The Time Between

by Karen White

  In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are no more.

  A cold chill enveloped me as I read the words. I thumbed through the Bible, noticing creased pages and other signs of wear, but nowhere else did I find a verse that had been marked.

  “Can we see the rest now?” Gigi asked impatiently.

  I’d almost forgotten she was there. The Bible verse rested heavily on my heart, its meaning unclear but its importance signified by the heavy black marks under each word.

  “Sure,” I said, laying the Bible next to the silver box. Together we looked at the loose photographs in no apparent order or importance. But I could see they were old, as all were in black-and-white, many with the scalloped edges that can be found only on older photographs.

  There were about thirty photographs, and Gigi and I carefully lifted them one by one from the basket and spread them over the top of the bed.

  “This looks like the ladies in the picture Aunt Helena gave to Daddy for his birthday.”

  I picked up the photo Gigi indicated. “I think you’re right. This might be Magda’s wedding—she was the oldest sister.”

  “Older than Aunt Helena?” Her mouth formed a perfect O of astonishment.

  “We were all young once, Gigi.”

  We examined what appeared to be a wedding photo, considering the bouquets the women were holding and the small veil on the hat of the tall middle woman. “They’re all really pretty. I like their costumes,” Gigi said.

  I smiled at her assessment. “They are very beautiful. But those aren’t costumes—that’s how women dressed in the 1930s and early forties.”

  All of the women were dressed in suits—Magda’s the only one in white—with exaggerated shoulders and butterfly sleeves, and tight bodices that emphasized their tiny waists. The skirts came to below their knees, and their feet were covered in T-strapped heels. The men wore black tails with white waistcoats and striped trousers, a single white carnation blossoming on their lapels.

  There were several pictures of the wedding, including photos of an older woman I assumed was the girls’ mother—a kinder, gentler version of Helena—as well as a tall, dignified gentleman that could only have been Finn’s grandfather. He was tall and broad shouldered, with fair hair and expressive eyes, and it was clear why Magda’s head had been so easily turned.

  “Who’s this?”

  I turned to look at the photograph Gigi held in her outstretched hand. I took it and gently held it as if it were a fragile butterfly. The subject was a young man leaning against a tree with one leg bent, the booted foot resting on the trunk. He wore a uniform—what could have been a gray or green jacket with a wide black belt and inch-wide strips of fabric buttoned onto each shoulder. A patch of an eagle with outstretched wings sat above the right breast pocket.

  The boy—he looked too young to be called a man or to be wearing a uniform—had white-blond hair and large light eyes. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at least once, but it did nothing to hide the shy, sweet smile. His hair seemed lifted off his forehead, and he had a hat tucked under one arm as if he’d just swept it off to be able to feel the breeze. But the smile was all for the photographer, his eyes full of secrets.

  “I don’t know,” I said, turning the photograph over in my hand. Written in a feminine cursive with a pencil across the back were the words Gunter Richter. I turned it around again to stare in the boy’s face and said the name out loud. “Gunter Richter.”

  “That’s a funny name. Is it Hungarian?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. It sounds more German to me.” I studied the uniform, wishing I could place it.

  The grandfather clock from downstairs chimed. I glanced at my watch, appalled to see how late it was. I quickly started placing everything back in the basket, wishing I’d had more time to go through all the photographs. “We’ve got to get on the road.” I placed the lid on the basket, then went over to Gigi’s suitcase and closed it easily since there was about one-third of what had been in there previously. “Let’s not give Mrs. McKenna a heart attack and try to make your room look a little less like a disaster zone.”

  We both began darting around the room, tucking clothes into drawers and forcing them shut. All of the extra shoes I put in a neat pile in the closet and shut the door with a promise to myself that I would straighten it all properly another time.

  When it all looked passable, I grabbed the suitcase. “If you could carry the basket, I think we’re good to go.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Resisting the need to sigh heavily, I put down the suitcase. “All right, but please hurry. I don’t like driving over the bridge after dark.”

  She rushed to her connecting bathroom and slammed the door, only to open it right away. “Don’t forget the photo of me in my dance recital costume. My daddy’s room is at the end of the hall and the picture’s on the table next to the bed.”

  Before I could protest, she’d slammed the door again. Feeling a little like I had when I’d entered Bernadett’s room at the Edisto house, I made my way out into the hallway toward the room at the end of the hall. Thankfully, the door was wide open and I breezed through it as if walking into Finn’s bedroom was the same as walking into his office.

  I’d made it only halfway inside before I stopped. The middle of the room was dominated by an enormous dark wood sleigh bed with a gold brocade bedspread and at least a dozen throw pillows artfully arranged on top. I assumed Mrs. McKenna had made the bed because I couldn’t imagine Finn expending energy in that direction.

  Like the rest of the house—with the exception of Gigi’s room, which held more personality than most people I’d met—this room seemed torn right out of an interior design magazine. The furniture, fabrics, and color palette were exquisite—and completely cold. I couldn’t imagine Gigi jumping on top of the bed or whipping aside the heavy draperies to hide during a game of hide-and-go-seek.

  I looked up toward the ceiling, wondering what was missing, and I found myself grinning when it occurred to me. There wasn’t a model airplane, paper planet, or moon-phase chart anywhere on the ceiling or any of the four walls. I couldn’t help but think that their additions could only add to the beauty of the room.

  My mind’s eye formed a picture of Harper Beaufain Gibbes, with her perfect bone structure and elegant limbs, and I knew this was her bedroom regardless of who had slept in it before or who still did.

  I heard a door shut somewhere in the house and figured Gigi must be ready. Quickly, I moved to the side of the bed, my eyes scanning the scattering of framed photographs that sat on the large round skirted table. I pulled a crimson tassel on the bedside lamp to see better and I found the costume picture immediately. But as I leaned forward to pick it up, I knocked over a simple acrylic frame that had been decorated with pink sequins. As I straightened it, I made the mistake of looking at the photograph.

  It was a picture of an impossibly small Gigi in a hospital bed surrounded by nurses and doctors and Finn. All—including her father—were wearing pink head scarves and holding pink balloons with the number six printed on them. A large banner behind her bed read HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY, PEANUT!

  Gigi wore the broad grin I’d become familiar with, and I wondered if she’d been born with such a propensity for joy or if it had been God’s recompense for a childhood interrupted.

  But it was Finn’s image in the picture that captured my attention. Even with the silly pink head scarf, I could see his serious eyes and the tautness in his jaw. I couldn’t imagine what he was going through or thinking when that photo was taken, but the fact that he wore a pink scarf over his head and willingly subjected himself to a photograph told me more about the man than I’d learned in nearly two years of working for him.

  “Can I
help you find something?”

  I startled at the sound of Finn’s voice, enough so that I shook the table and knocked over several more frames. I cringed, realizing this was the second time he’d caught me in a place I wasn’t supposed to be.

  I began scrambling to replace the fallen frames into their upright positions but ended up knocking more over in my nervous haste. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Gigi asked me to come in here and get the photograph of her in her dance recital costume to show Helena because she’d originally packed the costume in her overflowing suitcase but there really wasn’t any room for it, and I thought . . .”

  “Stop,” he said, and I felt his hand on my arm. “You’re starting to talk like Gigi and I’m finding it a little unnerving coming from a non-ten-year-old.”

  I stopped, listening as one more frame fell onto the glass-topped surface. Slowly, I raised my eyes to his, surprised to see a hint of amusement in them. “Sorry,” I said again.

  “Please stop apologizing. That’s almost as irritating as the nonstop chattering.” He pried the acrylic frame from my frozen fingers and replaced it without incident on top of the table. “I don’t think that was the photograph you were looking for.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to pretend that everything was normal and that I wasn’t standing next to Finn Beaufain’s bed with the man himself very close to me, his gray eyes studying me and seeing more than I wanted him to. I took a step back, bumping the table. The answering sound of falling frames told me without turning around that I had probably knocked over the rest of the pictures.

  “I’m sor—” I stopped, heat rushing to my cheeks. I quickly searched for something else to say. “We weren’t expecting you home.”

  “Obviously.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.” I stopped for a moment, remembering the basket and the real reason why we were running behind. “I need to show you something.” I hadn’t quite figured out how Gigi and I were going to explain how we’d come across the basket, but he didn’t have to know about it right now. I just needed to know what was written on top of the silver box, and who Gunter Richter was.

  He looked alarmed. “Is it Gigi?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s something we found in Helena’s house. We’re just not sure if we should show it to Helena or not.”

  He glanced at the antique carriage clock that sat on the Georgian mantel of the fireplace across from the bed. “Can it wait? My plane to New York leaves in less than three hours and I haven’t packed yet.”

  I began a hasty retreat to the door, eager to leave. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” The word was out before I could call it back. Our eyes met, and I knew we were both thinking about his last words to me earlier that afternoon. What are you trying to atone for?

  “Have a good trip,” I said, grabbing the photograph of Gigi in her costume before turning on my heel and practically running to Gigi’s bedroom.

  On the way to North Charleston to pick up a few days’ worth of clothes and my toothbrush and during the forty-five-minute drive out to Edisto, Gigi kept up a constant chatter, including two quick phone calls to her father on my cell phone. I listened to her babble with only half an ear, murmuring a “yes” or a “no” at the appropriate times, my mind occupied with the images of a serious Charleston businessman wearing a pink scarf on his head and of a young soldier with a smile full of secrets.

  CHAPTER 22

  Helena

  I dreamed that I was walking across the beautiful Chain Bridge over the Danube, the four crouching stone lions that guarded the bridge seeming to watch me. I could feel the chill, damp air and hear the sounds from the boats beneath. I was like a ghost, part of the scene but unable to interact with the world around me. I wondered if death would be like this, moving endlessly in a shadow world, searching for what would not be found. Or if my dream merely echoed my life.

  I looked down into the murky brown of the river and watched as a single drop of water became a gushing torrent of bright blue until the entire river had turned the color of his eyes. I wanted to clap my ghost hands in delight, to shout that Strauss had not been wrong after all. But someone called my name, and I looked up, hoping and praying it would be him, finally coming for me, his last words still lingering in the shriveled organ that had once been my heart. I will come back for you.

  Instead I saw the white ceiling of my room and Nurse Kester leaning over my bed, and for a brief moment I imagined her eyes were a deep, bright blue.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, a worried frown wrinkling her face. “You were talking in your sleep.”

  “What did I say?” I asked, although I already knew.

  “I’m not sure. It wasn’t in English.”

  I closed my eyes and turned to face the wall. “I wish to go back to sleep now.”

  The infernal woman would not be deterred. “You need to eat your breakfast. And Eleanor and Gigi arrived last night after you retired. They can’t wait to see you.”

  I wanted to laugh at her exaggeration. At least half of what she said was true. I turned over, trying to give her my most put-out expression, but was secretly pleased that they were there. I had been looking forward to having the two of them to myself for three days. Gigi, because she filled the old house with joy and laughter and made my old bones move easier. And Eleanor because of the way she had played the Debussy piece.

  It had not been horrible. It had been brilliant, despite the obvious fact that she was unprepared and not properly trained. She had played the way I once had, before my fingers had betrayed me and my heart had forgotten the music. But it went beyond the notes and the unschooled and rusty mechanics. The poignancy of her musical expression had told me something about her, something she was not even aware of. Yet still, she was holding something back, something precious to her that she did not want to share. It was the one thing that separated good musicians from great musicians.

  I sighed heavily. “I suppose I should eat, then, to build up my endurance. They are here through Sunday.” She helped sit me up, propping pillows behind my back. “I am tired of this room and this house. I think it is time that I venture out.”

  The nurse smiled. “I think you’re ready—although we’ll have to take it easy. It hasn’t been that long since you were in the hospital.”

  I waved my hand, dismissing her concern. “I am fine. I think I will ask Eleanor to take me on a drive. Perhaps to the beach.”

  I stared with what I hoped was my most imperious look. At least she knew me well enough not to continue with her efforts to dissuade me. Instead she said, “I’m sure Eleanor will enjoy that.”

  I looked at her sharply to see if she meant it, but her expression showed bland innocence. “I am hungry now. Please tell me my breakfast is ready.”

  The nurse moved to the door. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back. It’s your favorite—oatmeal.”

  I was in the middle of voicing my disapproval when she turned back.

  “I almost forgot. You had a visitor yesterday while you were napping. It slipped my mind until this morning. Actually, he was here to see Bernadett, but when I told him she had passed, he asked to speak with another member of the family.”

  My neck stiffened. “Who was it?”

  “He said his name was Jacob Isaacson. But he left a card.” She reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out a white card and handed it to me. Before I could complain about not being able to read it, she reached for my glasses on the bedside table and placed them on my nose.

  Jacob B. Isaacson

  Isaacson & Sons

  European Fine Art, Antiques

  The bottom of the card listed an Atlanta address. To hide my shaking hand, I placed the card on the bedside table, then let my hand fall to my side. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. But he said he was in town through the weekend. He said you could call th
e cell number on the card.”

  I waved my hand. “I am sure it is because he heard of my paintings. He wants to see if he can take advantage of an old woman. If he comes back, please tell him that they are not for sale. I hope you did not give him our unlisted number. I do not like to be disturbed.”

  She gave me the blank look used by those who are dependent on others for their livelihoods and meant to mask thoughts or feelings that might offend. I knew it well, having once relied on it.

  “Yes, Miss Szarka. And can I send Gigi and Eleanor in?”

  “I suppose so. As long as it does not delay my breakfast.”

  She had barely moved into the kitchen before they appeared in the doorway, Gigi’s smile more authentic than Eleanor’s—as if that should surprise me.

  “Good morning, Aunt Helena!” A yellow shopping bag flopped against Gigi’s leg as she raced toward me to give me a hug and kiss.

  Eleanor was more sedate in her approach, her smile not yet wavering. She carried three large books and a smaller one, on top of which was a small open sweetgrass basket, placing them all on the floor when she sat down. “Good morning, Miss Szarka. I hope you slept well.”

  I recalled my dream, and the image of the blue Danube and the pair of eyes in the same shade, and almost said yes. “No. When you get to be my age, a good sleep is an impossibility. Something is always hurting and it is too much trouble to bother with changing position. Besides, something else will find a way to start hurting, so what is the point?”

  Gigi moved to the other side of the bed so Nurse Kester could place my meal tray on my lap.

  “Yum, oatmeal,” Eleanor said, giving an exaggerated sniff. “Your favorite.”

  I frowned at her, but before I could ask her to feed me, she said, “If you’re strong enough to feed yourself, then Nurse Kester thinks you’re strong enough to go for a drive to the beach. Or a walk to the dock. Or even a visit to church. Your pick.”