Angels in America

Many times during the 17 years we lived together, I said of Janet that she walked with the angels. By which I meant that, no matter how scattered or careless she was, no matter how many times she fell backward into her life, invisible hands seemed to scoop her up and set her gently down. Now, reading her latest blog posts, I get the impression that the angels aren’t doing so well by her as they used to.

She’s been living in Italy since December, trying to find work and permanent accommodations. She’s also been navigating the visa/citizenship labrynth with little success. Not her style at all. Hammering out resumes in a language she barely speaks, living in an upstairs room within 24/7 earshot of a frequently squalling infant, half-heartedly attending job interviews hither and thither, combing rental ads. She’s developed high blood pressure, too. And yesterday (thank you, sir, may I have another) she crashed her car … the one she’d just bought … and had insured in someone else’s name … in Italy. My heart aches as I imagine her waiting for the polizia to arrive last night, cold rain falling, nearly four hard-fought months into the greatest adventure of her life. She was unharmed – angelic residue, I suppose – but she’s losing steam and that’s very sad. Her blog post for today begins like this: “I don’t think I can do it anymore. It’s all just way too hard.”

Meanwhile, my own life in Greenville is hugely good. Spring is busting out all over. But not in Italy, I gather. Poor dear Janet. Perhaps she left her angels in America.