Siracusa by Delia Ephron

usually orders her food from Butterman’s Specialty Gourmet. She has an account. They take phone orders and deliver. Perhaps since my dad left—“escaped” is the word Finn uses, and I have told him never to use it in front of Snow, who adores her grandmother . . . since my dad left, my mother must be expanding, trying all kinds of new things. However, I can’t imagine her pushing a grocery cart or carrying one of those baskets up and down aisles or toting her purchases home in a plastic sack. Heaven forfend, to use her expression. I can’t imagine her sorting through onions or selecting apples. That’s difficult, by the way, figuring out which apples are crisp and notmealy. That’s something I could help her with. Perhaps she compared yogurts for fat content. Whenever she sees me she pinches my waist. Sometimes Snow’s too. Luggage, she calls it. “Are you carrying any luggage?” While we were in Italy, she was stuck on a couch with her leg elevated. Her ankle hadn’t healed properly and she had to have surgery. I might be on a verbal detour but that makes me laugh because, talk about a detour, Finn ducked into a gift from heaven, a stone archway where we were quite hidden. I had to hug Finn; he was a hero. I completely forgot how wet he was, and I got soaked too. That made me laugh so hard it was painful.
    “Snow, for goodness’ sakes, the Trevi Fountain is a national monument. What were you thinking?”
    She was back in a dream world, a glazed expression. That pretty pink top and her pleated polka dot skirt stuck to her skin; water trickled down her face. Her hair was matted, a snarly mess. She appeared neither to know nor care.
    “Do you think I am an actress?” she said in her whispery voice.
    “I think you’re wet.”
    “Do you think I am an actress?” she said again.
    I turned because she didn’t appear to be speaking to me. I thought perhaps someone was behind me, someone just over my left shoulder, but no one was there.
    “You can be an actress, Snow. When you grow up, you can be whatever you want.”
    We hustled her into a taxi. I felt guilty because I knew wewould soak the vinyl seats. Leaving something the way you found it has always seemed to me a rule to live by, but we had to take a taxi because we had no idea where we were. “Are you cold?” I asked Snow, patting her face with a tissue.
    Sometimes Snow responds with a click of her tongue. She did that now. I used to think it signaled contentment, but truly I don’t know. My daughter is mysterious, and one of the remarkable things about Snow is how inventively she relates. Finn calls it “the cluck.”
    We dripped through the lobby. Finn and I tried not to crack up, and Snow kept right by my side, her hand in mine. In spite of her shyness, I could see that she didn’t care about being judged. As a mother, that meant I’d done something right.
    “
Buonanotte,”
said Finn to everyone we passed.
    I was brushing my teeth when he came in and closed the door. I’m smiling as I write this but that’s all I’m saying because what happened next was private and the mirror wasn’t steamed from the heat we generated but it should have been.
    Afterward, when Finn was sitting on the tub, he said, “That was a line from
La Dolce Vita
.”
    “What was?”
    “That actress thing Snowy said.”
    “‘Do you think I am an actress?’”
    “Yep,” he said.
    “She was quoting?”
    “The wife of the man who killed himself.”
    “Good grief. Lizzie’s fault, I suppose. She must have told Snow.”
    “Michael’s.”
    “Honestly, Finn, you can’t imagine that Lizzie is responsible for anything. At dinner she said quite clearly how her father raised her on Chinese food, foreign films, and Gregory someone. Her dad’s favorite movie, she told me, was
La Dolce Vita
.”
    I went to bed irritated and Finn went out.

Finn
    T AY MAY HAVE DRESSED HER like a doll, talked for Snow like she was a ventriloquist’s dummy, but you can’t keep a Dolan