Chapter Thirty-Four Caroline

I jolt in my bed, startled at the sudden pulse of movement beneath me. Seconds later it occurs to me: It’s the train en route again. Must be midnight, departure time to Positano, if I remember correctly from the inane itinerary. My eyes flitter to the clock inlaid into the bar and confirm it, what appears to be one thick black line hovering at twelve. The train jerks onward, soon smoothing into a steady pace. Seconds pass, and you’d hardly notice it now—the movement has become a constant, a part of reality you no longer question but blindly accept.

I swipe at my eyes, pry away the crust from old tears. Dried. Gone.

I’m not sad anymore, I realize, nor distraught. I’m something entirely else.

I sit up and it flashes through me—standing on the edge of the Colosseum, at dizzying heights. Kicking a pebble and watching it skitter down. So very far down, until colliding back into the earth. Stepping back from the ledge, my heartbeat berserk, the panorama of Rome stretching out into forever—at least the extent of forever as I could see or imagine exists. Feeling the rustle of Max at my back, his shirt grazing my skin.

As close to me as my next breath.

I shift atop the bed, and as I do, my thigh comes down hard on something metal. I wince, wriggle it out.

Max’s key. He gave it to me, of course, instructing me to come see him next door if I needed anything. Anything at all. Suddenly, in a bout of fury, I fling the key toward the door. It lands with a tepid crash on the parquet.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror panel right across. My hair is mussed, my skin red, crisscrossed in pillowcase creases. But my face is hard and firm. Spontaneously, I give myself a tiny salute.

I exhale deeply. Can I do this? Can I really, really do this?

My tiny jolt of bravery goes as fast as it came. The Colosseum returns to me—the heart-thrashing intensity of being up so high. So close.

All that talk of suicide, all that chatter my mind shoveled away. Funny how they missed it, how Rory did at least, when she murmured with Max in the car back on the way to the train. Stuff they thought I didn’t overhear. The thing is: It requires some measure of courage to commit suicide. To actually do something about your feelings and problems. Not to drown them out any longer.

I stumble to my feet, slap my hands on the table, intentionally hard, inviting the sting. No more. I stare at my palms, pink and tingly. A buzz builds in my ears.

No more. I can’t handle it anymore!

All of a sudden, I feel my child self slip before me, a sad, meek mirage. Coming toward me, nearer, nearer, until she’s an inch from my nose, Little Caro startling me, her contours I’d lost, been desperate to shed. Little Caro—I see it now. She’s courageous as all get-out! That sweet little girl. Tears soak my cheeks once again.

I realize that for a long time I’ve tucked Little Caro away. Instructed her to rot. Die. Thought critically of her. Invented stories that weren’t even real.

Told myself if she were different—better—good, her parents would have been different, too.

No longer. I stand up, retrieve Max’s key ring, swirl it around my index finger. Then I remember something. Suddenly I rush around the room, palming surfaces, eyes darting about. Where is it?

I dive into my suitcase, toss it off the stool it’s perched on. I turn the carrier over, spill all the contents onto the floor, digging through things, flinging aside lingerie and silk dresses—not finding it. When I surface, I am dazed. I notice a pair of underwear on a lamp. Fear mounts in my chest. Where the fuck is it?

And then I spot it—a tiny pile of metal on the little table. I walk over and retrieve it: the whistle that came in our welcome kit. Rory was wearing it as a necklace the first day, which I found cute, but not the type of fashion statement I’d typically make.

I loop it around my neck. I’m not wearing it as a fashion statement now.

My mind whirls and swirls, reshuffles thoughts among their file folders.

I am courageous—or I’m going to try to be, at last.