Page 5 of Nantucket Reflections
“All in good time, darlings,” CAT said coyly. “First, I’d like to talk about my ethos. My raison d’être, so to speak. I’d like to tell you that I got into this because I have a real political message, a real heart.”
But as this so-called CAT made her speech, Julia’s and Nicole’s phones exploded with more messages, more people saying that they knew the “real” CAT and that this CAT wasn’t it. But how could they possibly know? Hadn’t the world spent years speculating and not knowing the real CAT’s name? Julia’s head was reeling. Did she really want to risk ripping this woman off stage and accusing her of not being who she said she was? Did she really want to risk that kind of litigation? Oh, she wished attorney Susan Sheridan were here.
“What should we do?” Julia whispered to Nicole.
That was when they both realized that people were leaving the party. This “CAT” was going on and on about herself, bragging about her message and her mission and how much better of an artist she was than everyone else, and her “fans” were not having it. This arrogance was not what they had in mind. Julia checked social media to see that people were already posting about it, saying, “when CAT is an impostor, you get out of the book party and back to the bar,” “are you hearing this? I always thought she stood up for something I believed in,” and “I will be canceling my preorder and demanding my money back.” Actually, plenty of people were saying they were canceling their preorders. They were even demonizing Julia’s publishing house, saying that it was clear they’d found a fraud, someone to stand up as CAT. They were sure that the so-called “memoir” would be a terrible waste of time. They even said that it was Julia Copperfield’s idea to find that very fraud and make a profit, when, in actuality, this woman had found Julia’s publishing house herself!
But hadn’t it been fishy? Julia reminded herself. Hadn’t she thought—why me?But then, she’d gotten so excited and found herself on the ride of a lifetime. Now, it was all blowing up in her face.
Julia crumpled to the ground with surprise. Already, more than a quarter of the guests had left, with the rest either hanging on CAT’s every word or staying to see what happened next, like this was a circus rather than a literary event. Julia had thought this would be the biggest event in her publishing house’s brief and up-and-down life. Instead, it was a disaster.
Soon, the woman who called herself CAT was howling at the people leaving. “You can’t take my message, can you? You can’t wrap your mind around it! It’s too much for you! You think I should hide myself away, that I take my message elsewhere. Don’t you? You Americans are so weak! I don’t know why I ever leave Europe.”
Julia and Nicole gestured to Tina, telling her that the so-called CAT needed to be taken off stage immediately. Tina mouthed, “Already on it.” A guard hurried out onto the stage to take the woman’s arm gently and whisper in her ear. But of course, the woman on stage was enraged at this, howling into the microphone, “Look! They’re trying to silence me! Isn’t that reason enough to believe I’m CAT?” But people in the audience were booing her and turning away. Very soon, the guard was able to coax her off the stage, where she stormed back into the dressing room and slammed the door behind her. Julia couldn’t believe it. She stared at the door, her head pounding.
It was then she realized Charlie and the rest of her family were backstage as well, watching her helplessly, wanting to help out. But what could they possibly do? Nicole and Tina were in ultimate crisis-management mode, whipping around the venue to ensure everyone was out. In horror, Julia noticed a massive stack of preorders on the table to the left of the stage, where CAT was supposed to conduct book signings and meet and greets. Would she have to return all those preorders?
Suddenly, she collapsed in Charlie’s arms and shook violently. All she saw in the back of her mind was numbers—all the money she was about to lose. Her family surrounded her, wordless. But before she lost full control of herself, she gestured for two of the security people to stand outside of the so-called CAT’s dressing room. “Don’t let her go,” she said. “I need to talk to her.” She couldn’t let her escape—and for this reason, she felt like a villain.
But if “CAT” was really a fraud, a mocker, and in this for the money, Julia needed to know how far back this went. She needed to know how much of the memoir was true. She needed to know why Julia’s publishing house had been used, rather than any other tiny ones. There was so much she didn’t know.
ChapterFour
Later Summer 2015
Positano
The fact that Alessandra was going back to chemotherapy felt monstrous. Already she’d gone through three rounds—three! Since her diagnosis two years ago, she’d thrown up everything she could throw up, she’d lost every ounce of her beautiful, dark hair, and she’d slept through what felt like the better part of the past couple of years. She’d missed so much of living that she wasn’t sure what it was she was trying to live for. Not that she wanted to bring it up, but she and Federico hadn’t had sex in forever, it felt like. And despite all that pain, all that “fighting,” Alessandra couldn’t get rid of her cancer. No, she didn’t like to put it like that. She didn’t like to think of it as her fault, like she just hadn’t vacuumed her cancerous cells hard enough, hadn’t scrubbed her insides well enough to get rid of it. This cancer wasn’t her fault. (Wasn’t it? She was beginning to feel unsure.)
The Saturday before Monday’s first chemotherapy session (first of the third round), Alessandra and Federico were invited to a wedding in downtown Positano, at the white catholic church overlooking the glorious ocean. Alessandra, who’d grown back a tight black haircut and grown stronger this summer, despite the cancer that was eating her from the inside, looked pretty good in her dark green dress, if she said so herself. As they entered the church for the ceremony, Federico, in his suit, heads turned, and family members and old friends smiled. Alessandra wanted to believe that they were smiling about her outfit, about how cute she looked. But a sinking feeling in her gut told her that wasn’t true—that in fact they were smiling because they thought she would die soon. She scowled back at them and sat down. Cancer didn’t make anyone nicer.
The wedding was between Alessandra’s little cousin Maria and a handsome American man who’d been vacationing here two years ago and never left. This made Alessandra roll her eyes. But the fact that Zane, as he was called, had learned Italian so quickly and had converted to Catholicism for Maria, forced Alessandra to cut him some slack. He was a good guy. Everyone in the family liked him.
The reception was held at a restaurant not far from Alessandra’s first mural, which she’d made three weeks ago, and before she’d learned that the cancer was still here, that it had never really left. It made it feel like the mural had another artist, someone braver and stronger than she. From the railing overlooking the water, she could almost see all of it, almost make out the drama of the lines and the big CAT written in the corner. She knew that it had caused a stir, both in Positano and online, and that people were tagging themselves in photographs next to it. There had been a few articles by various news sites, asking who CAT was, what her deal was, and who she might be. A few people called her the “next Banksy.” A few others said, “Is this Banksy doing a different style?” It felt typical that they were trying to give more credit to a man.
Alessandra’s grandfather Tomasso approached with a glass of red wine and a kind smile. Together, they hovered over the railing and talked about the bride, the American groom, the food, which her grandfather thought “could be better.” Alessandra found herself giggling, if only for a moment.
And then her grandfather’s eyes found the mural across the way. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, sounding mystical.
Alessandra was surprised. She hadn’t heard any of her family members bring up the mural, and she’d been so swept up in her new (old) diagnosis to care what others in Positano were saying.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Oh yes. That person is brave,” her grandfather said. “You know, there is too much tourism. There is too much of the other here. We have lost our identity. We have given it away.”
Alessandra filled her lungs. “Who do you think did it?”
“A true artist,” her grandfather said. But nothing in his tone suggested he knew it was her.
Alessandra took the opportunity of this night to dance as hard and as fast as she could. Through the night, she jumped up and down, she threw her hands in the air, and she took many more sips of alcohol than she should, given the fact that it usually exhausted her to the point of needing to sleep for many days at a time. When sunlight draped its way across the water, her heart pounded in her throat, and she kissed Federico hard.
“Baby, it’s going to be okay,” he told her, his eyes unfocused, his lips soft. “I love you so much. You’re going to get through this.”
“Stop saying that!” Alessandra cried. “You don’t know that!” But she didn’t want to lose the adrenaline of the night, so she kissed him again.
They took a taxi home and collapsed onto the bed, where they rolled around before falling asleep. It had been ages since Alessandra had let herself sleep, fully sleep, next to her love, and it felt incredible to wake up beside him a few hours later, still exhausted but with a heart full of gladness. He kissed her and got up to prepare things for the morning: coffee and running down the street for cornettos.
She knew he wanted to have a beautiful last day, that he wanted everything to be perfect for this final day before round three of chemo. But by four that afternoon, she’d begun to hate how false it felt, how fake his smiles seemed, how performative it all was. By the time Federico collapsed in bed around ten thirty, she knew she had to do something else with her final day—something entirely for herself.
