Pilgrimage
Dear Mom, Rory began. She looked up from her journal, chewing on the end of her pen. Her grandmother dozed lightly in the seat across from her. They had left Rome only an hour ago but the rocking motion of the train had quickly put Emily to sleep. Rory sighed.
Grandma hasn't been sleeping well. She doesn't know I know, but I can hear her when she gets up at night and walks around—it's a pretty small apartment. And this is weird, but I think she's smoking, too. I haven't found butts or ashtrays or anything, but there's always this undertone of smoke in the air, even with all the fresh flowers. And she's gotten thinner, too—here I am, stuffing my face like nobody else (except maybe you), and she barely eats at all. I don't quite understand what's going on with her—she's told me all these problems she's always had with Grandpa, how people aren't things and family is more than just a façade, all those things, but underneath all that it seems like she still really misses him. Even though she thinks he'll never really understand what she wants him to, she still loves him. It hurts that you can't help that.
We took a late afternoon train for Florence—we won't get in until after dinner time. Normally in the mornings we go to Campo de' Fiori and get flowers and fresh food for lunch before we go off to the sight-seeing, but we skipped that today and went straight to Piazza del Popolo. Remember, we went there but the church was closed? I wanted to see the Caravaggio paintings in the Cerasi Chapel. They were amazing, and that doesn't nearly do them justice. They're Caravaggio.
This city—it's overwhelming, Mom. It's seething with people and colors and sounds. I could have stayed in Piazza del Popolo all day, even though it was so, so hot. That's the place where people would start and finish their journey to the holy land during the early days of Christianity. It was the gateway to the city. I could have watched people there forever.
I've been thinking: I wish I could have been there for you when Jason said those terrible things. I would have done what you did for me after Dean left that night—whatever you asked me to. I wish I was thirty seconds away, like you said you were going to be. Grandma and I have been walking around the city, and I've been thinking about religious trips and paintings and cobblestones and high heels with stilettos like needles, and then I'll remember what happened, and I'll remember to think about it, and then I don't know quite what to do. Do I go back to thinking about gelato and chiaroscuro and mosaics in ceilings, or do I whip out my cell phone and make sure you're okay? Can you keep someone in your thoughts if you're not really thinking about them all the time?
Grandma keeps asking me about Luke. I'm not helping much, because I keep telling her that the best way to describe him is just to say that he's Luke. Luke is Luke—what else is there? She wants to know if I'm okay with you seeing each other. I think she wants to know what the men in your life have been like, but I can't really tell her that. I can tell her about how Luke has been in our lives—fixing the house, looking out for us, bringing us ice and food and coffee and saving baby chicks and taking us places and protecting us from nephews and hauling around mattresses and every other thing Luke has ever done for us. I can tell her he's always been around, and I can tell her he doesn't let us down, even if we do, sometimes, let him down. I did tell her he does whatever he can to help other people but he thinks it's embarrassing when anyone brings it up, and she said that's a mark of good character. The first time she asked me how I felt about the two of you being together, the only thing I could think to say was that I can't really imagine your life without Luke in it. I couldn't say that about the others, not even Dad. A long time ago, that would have been different, but it's not anymore. He's got his things and we've got our things. Maybe, in an ideal world, our things would all be the same. Maybe. But what's in a maybe?
We were looking at the Caravaggios, and the martyrdom of St. Peter is so gruesome—he's crucified upside down and it almost protrudes from the canvas the way he's painted it. You'd have thought crucifying him right side up would have been enough, but the Romans were creative with their torture. I asked Grandma what her favorite Caravaggio was, and she said she'd always admired his depiction of Judith with Holofernes. You know the one, where she slits his throat and there's blood just pouring everywhere? I told Grandma it's the bloodiest painting imaginable, but she said that Judith has this incredible expression on her face of grim determination, and the painting in and of itself is really rather funny, when you look at the old servant woman egging Judith on. I guess Grandma has a dark side that's, honestly, a little sick. My favorite Caravaggio is still the Magdalene. I can't help it: it's not his best, but it's so sad. You just want to sit next to her and help her collect all the beads that have spilled and to tell her that the Vatican eventually took it back and we know she's not really a prostitute. She had such a bad rap—an accident of history and bad interpretation, Grandma said, and she's marginalized and ostracized for centuries. Then she said that it's all the fault of the men and they never get anything right in the first place. Still. Poor Mary.
What I haven't been thinking about is Dean. If I did, I think I might get angry, and I don't know why. It's probably not worth it. But when I think of you, Mom, I just hope that you've sorted things out with Luke, after we talked the other day. If you really love him, like you said, that's—to say it's a big deal is not enough, I know. If you really love him, you'll work it out. I hope you're okay. Mending.
Love, Rory.
Rory shut her journal and leaned close to the train window, peering out at the passing country side. She hugged the notebook to her chest and thought about the collection of letters she was building. She had always enjoyed reading the private writings of her favorite authors—published journals, correspondence, juvenile scribblings, and the like—and she fantasized when she was young about being Dorothy Parker or Flannery O'Connor (without the lupus, she'd have to add) and having all of her thoughts and ideas preserved for posterity. She ran her hand over the top of the journal and shoved it into her backpack, wondering. How would people read Rory Gilmore? Would they even want to?
Emily sighed in her sleep. Rory tucked her feet up under her where she sat and leaned her chin in her hand, watching her grandmother. How would any of them stack up on paper, she wondered.