A Human Mate; A slayed Christmas Wish

Chapter2.

As I nestled into the snug confines of a window seat, my gaze drifted to the velvet expanse of the night sky. Below, the world shimmered like a treasure trove, a breathtaking tapestry illuminated by the silver glow of the moon, casting a soft luminescence over a vast sea of clouds. It was a moment ripe for meditation, a precious opportunity to gather my thoughts and seek clarity amid the swirling emotions that accompanied my journey. I wrapped my blanket tightly around me, curling my legs beneath me like a protective embrace, and slipped on my earbuds, letting soothing melodies wash over me as I soared toward Venice, thousands of miles away from home. I hadn’t told Mom about my arrival; it was meant to be a surprise.

Fifteen long years had passed since she embarked on her journey to Venice. The divorce had shattered her spirit, robbing her of security and an inheritance—thanks to a prenup my father had insisted upon, a decision that still confounded me. If he truly loved her, why did he make her sign such a document?

My memories were vivid. I recalled the frantic days when Mom struggled to care for both of us, ultimately leading Dad to secure full custody of me. In her grief, seeking an escape from the emotional turmoil that surrounded our family, she applied for a culinary position. It was an irresistible opportunity that would whisk her across the Atlantic to Venice. Left with nothing but hope, she made the brave choice to accept the offer, determined to forge a better life for both of us.

Remarkably, she had thrived. As I anticipated our long-overdue reunion, nostalgia swept over me, carrying a tide of recollections.

I was a mere eight years old when she left. Though she visited a few times at first, everything changed when my stepmother and she had a falling out, leading to her absence from my life. Our communication dwindled to the occasional video call. The last time I saw her was at my seventh birthday party, a fading memory enveloped in warmth.

*****

Finally, I had touched down in Venice, the city I had only ever dreamed about but never experienced firsthand. To my surprise, the snow was thicker than I had envisioned for December—just over a week before Christmas. The frigid air bit at my cheeks, far colder than any winter I had braved in America.

Feeling a mix of excitement and anxiety, I tried to call Mom, only to be met with silence. Thankfully, I recalled her address from a letter she had sent me two years ago.

Cabs whizzed by like darting birds, and I waved one down.

“Buongiorno, signora!” the cab driver greeted warmly, his Italian accent a soft caress against the chill in the air. “Welcome to Venice! Where am I taking you?”

A wave of relief washed over me when I realized he spoke English fluently. I showed him the address on my phone, my heart quickening in anticipation.

“I believe this is my mom’s address,” I explained, my voice a mix of hope and uncertainty.

“Hmm. That’s on the far side of the city, more toward the countryside. You’ll need to take a train and then a private car to get there. I might not be able to take you that far,” he said, glancing at me with a sympathetic nod.

Taking a deep breath, determined not to feel stranded in an unfamiliar place, I accepted his offer to drop me off at the train station instead.

“Please prepare for adverse weather, as a snowstorm seems to be developing,” a weatherwoman's voice crackled over the cab’s radio.

“First time in Venice?” the driver asked casually, casting a glance at me from the rear view mirror.

“Yes,” I replied, managing a small, nervous smile.

“You should visit the floating city! At Christmas time, it's one of the most beautiful places you might ever see. Don’t forget to try the water taxi!” he advised enthusiastically, his eyes sparkling with the magic of his city.

“I definitely intend to,” I assured him, my anticipation growing.

“The weather is worsening by the minute,” he warned, cranking up the heater as a biting wind whisked around us, sending snowflakes swirling through the air.

Minutes later, we arrived at the Venice Santa Lucia Station. I read the sign, my heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and excitement.

“The train will take you over the Ponte Della Libertà, the Liberty Bridge into the mainland,” the driver instructed, his voice infused with pride.

I tipped him gratefully and stepped out into the chaos of the station, feeling the vastness of the country surround me like a blanket of unfamiliarity. The murmurs of strangers filled the air, their voices flowing in a language I barely understood, heightening my sense of isolation.

I texted my dad to let him know I had arrived safely, even though I hadn’t yet reached Mom. As the weather continued to deteriorate, I focused on finding her address, written on the letter I had kept close to my heart.

The station buzzed with passengers whose trains were delayed due to the storm, and I clutched my winter coat tighter over my shoulders as I maneuvered through the crowd. I prayed for my train to arrive soon, the anxiety gnawing at my insides.

Eventually, my wish was granted, and as I settled into my seat, my heart flipped with giddy anticipation. I beamed as I watched the heavy snowflakes tumble down outside, fluttering through the air like a flurry of tiny white petals.

I messaged Mom again, even attempting to call her, but once more, the call wouldn’t connect. Soon, the train glided to a stop, and passengers poured out into the chilly air. I followed them, stepping onto the platform marked ‘Venezia Mestre Station.’

Where do I go from here? I wondered, a wave of anxiety creeping in. Pulling out my phone, I searched Google Maps for directions to Point Sezionali Verona. Grappling with frustration, I finally mustered the courage to ask a stranger for help.

They pointed me toward private transportation.

By now, it was afternoon, and my stomach growled in protest. Unable to resist, I grabbed a quick bite at the station before hopping into a car. Despite it being only 3:30 PM, the sky was already darkening, and the wind whipped around me, sending snowflakes dancing against my coat.

The driver was quiet, which suited me just fine. I relayed my destination, and he pressed his foot on the gas, eagerness flickering in the air. The drive felt long, but I reveled in the beauty of the landscape flashing by—charming buildings and idyllic houses dressed in white, like postcards come to life.

After nearly an hour, we arrived at a rather still town, much quieter than the bustling city. The driver pulled up to a building that looked less than inviting—almost abandoned. But it was the address Mom had written. Doubt crept into my mind as I stepped out of the car and grabbed my luggage. Before I could gather my thoughts, the driver sped off, leaving me staring at the structure, an unsettling rush of fear rising within me.

The wind here was even more aggressive than in the city, nearly toppling me. Suddenly, I noticed a faint light flickering inside. Hope surged within me, illuminating my trepidation. I slowly approached the door, observing a worn-out Christmas wreath dangling from an old hook. I knocked softly, each beat of my heart echoing my anxiety. I swallowed hard, feeling my stomach churn with anticipation and dread. Despite the dilapidated appearance of the house, I clung to the hope that this, indeed, was my mother’s home.