Five Women: The Journeys (Part One)

Five Women: The Journeys

A Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton

***

Valentina: "Torna a Sorriento"

"Certain frequencies wake up your spirit and recreate your inner garden."

Was that a frequency? What had the Asian man said back in Sorrento? This frequency was the frequency of flowers.
The accordion playing "La vie en rose" made her think of a garden of flowers.

In that trusty sweetness, Valentina's coffee was just brisk enough to give her alertness and just soothing enough to give her roses of tranquility. Eating her croissant, finishing her book report, engulfed in her work, her red dress fitting so well it was no short of miraculous, she caught herself finding peace within. Montmartre smelled like magnolias.

The conflict of what she wanted, the deep conversation with the Chinese guru, and what her parents wanted, for her to come to the beach. Her soft soul was a garden. The conflict were thorns.

Triggered by fear of making mistakes. Her panic attacks had worsened the last year. Ever since her parents had come to visit last New Year's Eve, fighting again and screaming at each other, causing a clash of enormous inner conflict. Her father's hot temper and her mother's wounded pride was a tug of war that exploded into a massive neurosis, attacking her mother. She had felt guilty for that thought ever since, blessing her and Dad constantly since, thinking something awful would happen if she didn't.

Valentina was no longer caught up in fears of doing something wrong, actually trusting her life, beyond what was expected of her. 

It was almost as if the extremely judgmental guardian in her head, constantly telling her that if she did certain things she would seriously hurt someone she loved, paused. The triggers were narrowed down to about a half.

Sitting there on that white chair next to a park in the café, she began realizing how different she was on the inside.

She looked suave in her red dress, perfectly styled, made up to the nines, sweeter than honey. In fact, if honey was sweet, she was sweeter. The dresses produced a beautiful contrast to her light nougat skin. So, of course, people thought that she was in control, perfect, some sort of Goddess. They assumed that a woman like her must have been overwhelmed with offers from men. Her long dark hair, her brown eyes, her pouting lips, her sultry gaze, her long legs. And, yes, there had been offers and there had been men. But it was way too complicated to just pick up some stray artist from a nearby gallery and make love to him and find him gone by the morning. The times she had done that, she had felt cheap and abandoned. They had seen the dishy brunette in the evening and found the complicated girl in the morning.

She played the role well. Tapping into her Samsung tablet, sipping her Monsieur Albert avec du lait d'avoine with cocoa sprinkles from the cup with the Eiffel Tower on it. She nodded elegantly to the waiters who knew her by name. But was that her? Was that really who she was? Her soul? The Chinese healer in Sorrento had claimed she had been a murdered male aristocrat in the 19th century and that souls like her chose to incarnate as various genders in order to see the universe in the right light. So was this dishy woman her soul? No. It was an expression of her femininity. Not her spirit.

As she gazed up to look at the couples scattered about in the café, she noticed the game they played. It was a game of give and take, yes, but both were playing a game. Both spirits had learned what it was to be a gender and had learned by their various parents what it was to be their gender and how to regard the opposite gender. "Men or women are ... this or that ... fill in the blanks ... stupid, arrogant, thoughtless, egotistical ..." and so neither member really got to know the other because they both saw each other as genders.

Beautiful exterior, vulnerable interior.
One battlefield.

Valentina sat there alone at the Café des Deux Moulins at the 15 Rue Lepic, tapping into her laptop, finishing book reports in one sitting, happy to be alone. Involuntary memories returned.

She knew why she was apprehensive about the fast life. Unlike so many, she was not shallow and neither did she believe that the body or even the gender revealed everything about a person.

So Valentina sat there that day, finding her peace all of a sudden, letting the wind caress her hair, the sun shine in her face, drinking her third café au lait to the sounds of French music, fast French chatter creeping into her ear, watching smart looking couples, picture book perfect, displaying themselves to the tourists like models. From where had that trust suddenly arrived. Did she have to ask? Maybe it wasn't important. Maybe it was. Who had inspired it? An angel? One of the guests? The weather? The elegant couples? Maybe not.

She could have been watching "The Bold and the Beautiful". She listened to their conversations and heard them talk of cars, clothes, money, buildings and wine. Secretly, she would hope that love would be mentioned or the soul. Or the word why. Instead, she listened to the French accordion music played by Francois at the corner, "Sous le ciel du Paris ne pas long temps cruel", looked at some of the artists sketching overpriced portraits along the pathways, looked at the waiters criss-crossing the tables bringing coffees and cakes and hors d'oeuvres. And some of her neurosis dissolved. From time to time, she gazed over at the artist finishing portraits on the sidewalk, asking horrendous money for second rate work.

She suddenly knew where her peace had come from. The stranger that arrived looked almost exactly like the man she had spent time with when her OCD had been born.

The Asian man that arrived with his grandfather that May caught her attention, also because he reminded her of the Asian man in Sorrento from her childhood. Like that man, he was so different than everyone else. He and what must have been his grandson spoke French, obviously the young man was a native Parisian. But the old man spoke French with a slight accent, trying his best to speak well. They were soft spoken, very serious and quite spiritual, by the looks of them, as if none of the hubbub around them were real.

As Valentina tipped her book report about Michelangelo, adding info about the artist's complicated personality and his career as a poet, she noticed the young man asking the old man about the nature of the soul. Valentina pretended not to hear, but secretly she was transported to her seventh year as a child. It was uncanny that this was happening. Change the age of the younger person and you would have Valentina.

Back in Sorrento, the Chinese guru was a friend of her father's. He was a member of an Asian delegation that visited his company, actually the cook of one of the visiting CEOs. But the guru was a spiritual advisor to the boss and was consulted by him at a regular basis. He was so different than everyone she knew. So deep. He said very little, only the most necessary phrases, but with such dignity that it made an impression on her. The two spent hours speaking of the soul, from where it came, that everything was energy. She had not even known from where the question had come. "What is the nature of the soul?" - "Qual' e la natura dell'anima?" Valentina's mother always asked about the nature of things, maybe because she loved nature. She saw God in nature, but there was no extreme depth there.

Her parents and siblings were busy swimming in the Bay of Naples, but Valentina could not stop talking to this man who claimed that matter did not exist and energy was everywhere. What, she thought to herself. How incredible. He told her things she thought were invented by Japanese Anime artists. You could feel the energy of spirits in bodies, but also the energy of spirits out of bodies. The angels were everywhere. The old man with his long thin beard and grey ponytail looked like the typical Hollywood cliché of Chinese wise men.

Valentina loved his words. He claimed to have known who he had been in previous lives and recommended several books and movies she could read in the subject suitable for children. The Never Ending Story. The Last Unicorn. Casper. All Dogs Go to Heaven. And her personal favorite: The Afterlife According to the Heavenly Kid. With him, she got in touch with her eternal soul. She was no longer just a girl. She was an eternal spirit.

Wu Chen was the reason she moved to Paris. His tale of how one taste of a Madeleine cake could bring back years of memories was his way of telling her about the soul. Marcel Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" became Valentina's Eden and she could only think of visiting where he had written it in his apartment in Boulevard Haussman 102. Other people visited the Ganges river or the place of Jesus resurrection. Valentina visited Proust's last apartment.

Anyway, there she sat listening to this other old man and was obviously his young grandson chatting, somehow feeling lost time return. How fitting. "In Search of Lost Time" was her favorite book and now she was searching for lost time. As were they.

The young man gazed into her eyes as if seeing an angel for the first time. It was a fleeting look, quick but so deep. Was that her physical beauty or was it her spiritual depth? The young man looked back upon his grandfather and smiled, obviously still infatuated with her. The old man told him in fleeing he had returned from China for the first time in a decade and was happy to be here. The grandson had been inspired by his grandfather as a child to believe in the soul, he replied and had found truth in Paris. Valentina felt goosebumps travelling up her arms. It was the same situation she had had in Sorrento.

Valentina excused herself to the couple and spoke to them, telling them about the similarities between them.

The old man kissed her hand. It was a gentle kiss, respectful, slow, humble. She told him about Wu Chen and mentioned Sorrento, growing red in the face. And then, the young man sang "Torna a Sorriento" to, telling him he was an amateur singer. She applauded and mentioned that they had been listening to a Pavarotti recording of that song on the beach back with Wu Chen. It turned out to be the young man's favorite song. And there was a connection and an exchange of numbers. And Valentina realized from where the peace had come. The shame she had felt from not spending time with her family and talking with the Chinese man was not there anymore. The screams of her family dwindled into obscurity and only the good stuff remained.

As the two men left, she contemplated how well the universe worked. Like an intricate yet simple machine. There she sat, thinking of how she hated shallow people and promptly a reason for depth emerged.

The shallow couple was still there, discussing fashion. And Valentina now knew why she did not understand modern people or they her. Her heart was wider than the universe.

And suddenly the answer why she had become a raging neurotic was there. It appeared like a fog lifting, revealing a clear picture. Not clogged up by fear. That one last sip of her third latte macchiato lingered on her tongue like a cloud on the blue sky. The neurosis, the attacks on what mattered to her was fear. The pressure others had pushed on her. Fear of things that would never happen. Empty threats. So, because other people in her life had lived in the panic of the future, holding on to the past, she had to. The mental loop was there, a kind of mambo with herself. Her inner Che and Evita went back, forth, side, side, up, down in an endless loop.

She wondered why some people would be satisfied with the superficial. She was no less good looking than the girl over there. Why was she not satisfied with make up, clothes and chatter? Her soul had seen the light. And souls who see the light become the light. A part of her belonged to eternity.

Then and there, she decided to return to Sorrento. It had been too long.

***

Lea: "Dream A Little Dream"

Illusive. She could not describe it differently. It wasn't necessarily the fabric of the dream that mattered, but the feeling of it. The fact that she had the capacity to dream lucid dreams was a wonderful bonus. She touched the furniture, felt the kisses in the dream, felt the sun against her face, could even choose which path to take. It felt like a little vacation. Lucid dreaming was normal to her. Always had been. Even as a kid, she thought everyone dreamt lucid dreams. When her friends told her they had never even heard of being able to control dreams, she began realizing she was special. At least in that respect.

A vast bay. A mountain. A quaint inner city. A Basilica with the statue of a saint.

A church with a long middle ship with white and gold decorations, walls and pillars. The seats were brown and the flowers in the big pot were white. Her boyfriend in the dream was Francesco, a muscular man with a cleft chin, sort of like that old star Tyrone Power. But he was soft spoken and very respectful. They ended up kissing under the moon, the lights from the city reflecting in the waves of the sea, mingling with the moon. It was dreamy. Wet kisses. Warm like hot honey.

Lea woke up snuggling with her bunny Alfred. She felt exhilarated. A feeling of returning home. The ocean. The coast. The church. The only problem was that she had no idea where this place was. Nor why she felt so at home there.

So, while drinking coffee in her small alcove, painting her toenails, she tried to remember other things about the dream. Italy. South coast. A mountain. A man. A white church. She knew she had never been there and yet it seemed familiar.

So, showering and putting on her red blouse for the café and her white pants, she decided that this was a real city. Not a fictitious one. Only that her hair was not red like now. It was black, her complexion nougat. In this life, she had dyed her blonde hair an orange-red color as sexy as the sun as one of her colleagues at the café, Ruby, put it. Her parents found it pretty, although her Mom was apprehensive.

So, Lea munched on her bun with jam, going through every Italian town or place by the bay or the water she knew. Genova? Civitaveccia? Sardinia? Rimini? No thought was complete. The fruit seller on the corner was familiarly cute with her. Even the barber smiled and winked. The policeman that walked the streets to check on the cars bowed. All these men had told her she looked like an artwork, but she knew they only wanted to get her into bed. After her last relationship broke, finding Billy in bed with their Yoga teacher, she decided she wanted no man for a while, especially after Billy told her he wanted to find out if anybody could be better than her in bed and that he had been wrong.

Serving capuccinos for three straight hours can be exhausting, Lea thought to herself, walking back and forth between counter and pateo, kitchen and balcony, coffee machine and windows. Twenty thousand steps, easy. The playful banter with Ruby helped. Whenever some slippery dude came along they would blurt out some sardonic comment and if their boss in the background behaved badly one of them would claim to own the place and fire him. Lea's mother came in her lunch hour, ordering her customary fish and chips, although Lea advised her that this dish was frozen microwaved goods. She liked it, though. Mom worried that Lea was seeing the wrong sort of men. What about the young caretaker in the Anglican church? He sang for a living. He was Italian and had just arrived from Sorrento. Wouldn't that be a catch? They could sing duets. Lea smiled and shrugged, hoping Mom would actually leave soon. Yes, Lea was auditioning for the Academy, but there was no way of knowing if she would get in. That old feeling returned in her chest of Mom trying to control her, so she served her the cake and left for the next customer. As she entered the inside of the café, that Spotify mix of Rat Pack songs that her boss loved. "Fly Me to the Moon" ended just as "Come Back to Sorrento" began. She had heard that mix a million times, so it was hard to say why it had this effect on her.

Sorrento. What was it about Sorrento? Why Sorrento? Ruby dashed by with a late, winking at her, realizing Lea was in one of her dazes. The crowd was loud, but Lea was in another world.

It was hard to say why, but she stopped in her tracks. A feeling, nothing more. She felt as if she had entered a room where air had not circulated for years and years and where now suddenly the windows and doors had been opened. There was no reason for the feeling. Her Mom had mentioned this dude from Sorrento that was the caretaker of the church and suddenly a minute later a song about the city was playing when she walked into the café.

Ruby passed by Lea with an empty tray now, stopped next to her for one moment, raising her eyebrows. She waited, shrugging. "You alright?"

Lea shook her head. "You said something yesterday about synchronicities."

Ruby nodded. "The shrink Carl Gustav Jung said when two unusual events come together, it means something. The main factor of the synchronicity is the side." Ruby laughed. "You're having a synchronicity?"

"I've never heard of Sorrento and now within a minute, I encounter it twice," Lea smiled, grabbing a second latte macchiato and a cake.

"Table five," Ruby nodded, pursing her lips. "The universe wants to tell you something."

Ruby didn't hear her say it, but she said as she carried the goods out: "The question is what."

Work was boring to a degree for about two hours and Lea would have forgotten about the incident had it not been for one man who appeared just before her shift was over. One last customer, she thought to herself, and walked behind the counter to cash another old lady's order. Her feet felt like beaten tiny wrestlers. Knowing that she had a singing lesson and an acting lesson this evening didn't make it better. As she handed the lady her return cash, getting a sweet "Keep the change," she let her eyes drift across the market place. Pret-A-Manger? Wholefoods? That sounded good.

"Excuse me, Miss," a man said in a slightly Mediterranean accent. "Do you have a restroom?"

Lea nodded. "To the right down the hall."

The man smiled, flashing what had to be bleached teeth. Okay, Lea admitted it. The guy was handsome. His muscular chest and sweet smile. Ruby gave her a knowing look. Lea shook her head. Ruby waved at her and she knew what that meant. Lea gave her the "No-no"-finger and Ruby that meant Billy.

The Mediterranean man returned from the men's room, flashing his ivories again and Lea couldn't help getting the heebie jeebies. "Anything else?"

"You have Irish coffee?"

She nodded. "I can make you one with extra cream," she said, "but it's three in the afternoon. You sure you want whiskey at this hour?"

He shrugged. "Just got off work."

"Ah," Lea agreed, "that's alright then."

While making the man his coffee, carefully taking the Tullamore Dew off the shelf, that feeling returned, as if this had a connection to her sensation before. Wouldn't it be crazy if ... No. No way. Too nuts.

"There you go."

He sat down at the bar and had a sip. "Mmh. Good stuff. You know your way around an Irish coffee."

Lea grinned. "I've done my share of Irish Coffees." To hell with it, Lea thought, I'll say something. "So where do you work?"

Mr. Mediterranea drank another sip, foam landing on his upper lip, and gestured toward the big building across the market place. "I sell insurance, but just a part time gig. I wanted to try England after all that time back home."

"Where's home?"

Please don't say Sorrento, Lea thought.

"South Italy."

Okay. Maybe not.

Lea poured another coffee, normal this time, and handed it to Ruby.

"Sorrento," the man added and Ruby coughed, hiding a laugh. The man looked over and gave her a surprising look. "Can I help you?"

Ruby waffled back and forth, not knowing what to say. She shook her head, gesturing toward Lea. The man looked over at Lea. "Did I fart?"

Lea laughed. It was more a hidden snore, but it was in the giggle category. "Sorrento has been in the conversation today. Twice within a minute."

"Wait a minute," the man said with a surprising grin, "don't tell me you're Lea?"

Lea gestured toward her name tag. "That's what Mom calls me."

"Oh, yes. Right. Luigi Calvarone. I work weekends at the church."

They shook hands. Now Lea noticed his strong handshake. He must have been thirty or something.

"Your mother thinks the world of you."

Lea smiled. "She thinks I am already a star, but I barely have started singing. I mean, look at me. Waitress. You know what I mean?"

Luigi shook his head. "Lady Gaga started out as a waitress and look at her."

"She also has a diploma as a concert pianist." Change of subject. "So, what's Sorrento like?"

Luigi raved. "Oh, wonderful. By the bay close to Naples overlooking the Vesuvio mountain. Beautiful church with golden and white pillars."

The reaction was like a flash out of the blue. The dream. By Jove, the dream. The church. Lea must've looked like a zombie.

"Did I fart again?" Luigi joked.

Little sweatdrops broke out onto her forehead. "No, no, no. It's just ..."

Her boss passed from behind her out of the kitchen. "You can leave now, Lea."

Lea nodded, confused. "Thanks, Jeff."

Jeff smiled, noticing her drowsiness, but moved on.

"I dreamt about the city last night," she began. She sighed. "I've never been a girl that thought about signs much, but this is the forth thing in a day."

Luigi Calvarone sat in silence, slowly and solemnly drinking his whiskey added caffeine. He must've noticed Lea's tension, so he tried to loosen things up.

"If the universe tells you something, it means you have friends in high places."

Lea looked up. She cocked her head, thinking about it. Darned, Luigi was right. She hadn't thought of that.

"Who knows?" Luigi added. "Maybe the dream means something good. Perhaps you lived a life there a long time ago."

Lea shrugged, taking off her apron. "The dream indicated as much."

"Then it's time you found out."

"You're not planning this are you?" Lea joked, signing her dates in the workbook.

"I don't nestle myself into people's dreams," he said. "I am not Harry Potter ... yet."

"But maybe you have a magic wand," Lea smiled.

"Made of elderberry," Luigi laughed.

"I am not used to being this outspoken," Lea added, red in the face.

"I am leaving for Sorrento in June to see my parents," Luigi shrugged. "Maybe you want to see if it is the same church. Then you really were a citizen of Sorrento in a previous life.

Ruby, who passed her that instant, carrying a club sandwich to a table, gave her the thumbs up.

"Sounds good," she said.

Luigi's pouting lips and handsome smile sent shivers down her spine. It was the first time she had felt anything for a man since Billy and it actually felt good.

Just then, on the Café Spotify Playlist, Mama Cass was singing "Dream A Little Dream" and between the sheets later she certainly did.

She pondered over the pressure she felt as to how to be, what to do, how to behave, be a woman, say the right thing, be what others expected her to be. In her mind, she dreamt of being able to live just like she wanted to without  having to pretend. Maybe in Sorrento she would find that dream.

***

Laila: "Eye of the Tiger"

As far as staying focused was concerned, sitting at the breakfast table alone with her four siblings alone was training. Raoul's incessant whining, Luisa's fiery temper, Antonio's constant splurting of bad jokes, Salvador's haughty attitude. In his world, he was the oldest and best. He was finished with school. He was looking for a university. He was holding a job at a fishing shop. He made it sound like he was the king of the world. All of the hubbub made her feel as if she were a gladiator in an arena.

She often looked at her Mom, screaming at everyone in her deep Malaga dialect.

"Estas un mijilla chalao, Raoul. Comerse."

"You are a little crazy, Raoul. Eat up."

Mijilla and Chalao were pure Malaga words. No other city in Andalusia or Spain, for that matter, said that.

Laila saw her Mom as a bullfighter, cornering six bulls at the same time.

Laila's father Pedro sat at the breakfast table quietly, flashing Laila a smile. "Eres mi favorito. Lo harás bien," It was nice of him to say she was his favorite and she was doing well. That meant a lot. Somehow, with all of the hubbub in the Encinares home, her father Pedro and her were the only sane people. When the others threw food and screamed, they looked at each other and smiled knowingly. Their solemn walks along the countryside river or the Malaga harbor were moments of splendor. It was father and daughter, okay, but most of all two friends. Almost as if they were one soul. Laila would take him to the boxing center and he would look at her and the opponents while they practiced. Pedro was a heavy man and his brain was a machine. Cars was his thing. That was his job. But looking at Laila practice her boxing was a revelation. He was impressed. Laila was the only one who reached the depths of his soul, as if she had access to the deepest parts of his spirit.

Sometimes, Laila would look over at him during tournaments and realize that her skills at boxing actually came from that will to focus. Boxing was not about agression. It was about concentration. Returning to herself. Most matches were quiet and her sparring partner tried to protect himself or herself just like she did and afterwards they sat in the club café and spoke of life. Her father was there, too, and he gazed at her with so much admiration that she just had to smile back.

They both needed each other.

All thru every one of these training sessions, the song "Eye of the Tiger" ran through her head. She knew the spirit guide of the tiger was an animal that was there to give the soul self-confidence. Something she lacked at home with five chattering Andalusians. Maybe that was the meaning of her interest. Developing strength. Finding her place. Laila knew that her interest was all about her own inner strength and so she said she never wanted to become a professional champion. All she wanted was to become the independent and courageous woman her mother was.

It was a sunny day in May when a new sparring partner came to the club. He was a gentle guy with a very strong backhand. His fast returns gave her a reason to jump to the side and work on her protection. That fascinated her and so she asked him where he had learned that. "Sorrento, my hometown," he answered, "I am just here to visit. I work as a church organist in the Basilica di San Antonio."

Laila gaped with an open mouth, like one of those Disney heroines seeing magic for the first time. "A church organist that also trains as a boxer. Is that possible?"

The man nodded, shrugging  "Come over to Sorrento and hear me play. I have noon concerts every Saturday."

As father and daughter strolled home along the harbor, Pedro told his daughter he had spent his greatest time there as a young man. In Sorrento, he had worked as a car mechanic in a workshop obviously run by the Camorra mafia. He had not mingled with the bosses, they paid him and that was it. His girlfriend at the time had asked him to stop working there, but his pay was so good that he stayed, calming her down with jewelry and perfume. His old Fiat took him home on a regular basis to their flat. But when Pietro, the boss, got caught for embezzling money, the shop was closed and his girlfriend dumped him. That directly led him to move back to Malaga and get him his job at Torremolinos, where Rosita's father came and fixed his cars. Rosita caught Pedro's eye and they married that July. Five children later, here they were.

The story fascinated Laila so much that she, then and there, invited her father to travel with her to Sorrento to hear Paolo, her temporary sparring partner, play the works of Bach and Lully. And Pedro happily accepted.

***

Saphira: "Liberian Girl"

She stopped moving once the noise grew stronger. He was hammering on something. Either he was taking something frozen from the freezer and banging on the kitchen sink to loosen it up or he was actually banging with his fists on the stove. Whatever it was, Saphira'd had enough. She sat very still on the toilet, waiting for him to stop banging. There was no screaming anymore. Just banging. Saphira supposed he had screamed himself hoarse after all the loud accusations he had belted out. She did this wrong, did that wrong, cooked this too slow, burned that dish, left the beds unmade, whatever. What was she supposed to do? He came home stone drunk from work, which made her wonder if they drank the whole day at work. It was building site, right? Was that allowed?

Eloé slept. Thank God. Wouldn't want her to hear this. Finally, Saphira had held her ears while Roberto screamed. Now, she had locked herself in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet. She looked over at her baby girl, so sweet, so wonderful, looking like a little nougat angel. Amazing, she thought to herself, how baby girls just make you want to sing. How wondrous was life.

Saphira looked out of the window onto the bay. The water was tranquil. More tranquil than Roberto. But it was quiet out there. No banging now. Just moaning. She knew him. Soon enough, he would be on his knees, begging for forgiveness. She would tell him no. He would beg more. But this time, she couldn't. This time, she was taking the train to her sister and staying there.

"Saphira?"

Oh, dear. The sad voice. Borderline. This rollercoaster ride just wasn't possible for her to take anymore.

"Where are you?"

She could not answer. She would not answer. She clutched even tighter to Eloé, who snored against her bosom. That was the only comfort. Seeing her little baby daughter sleeping so quietly.

"Saphira?"

A little pause. She knew what was coming next. It was almost funny.

"I'm sorry."

"No."

The fact that she dared to say no was a revelation. A miracle.

"I am calling the police and my lawyer. I want a divorce."

There was a loud moaning. A very sad sort of groan. No banging, though. Saphira waited, looking toward the door. It was as if the door was some magical portal, somehow. A gateway to a new world. A place where fear met the future and love met hope.

"Saphira," he mumbled, "I am an alcoholic. I messed up."

"Tell that to Eloé. You are lucky she did not suffer too much from your screaming."

"I will go to AA. I promise. I will call them today."

Saphira shook her head, even though Roberto didn't see her. "You say that every time. And then, a week later you start screaming again."

He was moving closer to the door, his voice softening. "My boss mobs me. He calls me names and the other guys laugh because I get upset."

Saphira waited, her eyebrows lowering a bit. "What?"

He was standing by the bathroom door now, his head obviously resting again the frame.

"Why haven't you told me this before?"

He laughed. "I was afraid you would not see me as a man anymore. A loser. Someone to laugh at."

Saphira opened the door ever so slightly, her eyes meeting his. This was real remorse. He pursed his lips, shaking his head. "I am an asshole. I am sorry."

She strolled out of the bathroom through the hallway with the photo prints of tropical beaches past the kitchen into Eloé's bedroom. Carefully, she lay her into the crib, kissing her forehead. Pulling the string of Jiminy Cricket hanging over the baby's bed, she looked at the little baby turn, wondering how someone could be so calm after having witnessed hell ten minutes ago. The cricket began singing "When You Wish Upon A Star" with the voice of Cliff Edwards, the original actor in the "Pinnochio" movie. It always made Eloé feel good, Saphira felt. So much love. So much love.

When Saphira turned around, Roberto stood there, still quiet, still pouting.

"Liberian girl," he began singing, "you came and you changed my world."

Saphira put up her finger and walked past him. "No. Don't do this. Not Michael. I am not even from Liberia. I am Nigerian. And you can sing it to your next girlfriend."

"But you like the song," he continued, gazing at her as she picked up the suitcase, throwing in pants and shirts.

She turned around and faced him. "How do you expect me to stay with you in this rollercoaster ride? I never know when your weird temper will strike again. I feel like I am living with two people."

Saphira gazed at the man she had been living with now for so long. The rollercoaster ride was inside his heart. He couldn't help being the rollercoaster ride. If he wanted to exit that ride, he would have to step out of the ride and ride another ride. Maybe at some point in time, he had been riding another ride. Maybe he had been another person as a child. But now it was all mayhem and bad manners. Causing trouble and then calming her down long enough to cause trouble again.

Saphira continued to pack her bags, went to the kitchen to get the extra money she knew was hers. As soon as she did that, her husband sank down on the largest kitchen chair, the one that did not fit with any of the other ones, the one that they had gotten from the flea market for less than a gallon milk just because they needed an extra chair for guests, if there ever were any. He lay his head on the stained table and breathed heavily.

With Eloé on her arm, she walked out and lay her in the crib, picking together a second bag with her essentials. Her favorite clothes were put on and her favorite stuffed panda "Bloopers". When Saphira returned, her husband was still face down on the table. She knew what would happen if she stayed. He would go hog-wild, blaming her for trying to leave.

When she stood outside on the street, she smiled to herself. "Goodbye, Roberto. I'm going back to Sorrento."

Her old car smelled of tobacco, but in her heart the sun was shining. She was going home.

***

Olivia: "Hopelessly Devoted to You"

Olivia looked nothing like Newton-John. In fact, she was neither thin nor blonde nor was she particularly cute. She had not become a singer and she didn't even like musical theater. Nor was she thin.

A few things they had in common, though. Both were women. Both were mothers and both were philosophical. At least, that was what her mother had told her her namesake had been. Olivia had become buddhist. Vegan. Philanthropist. Cancer advocate. Friend of the needy. So in that sense, the star was a good role model.

Her mother had wanted her to love the hits. "Banks of the Ohio". "Physical". "Summer Nights". Olivia had to tell her Mom that this wasn't her music. But as soon as she got her own apartment, she began researching Olivia Newton-John's amazing depth and that was when the respect kicked in. Okay, country wasn't her music. Sweet pop and film melodies neither. Beyond the looks and candy melodies, though, the star really tried to break through the barrier of sugar sweet perfume and be regarded as a person first.

Olivia Harper looked at the photo in her hand. She had been three years old at the time. A squirt. That was her father's nickname for her. Dressed up in the outfit of her namesake from the early days. But good old Mom had thought the daughter could become a second Newton-John.

The buzzer sounded cranky, like the hoarse voice of a senior citizen before coffee time. "M'am?"

"Yes, Deirdre?"

"Your husband's here."

"Send him in."

Olivia let go of the buzzer and looked out across the skyline. It was a breathtaking view. A small firm with just a few employees managing the selling of houses. But who could say they had a view like this? As a private person, she had none of the strength she had professionally. The thought that criss-crossed her head was clear. Scary, but clear. Olivia sighed, putting her manicured fingernail into her mouth. But was it scary, though? She knew it was the problem. If she knew, then she had solved it, right?

The oak door opened, leaving the view clear over her secretary typing sales into her computer. "Hi, babe," Kevin sang. "How ya doing?"

"Ready for some jazz," she smiled. "When does the show start?"

"Seven."

Kevin kissed her.

"I'm all made up, so we can have a snack in the café beforehand."

She stood up and smiled, rather thoughtfully, but somewhat strenuously trying to seem happy.

Kevin noticed it and returned his melancholic smile. "Something is on your mind."

He looked down on the photo. He felt her mood had something to do with it. It was in the way she clutched it. She nodded. "My mother wanted me to be her. She never made it as pop star and so she projected it on me."

Carefully, Kevin took the photo, seeing his wife as the chubby Sandy-lookalike in her dress, looking very strained, her mother behind her, looking like a frightened manager. "Trust. Your Mom lacked it and projected it on you."

Olivia had been frightened all of her life to do the wrong thing. As if the code to a happy life was being what her mother hadn't become.

"It's all up here, Leevee," Kevin said, pointing at her head, "and you can make your own decisions."

"Funny, though, how successful a person can become professionally and how messed up privately."

Kevin shook his head, walking to the window, looking out across the landscape. "Your parents taught you to be scared, but only because they didn't trust you to take care of yourself."

Olivia remembered her mother always telling her what to wear at those shows, how to move, panicking if she did something wrong.

"It's time to go home."

"Where's home, Leevee?"

She pointed at her heart. "I remember a show we had in Sorrento, just because we had a vacation there and they had a vintage musical show by the bay, she made sure I performed 'Hopelessly Devoted to You' and it was hell. I want to return to Sorrento to create good memories."

Kevin embraced his wife as they looked out across the cityscape of Dallas skyscrapers. "You know the show is called 'Come Back to Sorrento' tonight, don't you?"

Olivia nodded. "I know. And it feels like it's time to start trusting."

And Kevin's kiss tasted positively Mediterranean.

Valentina, a young literature and art student in Sorbonne, returned to Sorrento to heal a childhood quarrel with her parents. Lea, a waitress in London, returned to Sorrento with her new boyfriend because of a dream. Laila, a female boxer from Spain went to Sorrento with her sparring partner to see the church where he played the organ. Saphira broke up with her boyfriend to return to Sorrento, where her father still lived. Olivia returned to Sorrento with her husband to recreate old memories.

All five of them followed a inner calling that led them to the Basilica of St. Anthony, the patron of lost causes.

What they found was a miracle.

***

To be continued in

"Five Women: Rewriting the Stars"

***