describe it.
“Give me my son,” I said, slowly and calmly in crisp, clear Italian. I didn’t have a weapon handy—I knew I should have unpacked the suitcases before we went out—but I grabbed a carrot off the produce stand. In a pinch, it would do.
The woman looked at me as if I were insane. “He fell,” she said in English. She smiled brightly at me, her brown eyes shining, and then at the once again
I bought a couple of pounds of sliced salami from the butcher’s stand and some bread from the baker next door. The fruit stand was at the end of the hall and I maneuvered that direction, cursing the stroller, which really wasn’t fair since it was actually Timmy’s age and corresponding little baby legs that were the problem. Despite how many people lived in Rome—and considering how many of them either had children or were once children themselves—it is not a city conducive to maneuvering with kids.
This was not a Fun Fact that I remembered from my days living here.
We made it without banging into any unsuspecting pedestrian’s shins, running over any toes, losing Boo Bear, or encountering a pickpocket. We hadn’t even bought any fruits and vegetables, and already I considered the venture a success.
I grabbed a flat-bottom totebag lined with linen. It had a rather pathetic drawing of St. Peter’s printed on one side and an image of the Italian flag on the other. It cost fifteen American dollars and I’d be surprised if it lasted the week.
I didn’t even hesitate. I plunked my bread and sausages into the tote, hooked it over my shoulder, and started to inspect the fruit, trying to decide what everyone would eat. A white-haired woman in a green apron peered at me through narrowed, pinprick eyes. Considering the stroller, I couldn’t believe she thought I was going to bolt, but I reassured her just in case, enjoying another chance to speak my rusty Italian.
Not even three words were out of my mouth when her dour expression shifted, her eyes widened, and her face took on a warm, friendly vibe. I didn’t bother telling her that today I was a tourist. We’d bonded, she and I, and I listened as she reviewed in painstaking detail the quality and flavor of each of her wares. “Try,” she said in Italian, slicing off part of a fig and holding the juicy morsel out to me. “And for your little one, too.”
Timmy wasn’t strapped into this stroller, and he was on his feet and reaching for the fruit in seconds. The woman beamed, and as I watched her smiling at my son—my precious little almost-three-year-old—I saw just a flash of a girl on the other side of the stand. Allie ?
For a second fear clutched me, but then the crowd shifted and I saw the girl again. Not Allie. This girl’s hair was blonde and shorter. But the shape of her face was so similar. And those eyes—her eyes were so like Allie’s it was uncanny.
Without thinking, I took a step toward her, which was absurd because not only did I not know that girl, but there was a huge display of melons in front of me. I didn’t touch the fruit—I’m certain I didn’t even come close—but suddenly I was caught in an avalanche of melons. The entire display seemed to be tumbling to the ground, and Timmy was standing there, hands flailing, suddenly squalling, and trying desperately to turn around and run away from the fruitapalooza.
“Tim!” I reached for him, but he went down too fast, slipping on a splattered melon. I bent to help him, but another pair of arms scooped him up first.
Time does a funny thing when you’re terrified, and I was scared to death in that moment. I saw right away that the arms belonged to a woman, but I didn’t know her, and my thoughts ranged from kidnapping to demons to black magic rituals involving innocent children. A mother’s fears surrounding her children were vivid enough—throw my particular profession into the mix and scary didn’t even begin to describe it.
“Give me my son,” I said, slowly and calmly in crisp, clear Italian. I didn’t have a weapon handy—I knew I should have unpacked the suitcases before we went out—but I grabbed a carrot off the produce stand. In a pinch, it would do.
The woman looked at me as if I were insane. “He fell,” she said in English. She smiled brightly at me, her brown eyes shining, and then at the once again
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