First an old record, Italian love songs. Then a worn doll. Next, a tiny argyle sweater. Objects from thirty years ago when Camille Glass could count all her possessions on one hand, from the days just after her home was destroyed and with it, her entire family. When these objects begin to reappear in Camille’s life, one by one, all these years later, they loosen something in her that needed to be tight, something that held her together, allowed her to function as a wife and mother. Once the subterfuge behind them is uncovered, all kinds of truths come to light, some devastating, some heartening.

PART ONE: THE FIRST ARTIFACT

CAMILLE

Camille’s feet hurt and her back ached, her senses overstimulated by lush frescoes, muscled statuary, and crowds. She glanced back to check on Timothy, scuffing along behind them. Ryan walked too close beside her in the heat.

She was thirsty and hungry and tired, and she also felt crowded, even in this quiet side street blocks away from the Vatican. And she kept seeing women who looked like her mom from the back, like maybe it had all been some big mix-up thirty years ago, and there was a reasonable explanation for everything. A few times a day since they’d been in Rome, a woman with big glasses and a dark bob half-turned away in the distance would snag Camille’s attention, and she would stare until the figure resolved into a stranger, not her mom at all. It was both wonderful and terrible.

She was the one who had pushed for this anniversary trip, hoping it would somehow help her and Ryan reconnect, so far away from their daily lives. Rome had sounded exotic and beautiful, but she should have anticipated all the reminders of her Italian mom.

Camille sensed Ryan casting about for a way to reach her, even as she tugged away from him, even here on vacation, a kite on a string.

Once they got back to the pensione, it would be better. Once she rested.

Ryan reached for her arm, and she moved away. “I’m sorry. It’s just so hot.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked boyish as he often did, his features regular and perfect under his Red Sox hat, his body wiry and compact.

There. She’d hurt him. Exactly what she’d been trying to avoid.

Camille touched his arm. “Let’s find a coffee stand. I need a boost.” Ryan nodded, and they both looked around. There was usually a coffee bar on every block, some narrow storefront where locals popped in just long enough to order an espresso shot, stand at the bar, and swig it. But even looking for a coffee bar was overstimulating. Her eye immediately snagged on a frieze of a woman in swirling drapery above a big wooden door. Then the door opened, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of green courtyard inside. Squeezed between that building and the next one was a cobbled stone stairway that wriggled up and out of sight. Next to that was a pizza stand with a glass case displaying rectangles of pizza with toppings like zucchini that you’d never find in the States. They smelled delicious. Finally, just past a grassy area under some trees where old men watched the world go by, they found a coffee stand.

Ryan’s phone rang just as they were about to step inside. Camille saw him read the screen and glance in her direction. His voice changed, warm and low as he turned away. “Hey.” He walked a few steps back toward the park.

Camille stopped to listen, distracted by the barista calling out, “Prego!”

Timothy tugged her hand and grinned up at her. The first time they had entered a store in Rome and someone called out, “Prego,” all three of them had frozen in surprise, until they realized that’s how Italians say hello.

“Happy pasta sauce,” Timothy whispered to her, their new inside joke.

Camille smiled vaguely at both him and the barista, distracted by Ryan’s conversation.

“I swear, I tried at least three kinds of pasta,” Ryan said, then paused. “Yes, and gnocchi…. That’s not true, I didn’t throw the bet!” His tone was warm and easy. Was it talking to her that made him sound like that? “I’m quite sure the waiters understood me, however I pronounced ‘gnocchi.’”

Camille realized someone was behind her, trying to get in. It was one of those beautifully dressed Italian women, this one wearing a crisp white blouse with a little scarf at her neck. Camille apologized clumsily in her terrible Italian accent, then stepped in and placed her order through a combination of pointing and badly pronounced Italian. Timothy as usual just wanted one of the giant sugar packets to eat. She would make sure he ate better once they got home.

Ryan finally returned as Camille took two tiny cups of espresso from the barista.

“Who was that?” she asked, moving over to the bar where everyone stood for the one minute it took to down their espresso. There were no chairs, as there was apparently no desire to linger, and besides that, there was no space.

Ryan took his little cup and saucer. “Oh, someone on the Bain project. They just wanted to know if I was going to be back for the meeting next week. We’re close to wrapping up.”

They. No name. Camille kept her face turned away.

Fine. If he wanted Mariana, he could fucking have her. Then her breath caught. For better or for worse, Ryan was her person. In her whole adult life, she had told only one person about the fire, Ryan. He just held her and kept repeating, “I’m here. I’m here,” as he stroked her hair. When she had told him she was pregnant, four weeks after she had found out herself, the look of joy on his face…he had cupped her face in his hands, said, “Thank you.” He had put his hands on her flat stomach as they lay in bed. “We made this.” Until then, the baby had seemed like hers alone.

She wanted to say, I know you’re probably better off without me. She wanted to say, I know why you’d choose her over me. She wanted to say, Fuck you. Instead, she said, “I really wish you didn’t take work calls on the trip.”

“It’s my job, Camille.” Ryan emptied one of the giant sugar packets into his espresso and stirred.

Camille willed him to understand what she really meant, which was, Why don’t you talk to me like you talk to her? Camille’s voice grew sharp. “I’m only asking for a few days.” She stopped talking because her throat closed up. She just wanted Ryan to get it for once.

Ryan hesitated, then swallowed his coffee.

Timothy was in the doorway looking across the street. “Look, Mom, there’s a store selling rocks! Can I get fool’s gold for Marcus and Avi and Joey? It would be so funny!”

Glad to be distracted, Camille looked up. “You want to give them presents? At your birthday party?”

Timothy shrugged. “You know, like party favors. I could fool them!”

Camille thought about it. “That would be pretty great. Not too big, since you have to lug them back in your suitcase, all right?”

Timothy ran toward the store, and Ryan and she glanced at each other. Camille was relieved that Ryan seemed to want to let the tense moment pass, but she also felt a lingering hurt after watching Ryan’s face light up while he spoke to Mariana.

Ryan followed their son, but Camille hesitated as she stepped out of the coffee bar. The caffeine helped, but she just needed a second to herself.

“I’ll be in here,” she said, gesturing toward a stall she saw nearby.

Ryan nodded, looking surprised. Timothy had already disappeared into the shop selling rocks and fossils.

Camille took a deep breath as she passed an old man, half in shade and half in sun, who nodded drowsily at the entrance to the stall.

She moved quickly to the back, out of the sun, barely noting the objects surrounding her. She raised one arm overhead, then the other, imagining herself at the ballet barre, feeling like herself again.

She opened her eyes, letting her gaze sweep over the jumble, then gasped as she spotted something. She felt her heart squeeze painfully, like all the blood emptied out and didn’t refill. She made a fist and clutched it to her chest as she always did at these moments. A sun-faded record sleeve. A fern and a saxophone against a brown background.

Camille hurried forward and knelt, knees together, next to a wooden crate of records, and there it was, as if somehow waiting for her, the same familiar cover: a fern whose leaves she had traced with her finger more times than she could count. She had sung along with that mournful Italian voice, making up words to match the language she couldn’t understand. They were love songs, beyond her years, but nonetheless, she had understood the singer’s feelings perfectly—longing, loss, emptiness. It was a record she’d never thought to see again, and it triggered memories she tried hard to avoid. But somehow, in this moment, she felt only a sense of fondness for the comfort the record had once brought her, the company of that voice that had transformed loss into something…beautiful.