I am coming back from the corner store when she pulls into her driveway, between my house and hers. She opens the back door of her car and, before bending down toward the seat to pick up a grocery bag, she motions for me to wait.

“Well, hi,” she says, as she straightens up, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I am Eufemia. Spelled with an “f”—Italian... And I thought that if you’re bored sometimes in the evening, you could come over for tea or coffee. I never made friends with the lady who lived there before ... but you seem different. Of course,” she is quick to add, “you might not want to make friends with me.”

She’s at least ten years younger than I am. Her hair is dark and straight, her features blunt in a most appealing kind of way. As a young girl she would have had the kind of face you see on posters of children left homeless, orphans.

“No, no ... tea would be great—or coffee. I drink anything. And it also seems that we already have something in common. We’re both Italian.”

“Oh, I know,” she laughs.

“How did you know?” I say, wondering about it, since I don’t look at all Italian. My mother is from Trieste and my father from a village by the French border. I have high cheekbones and my hair is fire red, my skin milky white. So much mixing of blood over the years.

“I heard you swearing in Italian last night, when you were trying to open your kitchen window.” Then she casts a glance toward my arm—I am wearing my Gucci watch. “I bet you’re not used to sliders,” she grins, with an intuitive look about her. “I bet you’re used to crank windows. Makes a difference.”

“As long as you don’t lose the handles,” I laugh, and right away I decide to tell her about my situation, which she seems to have partly guessed already.

“Yeah, well, since my husband and I split up I’ve had to change my lifestyle. I got the matrimonial house, but I had to lease it out, as I have no other income. We used to live in the north end—Silver Lake.”

I expect her to say something about Silver Lake. Everyone knows that’s where the castles and the villas are—the homes some people call “monster house.” But when she speaks again I know her mind has bypassed all that.

“I never had a husband,” she murmurs. “Never a man of my own. Not even a live-in boyfriend.”

I haven’t told her my name yet, but I know it’s a thing that can wait. No need to intrude just now and steal the moment from her. An expression of sweet sorrow has settled on her face.

I never used to tell my affluent friends certain things in life. But then, they were the kind of friends who would not go the length to keep up a friendship with me. They don’t refuse to come and visit me now, but in their carefully selected words, they put me off by saying it’s easier if I go to Silver Lake to see them instead. There’s everything there, they say—everything to do—everything to keep one entertained. And before I can even begin to explain that I can’t afford certain social recreations anymore, they’re right back to mixing their drinks and talk of tennis.

“Wow,” says Eufemia, after listening to my story of how I had finally kicked Carlo out. It’s about a month after our initial meeting, and we’re on her back porch, sharing barbecued sausages and a radicchio salad. “How did you plan it all ... to kick him out like that? It must have taken you days to rehearse it ... just the two of you on his birthday ... and then poof, ‘Get out or I’ll poison you.’”

“Eufemia,” I say, shaking my head. “You watch too many movies. It makes you distort things. It wasn’t like that at all. What I told you is that I felt like poisoning him. That’s a different thing altogether. Anyway, deep down I wanted to win him back, if you can believe it. That’s how it started out. I knew all about the other women, but still I wanted to hold on to him. Crazy, I know.”

She laughs. “The big cash flow—lifestyle.”

“Oh shut up,” I say. “What do you know?”

“If you’re referring to love ... nada, my friend. Sweet nothing.”

Later, we go inside to watch The Horse Whisperer. She has seen the movie four times already. I had to go and rent it for her—she was too embarrassed to go herself. At the local video store they all know her, and she doesn’t want them thinking she’s weird.

“Look,” I say, watching her leaf through a magazine. “If you’re not looking at the screen, why rent the bloody thing again?”

“I know, but there’s that one scene I’m waiting for ... when they’re dancing—Redford and her.”

“Fast forward then,” I say, annoyed. It wasn’t my first time seeing the movie, either.

“No. I need to wait ... one needs to go through what comes first.”

Yeah, like a bad marriage, I think to myself.

“It’s very important,” she continues absently, “what comes before.”

I think about that for a moment. “Well, I suppose it does make sense. In certain circumstances, it does shape our lives.”

Then I look at her. She’s really beautiful, and I can’t believe that no man ever wanted to marry her. Has it been her fault, I wonder? Eufemia always waiting for the right moment, needing the anticipation, the scenes which give way to the momentum—never living for the moment, because maybe it wasn’t just right yet?

Finally, the scene.

“It’s how he touches her. My God, it’s to die for. A thousand deaths.”

I want to tell her that he’s not touching her ... he’s holding her. But I know I could never get Eufemia’s attention right now. She’s too caught up in what is taking place on the screen, the storybook life of a man and a woman.

Just then I think of my mother. Of how she had once told me with tears in her eyes that my father had never put his arms around her in front of people. Then I think of my father—now dead for three years—his quiet, reserved manner ... the way he sometimes watched my mother move around the kitchen, holding her with his eyes.

What more did my mother want? She had what the actor on the screen is giving ... and she didn’t have it only for a moment, but a lifetime—and my father’s love was real.

Eufemia has weekends off, and on those two days she becomes a real pest. I know it’s her at the door again—third time since morning. She never uses the doorbell; she likes to knock. She says it’s more personal, intimate, and I have to admit she’s right. I can actually tell what mood she’s in as soon as her knuckles hit the door, the way the sound reverberates through the hollow wood panel. Tonight she’s excited about something—I can sense it. And the minute I open up, she pushes her way in.

“He was here,” she exclaims, her eyes open wide, like a child’s. “What took you so long at the mall?—he couldn’t wait. I knew it was Carlo as soon as I saw the Jag pull up in your driveway. So I ran over and asked him if he was looking for you... Wow, is he ever a big man ... but charming. God, for a minute I thought he was going to kiss my hand!”

“Eufemia, stop it. The man would kiss a horse’s ass, if—never mind. What’s that you’re waving in the air?”

“This?” She raises the envelope up high with excitement. “It’s the letter he came to bring you.”

I have locked myself in the bathroom and I am sobbing. Eufemia is on the other side and she’s crying too, but for a different reason. She’s scared about me, and she won’t go away. She’s afraid I’ll do something crazy. I reach for a towel and make myself bite into a chunk of terry cloth, to choke my sobs down. And after a few minutes I am able to reassure her that I’ll be all right. I tell her that slashing my wrists is the last thing on my mind.

“If that’s true, swear on it then. Please, Gina,” she begs.

“There’s no Bible in here,” I say, trying to make her laugh—and maybe myself too.

“Swear to anything ... the toilet bowl ... the sink. Just do it. Make a promise.”

“You never give up, do you? Okay, I promise. And now you promise me you’ll go to the store to buy a bottle of wine. I suddenly have a great big desire to get drunk tonight.”

“Whatever was in that letter really got you upset, didn’t it, Gina?”

I’d like to hit her over the head. And I will if she doesn’t stop it, if she doesn’t go away soon. “The wine,” I say, “Merlot.”

“I know ... I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t say that, Eufemia. You’re just a pain in the butt. You need to learn to give people time, space... My God, the first day I met you, you even told me the spelling of your name, as if for some strange reason I was going to have to spell Eufemia the very next day.”

“Well, what about you?” she retorts. “You even told me the number of times your husband had cheated on you... But never mind our personalities... I’ll get two bottles instead of one, and I’ll join you.”

“Thank you. You’re a real pal. And I am not being sarcastic.”

“But you’ll have to come over to my place. I can’t hold vino the way you do. After two glasses, I won’t be able to find my way home.”

Home. That’s what I had once. A home. But Carlo wrecked it. He spoiled the sacred institution of our marriage ... and now he wants the structure too, the mortar and the bricks.

Over my dead body.

Later that evening, after wending my way back from Eufemia’s house, feeling maudlin and not as drunk as I would have liked to be, I phone my mother. When her answering machine comes on, I hang up. But after a minute I dial again. I do that a few times, until the blessed woman answers.

“What’s so important?” she complains. “I had to come out of the tub. Do you know what time it is?”

“Midnight. And all the good women should be in bed.”

“I don’t know what that is supposed to mean, Gina. Have you been drinking?”

“Drinking, yes. But not drunk enough. Of that I can surely assure you. Surely shirly.”

“Va bene. What’s wrong then? Che è successo? Something is wrong. I can tell.”

“Mama,” I suddenly blurt out, “I want you to come back home.”

“And where is that?” she says quietly.

“You know where home is. Here in Canada. I want you to come back. I’ll take care of you...”

“I am not sick, Gina. And to your surprise, I may still have quite a few years of good health.”

“That’s the whole thing. Where are all the friggin mothers of the world—tell me that? They’re all down in Florida when you need them.”

“Okay, Gina. Spit it out. Why are you in such an emotional state?”

“I am not in an emotional state!”

She gives a deep sigh. “All right, I’ll come home. Obviously, it’s something serious. I’ll check on a flight tomorrow. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“Forget it. I’ve changed my mind!”

“Okay, let’s put it this way then ... what has he done this time—Carlo? And anyway, whatever he’s done shouldn’t matter anymore. The two of you are divorced. You should have your separate lives.”

“It’s never over, Mother. Guess what he’s up to now? The nerve of the man! He wants to buy the house back from me. He came around today ... brought a written offer.”

“Uh,” she says calmly, “I hope it’s a good one. How much?”

“Seven hundred—thousand.”

“But the house isn’t worth that much, or is it?”

“No, Mother, don’t you see? He made me an offer I can’t refuse.”

“Well, accept it then.”

“I can’t. I won’t. It’s my house. Mine. I designed it. I picked out the tiles and the carpets, the cupboards, the counters; I sketched the fireplace mantle—everything. It’s all me in that house. I will not let him have it.”

“Take the offer, Gina. The house is too big a responsibility for you. I know the lease gives you a good income, but when that house starts needing a new roof, when things start going wrong with it—not just the money but the hassle... And what if when this lease is over, you can’t get another one right away? What then? You’ll have to pay taxes even on an empty house. How are you going to pay?”

“I’ll get a job.”

“A job, doing what? A part time Thanks-for-shopping-at-Kmart...? You will be in the poor house. I don’t know why you didn’t settle with cash. You’ve let pride put a big burden on your shoulders. But this is your chance to get out of it, so get out of it.”

Suddenly I feel really weary. The weight of what my mother is saying is starting to settle over me, and I feel as if I am about to be buried under rocks. I take a deep breath; I need to scramble free.

“Well, if I have to sell it, I will. But damn it, Mother, I’ll demand as much money as I want. I’ll get everything I can out of him. I am not going to let that tramp he’s going to marry benefit from anything that was mine.”

“The girl is with child, Gina. Let things go. And let Carlo have his child in peace.”

I dry sudden tears from my eyes and gulp the lump in my throat. “Yeah, but the bugger couldn’t get me pregnant once in twenty seven years. And it wasn’t my fault!”

“Oh, Gina.”

“Yeah, and you can’t imagine how much I wanted that man’s child...”

I can’t believe I’ve said that—and to my mother of all people. The revelation leaves me with a strange feeling in my chest, as though I have been emptied by being turned upside down.

Mama is silent on the other end. She is silent for a long time. But when she speaks again, she’s still gentle. She says: “Gina, what are mothers for if not to be with their daughters... ? You’re right. It’s about time I came to spend a winter at home.”

After Mama hangs up, I press the phone to my cheek, as if the instrument were the dearest of objects.

***

I have seen the boxes in Eufemia’s basement before, but this is the first time she has opened one to show me what’s inside.

“Hats?” I say, surprised. “For God’s sake.”

“Yes, hats.”

She tells me that years ago, when she was still living in Toronto, she worked in a hat factory and, often at the end of the week, the manager used to give out a box of hats to each of his favourite female workers. “The hats were seconds,” she explains. And some of the young girls used to sell them to the mothers of their friends and get money for going to the movies and to dances, but she kept them all for herself.

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

I shake my head. “You’re crazy.”

“It’s the other way around. It’s the hats that have kept me from going over the edge. When I feel really lonely, I come down here and try the hats on. “Look at this one,” she says, holding it up. “It’s my favourite.”

The hat is of a pretty ash color and the material is like threads of fine silky straw. It’s flexible and it can be bent this way and that. There’s a tall mirror leaning on the wall and Eufemia goes to stand in front of it. She puts the hat on, and proceeds to show me a variety of transformations.

“Amazing.”

“Not really. It’s pretty simple.”

“Okay,” I say, an idea suddenly bursting in on me. “This is it. You’re going to be my model...”

“For what?”

“Photographs. My new hobby—our new hobby. Maybe a profession. Who knows? Look, I used to be a photographer before I got married. Before I gave it all up to fatten up Carlo with his favourite Italian meals ... and to play the perfect hostess to his business associates and their darling wives—me included... I never did tell you all that, did I?”

She gives a little sigh, and I wait for her to say something. I need her to say something. Anything.

At last she turns my way. “A lot of things you didn’t tell me,” she says, her face partially shadowed by the brim of the flexible hat; her features full of hidden drama. “But that’s okay, because there are a lot of things I didn’t tell you either ... all the mistakes I made when I was younger...”

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I lift my hand and I touch the tips of my fingers to her lips. I say: “Don’t speak of it. Not now. Some things are better stretched over time...”

“And time could be years,” she sighs, wistful but not sad.

“As in friendship,” I smile, hurrying toward the stairs. “And don’t you dare change your pose. I’ll be back in an instant with my camera.”

“Oh sure. As if I could hold a pose.”

But I keep right on going, because I know that when I’ll get back, Eufemia will be there waiting for me to snap the picture, the angle of her hat unchanged. I also know that we are both ready, as ready as we can ever be, to do what needs to be done to survive our failures.