Racing the Sun(61)

I hop on the back of his bike, easier now that I’m comfortable hanging on to him like a monkey on a tree, and we jet off, trying to make our way down the street without running people over. It’s not easy, so I start yelling “Permesso!” at the top of my lungs, which eventually gets people out of the way.

Once we’ve somehow made it through the maze of Capri town, I want to ask him where we are headed but it’s already pretty obvious. There’s not much else to see on this side of the island—everything else resides on the other side of hell’s highway.

He pauses the bike near the main traffic circle, already crammed full of mini blue trucks and orange short buses and tourists wobbling on Vespas, and glances at me over his shoulder. “Are you okay if we go to Anacapri?”

I nod.

“Just hold tight, okay?” he says. “Don’t worry, you won’t fall off. I’ve got you. Close your eyes and I’ll get us there safely, okay? I use this route all the time. Piece of cake. Hai capiti?”

“Ho capito.”

He shoots me a grin and guns the bike. I wrap my arms around him tighter and bury my head into his neck, making sure my face is on the left side, a.k.a. not the side that has the precipitous drop. I trust Derio completely to get us there in one piece, but I don’t trust my panic attacks.

At first I’m okay with it. I can feel the air whizzing past us, the cars and the traffic, the few times that Derio has to weave around vehicles. Then the incline gets higher and higher and we zig and zag, climbing, climbing, climbing. The switchbacks stop and that’s when I know where we are: the part at the top.

And that’s when I decide to raise my head. Because I’m an idiot. We’re actually in the midst of passing a bus on the right, which means we are hugging the edge of the road and only a short metal fence, like the kind someone would put around their yard, is between us and falling through weightless air to an imminent death.

I can already feel myself falling, feel myself going over the edge, and there’s nothing to stop me from hitting the hard ground, nothing left but the short time allowed to look back on my life before it’s all over. That’s the worst thing about vertigo, about these specific panic attacks; the actual fall doesn’t have to happen for it to feel like it’s happening.

“I’ve got you!” Derio yells, knowing I’m looking up, knowing I’m panicking. I guess the death grip I have around his chest is a sure sign. “It will be over soon.”

I close my eyes and try to breathe through it. In and out. It’s hard. It’s always hard. It’s even harder with the sounds all around me—the wind in my ears, the roar of the motorbike, the honks and gear changes and squeaky brakes of all the cars.

But eventually, like last time, I survive. I look up and see the green foliage and hidden houses of the Anacapri area and I immediately feel a million times lighter. Adrenaline is rushing through me and I feel like laughing for being such a fool. The girl who was scared, hiding from her fears, that wasn’t me, that was someone else. It’s always someone else.

Derio guides the bike up into town, snaking up the white-washed streets past stone and stucco houses, the smells of garlic and basil and fried anchovies wafting past us, and stops in front of a mural of Mount Solaro.

He turns off the bike and twists in his seat to get a better look at me. His brow furrows in concern. “You are okay?”

“Yeah,” I tell him, feeling a bit stupid. “I don’t know what comes over me in those moments.”

“Fear,” he says gravely.

“Well, yes.”

“Fear is the most powerful force of destruction. Fear is the devil’s greatest illusion.”

I frown at him. “I don’t remember learning that in church today.”

“I can help you, you know,” he says so sincerely I feel I have no choice but to believe him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Facing your fears. Even the little ones can cripple us.”

That’s all fine and dandy but I’m talking to a man who fears the open ocean so much, he hasn’t left the island in a year.

“Trust me,” he says, his voice low as he reads my face. “I have many fears, but I’m working on them. I am exposing myself to one as we speak.”

“What fear is that?” I ask.

He holds me in his steady gaze. “The fear of letting go. Of opening up. Of trusting. Of falling.”

“You have a fear of falling, too?”

“In a way . . .” He pauses. “Yes.”

I’m not quite sure what he’s saying but from his direct gaze I know he’s being honest.