Page 69 of Take Me Under

“You look thin,” she said, her brows creasing. “Did you not eat while you were in New York? Americans and their terrible food.”

“I ate plenty, Mamma.” I hated to lie. But if I told her the truth, that would require more explanation than I was ready to give. I’d had plenty to eat while I was in New York, although I’d skipped a few meals when I was sick. When I got back to Italy, money stress had robbed me of my appetite, and I’d eaten very little over the past week. I wasn’t sure how much weight I’d lost, but my clothes were fitting a tiny bit looser.

She waved me inside, chattering as she led me through the familiar hallway.

“Tell me about New York. Did you make time for yourself while you were there? Did you go to any of the museums? Did you meet anyone interesting?”

I hesitated, placing my bag by the door. I understood what she was asking in not so many words. She knew why my trip to the United States was important, and she wanted to know if I got the funding for the dig.

“It was…busy,” I said, keeping my tone vague. I wasn’t ready to talk about Anton, or how I’d gotten the money I needed. “I’m still trying to sort through things. There are a lot of decisions to make and things to do now that I’m home. It will be abit before I head back to Rome. The permits expired, although I managed to get a temporary fourteen-day extension before I left Rome today.”

“So you plan on continuing?”

I looked away, not sure if I was ready to admit the truth to her. My mother had supported my father, and she understood why I wanted to continue his search. She’d been there and had heard the promise I made. However, if I didn’t succeed, I was certain she wouldn’t be disappointed. As encouraging as she was, my mother would have liked to see me follow a different path—one that didn’t include chasing ghosts.

“I’m not sure, Mamma,” I finally said quietly.

“I see. How long do you think you’ll be home?”

I smiled, knowing she’d be happy to learn I was back for more than my usual weekend.

“Funding to continue work is on the way, but I still have to get that sorted out. I’ll be home for couple of weeks at least.”

“Wonderful! You’ll have time to relax. Maybe create some new glass pieces? And there is so much happening in town this week! Did you know the festival starts tomorrow? Oh, and theMercato Antiquariois back. You must go—it’s the best one yet!”

I smiled again as she rattled on about her findings at the antique market. As she continued, I walked to the small desk in the corner of the living room where she usually piled the mail that came for me while I was away. I started sorting through it, separating bills from junk, while she recounted the latest town gossip.

Halfway through the stack, I came across an envelope with the insignia of a gallery in Florence. My pulse quickened as I opened it. Inside was a check—the payment for my last set of blown glass pieces—and a letter.

I scanned the words quickly. They were requesting more work, praising my craftsmanship and asking if I could createadditional pieces for their upcoming exhibit. Relief washed over me.

“Good news?” my mother asked, pausing her monologue to peer over at me.

“Great news,” I said, smiling. “The gallery in Florence wants more glasswork. It’s been a rough few months. This will really help me get caught up.”

“Che meraviglia!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “You are so talented, Serena. Your father would be proud.”

Her words made my chest tighten. We both knew proud wasn’t the right word. While he appreciated my talent, he saw it as a hobby. If I ever spent too much time in my workshop, he’d tell me I was wasting opportunities, saying my time would be better spent digging in the field.

“I’m going to head upstairs to unpack a few things, Mamma.”

“Go, go. I’ve just finished prepping thefiocchetti. I’ll wait to do the rest until you come down.”

“I shouldn’t be long,” I said, leaning in to hug her. “I’m so happy to be home. I missed you.”

Stepping away, I grabbed my duffle bag and headed upstairs.

The floor creaked beneath my feet as I pushed open the door to my old bedroom. The scent of lavender and vanilla sachets hit me first. It was faint but familiar, as if the ghost of my teenage self still lingered in the air. Nothing had really changed much since then. The walls were still painted that pale yellow I’d insisted on when I was fourteen, a color I’d declared sunshine chic, but now just seemed tired and faded.

My bed sat against the far wall, its iron frame slightly bent from so many international moves. The floral quilt my mother had sewn was still draped over it, a patchwork of soft pinks, yellows, and greens. I ran my hand over it as I passed, fingers catching on a tear near the corner. A mismatched assortment ofpillows sat haphazardly at the headboard, looking more decorative than inviting.

The shelves above the desk were cluttered with relics of a past life. Dusty trophies from school debates, a lopsided clay pot I’d made in art class, and a row of paperback novels with cracked spines still occupied the wooden ledges. My collection of Cleopatra biographies stood out, their worn covers a reminder of my fascination with the queen ever since I was a little kid. Back then, she’d seemed untouchable—powerful and untamed. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

This room belonged to a girl who used to scribble hieroglyphs in her notebooks and dream about becoming an archaeologist. I barely recognized that person anymore. Somewhere along the way, I’d gotten lost. While I hadn’t lost sight of the goal, I also didn’t know where I belonged anymore.

I set the duffle on the bed and unzipped it, the sound harsh in the quiet room, and started unpacking. As I folded my shirts, I noticed they smelled faintly of Rome—clean, yet a mix of dust and stone clung to them. I stacked them in the narrow dresser that bore scratches from years of slamming its drawers shut.

I caught sight of the corkboard above the desk, its corners still dotted with faded pushpins. Pictures of old friends—some smiling, some mid-laugh—stared back at me, their edges yellowing and curled from age. A photo of me with my parents stood out in the center. It was taken on my final day of secondary school, right after we’d moved into this house. We were standing by the front gate, my father’s arm draped protectively around my shoulders. I looked so young, so sure of myself.

---