Chapter 3: Look For the You In You

Mama Bianchi took one look at Amy and stopped smiling. That was impressive. Mama Bianchi smiled at almost everyone. Not necessarily because she liked them. Sometimes the smile meant food was coming. Sometimes it meant she was happy to see you. Sometimes it meant you had done something foolish and she was deciding how much suffering was appropriate.

But she smiled. Usually. Amy and Adrian had barely made it through the door before Mama came around the counter.

“Bambina.”

Amy tried.

“Hi, Mama.”

Mama touched her cheek.

“You have been crying.”

Amy looked at Adrian. Adrian looked at the ceiling. Traitor.

“A little.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed.

“Who?”

Amy blinked.

“What?”

“Who made you cry?”

“No one exactly.”

Mama looked at Adrian. He put both hands up.

“Not me.”

“I know.”

Adrian lowered his hands.

“I’m not sure whether to be relieved or insulted.”

“You, I would already know how to punish.”

“Relieved.”

Mama took Amy by the wrist.

“Come.”

“Mama, we can get a table.”

“You have a table.”

Apparently they did. They were led to the small corner table that Reforged had somehow acquired by custom despite never reserving it. Mama disappeared. Amy sat. Adrian sat across from her.

“Did you tell her?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because she looked like she knew.”

“Mama always looks like she knows.”

“Fair.”

Five minutes later, food began arriving. Amy stared.

“We didn’t order.”

Adrian looked equally confused. Mama set down the final plate.

“You come in looking like this. Your face say you need Mama Special. Your mouth doesn’t have to. You need Mama Special.”

Amy blinked. Amy looked at the food. Comfort food. Several kinds. Enough for four people. Maybe six.

“This is a lot.”

“You have much anger?”

“Yes.”

“Much sad?”

Amy hesitated.

“Yeah.”

“Much fear?”

That one took longer.

“Yeah.”

Mama nodded.

“Then much food.”

There was no arguing with the logic. They ate. For several minutes, Mama left them alone. Amy discovered that being furious required calories. Eventually she slowed. Mama reappeared carrying coffee for Adrian and something sweet for Amy. She sat. That was when Amy knew they were in trouble.

Mama rarely sat while the restaurant was open.

“So.”

Amy looked down.

“So.”

“Tell Mama.”

Amy looked at Adrian. He nodded. So she did. Not everything. Not every contract detail. Not every word of the meeting. But enough. The cameras. The fictional show. The promotional description. The cast photograph. The fictionalized team. The woman who was not Amy and looked enough like Amy that Amy wished she didn’t.

Mama listened. She did not interrupt. That was almost more frightening than if she had. When Amy finished, Mama sat silently. Then she nodded.

“Bambina, you are right to be angry.”

Amy swallowed.

“Okay.”

“I have half a mind to call my friends from the Old Country.”

Adrian coughed. Amy stared.

“Mama.”

“To see what they can do.”

“Mama.”

“What?”

“What friends?”

Mama smiled. Adrian stared very carefully at his coffee. Amy decided there were questions in life that did not improve through answers. Mama reached across the table and took Amy’s hand.

“But.”

Amy waited.

“That thing on the screen?”

Amy’s fingers tightened.

“She will not be you.”

Amy looked away.

“She looks enough like me.”

“No.”

“Mama...”

“No.”

Mama squeezed her hand.

“She looks like somebody who was told to look like you.”

Amy went still. Mama continued. “She will be whoever she is.”

Amy’s eyes burned again.

“Hold on to you.”

Amy said nothing.

“Do not look for the you in her.”

Mama tapped Amy’s hand.

“Look for the you in you.”

Amy closed her eyes. That hurt. Not because it was wrong. Because it was right. The fictional Amy could only become a mirror if Amy chose to stare into it. That didn’t mean ignoring the problem. It didn’t mean letting the producers do whatever they wanted. It meant refusing to let somebody else’s version become the standard she judged herself against.