“Why wasn’t I told that when I was younger?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Dad told me she had car problems and that she died.”

“Well, that’s true, isn’t it? And you were seven or eight, Isabel. It’s not the kind of thing you tell a young child-that her grandmother has been blown to bits.”

“What caused the explosion?”

“They said that your grandmother had put a propane tank from her barbecue in her trunk the night before, because she was going to have it filled. This was before there were laws about refilling. They said the tank leaked, and when she started the car the next day, it ignited.”

“Grandma O had a barbecue? That doesn’t sound like her. I just remember pastas and bread and those big mushrooms.”

“She was a wonderful cook. I thought it strange about the barbecue, too. I remember asking your father about it at the time. Even the fact that she had carried the tank to the car surprised me. Those tanks are heavy and she was a small woman and getting up there in age.”

“What did Dad say to you?”

“Not much. He was so traumatized. It was a horrible time.”

“And then a month later, he was dead.” Supposedly. Allegedly.

“Yes, and your grandmother’s death took a backseat. Losing your father was just so all consuming.”

Did you know? Did you know he faked his death? This was what I wanted to scream into the phone, but I wasn’t sure I quite believed it, even now, even having spoken to Elena. And I couldn’t upset my mom unnecessarily.

In the background, I heard Spence calling to her. I could see him rushing into the kitchen. “Say hi to Spence for me,” I said. I would ask her later, when I knew for sure, when I understood the whole story.

“Will do, honey. Have a fun birthday, and we’ll celebrate when you get home.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Maggie.

“You didn’t ask her,” she said.

I shook my head. “I couldn’t. Not until I know myself for sure.”

“Okay. I get that. So look at me. Where are you right now?”

“In Rome. About to meet my father. For the first time in almost twenty-two years.” I sat and stared at her. We were both silent.

A family filed into the hotel lobby. They looked jubilant and tired after a day of sightseeing. One of the kids was saying, “Let’s go to the Vatican again tomorrow.” The dad laughed, ruffled his hair.

“I never had that,” I said. “Sightseeing with my father.”

“This is exactly what I’m telling you not to do,” Maggie said. “Do not think about things like that. Do not think about anything except the fact that you are about to meet him. Nothing before this meeting, nothing after. Now, let me ask you again, where are you right now?”

“I’m in a hotel and my best friend is pretending to be Eckhart Tolle.”

Maggie laughed. Then she lost her smile. “Seriously, just be here. Just be sitting here right now.” She looked over my shoulder. “And right now, your aunt is about to come up to us. So just be someone who’s about to walk out onto the streets of Rome.”

I opened my mouth to say something.

She shook her head, “Iz, there’s nothing else you can do right now except walk onto the streets of Rome.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay. You are. I’ll be here when you get back.” She took her phone out of her pocket and pointed to it. “Call me if you need anything.”

“What are you going to do?” I looked at my watch. It was 4:00 p.m. “A lot of museums are open until six. Or you could walk along the Tiber or go see the Coliseum.”

Maggie put her hand on my shoulder once more. “Iz, I know I’m in Rome. And we both know I love this city. But you know what I like best of all.”

“Sleep.”

“Yep. But if you need anything, I’m up in a minute.”

Maggie looked past me and smiled. “Hi, Elena.” She hugged me. “See you guys later,” she said, as if this were any other day.

I turned to Elena.

“Ready?” Elena said.

My head screamed, No, but a different answer came from somewhere deep within me. I think it was my heart.

And my heart said, “Yes.”

Like any Roman, Elena was quick on the cobbled streets, dodging down one alley, one street, rushing through another section of town, then another, striding in front of taxis with her hand held out, assuming (correctly) that they would all stop for her. The afternoon had turned humid, the air thick with exhaust and heat. The tourists were easy to spot-all scrutinizing maps, their faces confused and sweating-while the Romans breezed by, seeming not to notice them and not perspiring a drop.

We passed through the Piazza Navona, where street vendors ran after tourists, trying to sell belts and bags. I wondered if they were fakes made by the Camorra. We skirted the Pantheon next, the circular temple still and solid amid the chaos of the city. I glanced across the piazza and saw the ivory-colored awnings of Fortunato, the ristorante where Elena had taken Maggie and me when we were here years ago. Had my father been here, too? How had Elena sat across from me then, knowing my father was-what?-maybe a mile away?

Meanwhile, where we were going now, I had no idea. Elena had told me to follow her. That was all. Elena walked faster as I struggled over the cobblestones, always a step behind. She dodged around more tourists, she darted into deserted alleys and then would turn again onto the bigger streets like the Corso. I kept following her, past gelaterie, past piazzas with center obelisks and columns decorated with enough symbolism to study for years.

All the while, Elena was quiet. I kept sending glances at her, murmuring my appreciation for taking me to him, for being honest with me. When these comments were met with nothing more than a scared look in my direction, I decided to ignore the topic of my father, and instead started commenting on a church or a facade of a shop as if we were out sightseeing. Elena responded to the overtures with a terse nod, a quick smile, her face always returning to one of deep thought. I decided not to say anything more. I was afraid she would change her mind.

We turned another corner, and I gasped at the sight of the Trevi Fountain. Tucked in an otherwise average and rather small piazza, the fountain was a massive white marble wall, carved with a commanding figure of Neptune in the center. Streams and arcs of glistening water shot into a huge oval pool that glittered silver and gold from the coins coating the bottom.

Tourists were packed in front of the fountain, snapping pictures and throwing coins over their left shoulder, a superstitious way to ensure your return to Rome.

Elena stopped, too, as if giving me a short break. She followed my gaze to the pool. “Do you know,” she said, pointing at the coins, “how much we collect every night from the Fontana di Trevi? Three thousand euros.”

“Every day?”

Elena nodded. “They say they give the money to a supermarket for food for poor families.” She shrugged as if to say that might happen and it might not. She touched my arm. “Andiamo.” Let’s go.

Elena started moving fast again, skirting the fountain, not giving it another thought. I got my legs moving and scurried after her, but I kept slowing inadvertently, darting glances at the fountain. I felt envious of the tourists, and I wondered if I didn’t throw a coin, would I get back to this city? I shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. How could it possibly when I was about to meet my father, to see him resurrected from the land of the dead?

Elena threw a glance over her shoulder at me. Her expression seemed to say, Hurry or I’ll change my mind.

At a corner of the Trevi’s piazza, I followed Elena to the right, into a narrow, jaggedly shaped street. A bookstore was on a corner. Elena turned left in front of it, then right, then left, weaving away from the fountain, the sounds of its crowds and splashing water receding quickly.