Waiting To Be Heard - A Memoir Part 8

As soon as she left, we downloaded the movie on his computer and sat on his bed to watch it. Around 8:30 P.M. I suddenly remembered that it was Thursday, one of my regular workdays. Quickly checking my phone, I saw that Patrick had sent me a text telling me I didn't have to come in. Since it was a holiday, he thought it would be a slow night.

"Okay," I texted back. "Ci vediamo piu tardi buona serata!"-"See you later. Have a good evening!" Then I turned off my phone, just in case he changed his mind and wanted me to come in after all. I was so excited to have the night off that I jumped on top of Raffaele, cheering, "Woo-hoo! Woo-hoo!"

Our good mood was only elevated when the doorbell rang again at 8:45 P.M.: Jovanna had come back, this time to say that the suitcase hadn't made the bus and that she didn't need a ride after all. With no more obligations, we had the whole rest of the night just to be with each other and chill out.

After the movie ended, around 9:15 P.M., we sauteed a piece of fish and made a simple salad. We were was.h.i.+ng the dishes when we realized that the kitchen sink was leaking. Raffaele, who'd already had a plumber come once, was frustrated and frantically tried to mop up a lot of water with a little rag. He ended up leaving a puddle.

"I'll bring the mop over from our house tomorrow. No big deal," I said.

Raffaele sat down at his desk and rolled a joint, and I climbed into his lap to read aloud to him from another Harry Potter book, this one in German. I translated the parts he didn't understand, as best I could, into Italian or English while we smoked and giggled.

Later, when we were in bed, our conversation wound its way to his mother. His dad had divorced her years before, but she'd never gotten over the break. In 2005 she had died suddenly. "Some people suspect she killed herself, but I'm positive she didn't," Raffaele said. "She would never do that. She had a bad heart, and it just gave out. It was horrible for me-we were really close-and I miss her all the time."

I felt terrible for him, but it was hard for me to relate. The only person I knew who had died was my grandfather, when I was sixteen. I felt sad when my mom told me, but my grandfather had been old and sick, and we had expected his death for a few weeks.

I'm sure Mom and Oma must have cried, but my strongest memory is sitting around the dining room table telling funny stories about Opa. My grandmother's message-that grieving was something you did in private; that you didn't make public displays and you kept on moving forward-had remained with me.

Hearing the pain in Raffaele's voice, I hurt for him. Nestling my head on his chest, I tried to be comforting.

As we started kissing, Raffaele gave me a hickey on my neck. We undressed the rest of the way, had s.e.x, and fell asleep.

We'd known each other for exactly one week and had settled so quickly into an easy routine that one night seemed to melt happily and indistinguishably into the one that came after.

We planned to break our routine the next day, All Souls' Day, by taking a long drive into the countryside, to the neighboring town of Gubbio. The November 2 holiday wasn't usually observed with as much fanfare as All Saints' Day, but since it fell on a Friday in 2007, a lot of people, including us, were turning it into a four-day weekend. I thought, Italians having a good time again. And I couldn't wait.

Chapter 6

Morning, November 2, 2007, Day One

On that cold, sunny Friday morning, I left Raffaele asleep in his apartment and walked home to take a shower and get my things together, thinking about our romantic weekend in the Umbrian hills. In hindsight, it seems that arriving home to find the front door open should have rattled me more. I thought, That's strange. But it was easily explained. The old latch didn't catch unless we used a key. Wind must have blown it open, I thought, and walked inside the house calling out, "Filomena? Laura? Meredith? h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Anybody?"

n.o.body. The bedroom doors were closed.

I wasn't alarmed by two pea-size flecks of blood in the bathroom sink that Meredith and I shared. There was another smear on the faucet. Weird. I'd gotten my ears pierced. Were they bleeding? I scratched the droplets with my fingernail. They were dry. Meredith must have nicked herself.

It wasn't until I got out of the shower that I noticed a reddish-brown splotch about the size of an orange on the bathmat. More blood. Could Meredith have started her period and dripped? But then, how would it have gotten on the sink? My confusion increased. We were usually so neat. I went to my room and, while putting on a white skirt and a blue sweater, thought about what to bring along on my trip to Gubbio with Raffaele.

I went to the big bathroom to use Filomena's blow dryer and was stas.h.i.+ng it back against the wall when I noticed p.o.o.p in the toilet. No one in the house would have left the toilet unflushed. Could there have been a stranger here? Was someone in the house when I was in the shower? I felt a lurch of panic and the p.r.i.c.kly feeling you get when you think someone might be watching you. I quickly grabbed my purse and coat and somehow remembered the mop I said I'd bring back to Raffaele's. I scrambled to push the key into the lock, making myself turn it before I ran up the driveway, my heart banging painfully.

By the time I was a block from home I was second-guessing myself. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe there was a simple reason for the toilet being unflushed. I needed someone to say, "Amanda, you're right to be scared. This isn't normal." And if it wasn't okay, I wanted someone to tell me what to do. My skittering brain pulled up my mom's mantra: when in doubt, call. Forgetting the nine-hour time difference between Perugia and Seattle, I pressed the number sequence for home. My mom did not say h.e.l.lo, just "Amanda, are you okay? What's wrong?" It was in the middle of the night in Seattle, and she was worried.

"I'm on my way back to Raffaele's," I said, "but I just wanted to check in. I found some strange things in my house." I explained my reasons for worrying. Then I asked, "What do you think I should do?"

"Call your roommates," she said. "Go tell Raffaele, and call me right back."

Hearing Mom's voice calmed me. It can't be that bad, I thought. I'm out of the house. Nothing happened. I'm safe. No one's in danger.

I called Filomena first and was relieved when she picked up.

"Ciao, Amanda," she said.

"Ciao," I said. "I'm calling because when I came home from Raffaele's this morning, our front door was open. I found a few drops of blood in one bathroom and s.h.i.+t in the other toilet. Do you know anything about it?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice instantaneously on high alert. "I didn't stay there last night-I was at Marco's-and Laura's in Rome on business. Have you talked to Meredith?"

"No, I tried you first," I said.

"I'm at the fair outside town," she said. "I just got here. Try Meredith, and then go back to the house. We need to see if anything was stolen." She sounded worried.

I called Meredith on her British phone. A recording said it was out of service. That struck me as odd. Then I pulled up Meredith's Italian number. It went straight to voice mail.

By that time, I was back at Raffaele's. He was in total vacation mode: he'd slept in and had just gotten out of the shower. I'd forgotten about our trip. "Hey," I said, trying to sound casual, "does this sound weird to you?" I told him what I'd seen.

"Yeah," he said. "We should definitely go over and look around."

Over a quick breakfast, Raffaele and I talked some more about what I'd seen. "Maybe the toilet is just broken," he said.

Even before we'd downed the last sips of our coffee, Filomena called back. "What do you see?" she demanded. Her panic was retriggering my own.

"Filomena," I said, as evenly as I could, "we're just leaving Raffaele's."

Ten minutes later, when we reached the villa, my stomach was knotted with dread. "What if someone was in here?" I said, feeling increasingly creeped out. Raffaele held my free hand while I unlocked the door. I yelled, "Is anyone here?"

At first nothing seemed amiss. The house was quiet, and the kitchen/living area was immaculate. I poked my head in Laura's room. It looked fine, too. Then I opened Filomena's door. I gasped. The window had been shattered and gla.s.s was everywhere. Clothes were heaped all over the bed and floor. The drawers and cabinets were open. All I could see was chaos. "Oh my G.o.d, someone broke in!" I shouted to Raffaele, who was right behind me. In the next instant, I spotted Filomena's laptop and digital camera sitting on the desk. I couldn't get my head around it. "That's so weird," I said. "Her things are here. I don't understand. What could have happened?"

Just then, my phone rang. It was Filomena. "Someone's been in your room," I said. "They smashed your window. But it's bizarre-it doesn't look like they took anything."

"I'm coming home this second," she said, her voice constricted.

Meredith's door was still closed, just as it had been when I was home earlier. I called out, "Meredith." She didn't answer. Could she have spent the night with Giacomo? Or with one of her British girlfriends? Still, at that moment I was more worried about the smashed window in Filomena's room than about Meredith's closed door.

I ran outside and around the house to see if the guys downstairs were home and to see if they'd heard anything during the night. Outside, away from Raffaele, my anxiety soared. My heart started racing again. I pounded on their door and tried to peer through the gla.s.s. It looked like no one was home.

I ran back upstairs and knocked gently on Meredith's door, calling, "Meredith. Are you in there?" No sound. I called again, louder. I knocked harder. Then I banged. I jiggled the handle. It was locked. Meredith only locks her door when she's changing clothes, I thought. She can't be in there or she'd answer. "Why isn't she answering me?" I asked Raffaele frantically.

I couldn't figure out, especially in that moment, why her door would be locked. What if she were inside? Why wouldn't she respond if she were? Was she sleeping with her earphones in? Was she hurt? At that moment what mattered more than anything was reaching her just to know where she was, to know that she was okay.

I kneeled on the floor and squinted, trying to peer through the keyhole. I couldn't see anything. And we had no way of knowing if the door had been locked from the inside or the outside.

"I'm going outside to see if I can look through her window from the terrace."

I climbed over the wrought-iron railing. With my feet on the narrow ledge, I held on to the rail with one hand and leaned out as far as I could, my body at a forty-five-degree angle over the gravel walkway below. Raffaele came out and shouted, "Amanda! Get down. You could fall!"

That possibility hadn't occurred to me.