by Sharon Potts
Gizmo barked.
“And Gizmo.”
No answer. She expected Lillian to emerge from one of the rooms in a huff, protesting the dog.
“Maybe she went upstairs to lie down. I’ll check.”
Kali took running steps up the stairs. Her grandmother’s bedroom door was open. The bed was made, but there was no sign of her.
Kali knocked lightly on the door and stepped into the room. “Lillian? Are you in here?”
She walked around the bed toward the bathroom. Beneath a light residue of smoke, she could smell lavender, Lillian’s scent for as long as she could remember. But something wasn’t right.
Her grandmother was lying on the marble floor in her faded floral housedress. Her arms were extended and her eyes closed, as though she was asleep. Her white hair was matted against her forehead with something red. Blood. There was blood everywhere.
“Oh my God.” Kali dropped down beside her grandmother to check if she was breathing. “Neil,” she shouted. “Call 911.”
14
Her head ached. It was the opening night party. Too much schnapps. And Leli didn’t even like schnapps.
“Mrs. Campbell?” A man was shouting. “Mrs. Campbell, can you hear me?”
Leli felt confused, blurry. Why did her head hurt so much?
“Lillian,” a sweet voice said. “Lillian, please wake up.”
Who was that? And what was stuck in her nose making it so difficult to breathe?
Voices were all around her, an irritating buzz of bees. “She’s stable,” said the man. “Just sleeping it off. But we’re going to take some X-rays and do a CT scan. Maybe an MRI.”
So much noise. Why wouldn’t they go away and let her sleep? She was so tired. And her head hurt.
Too much schnapps last night. She would never drink a drop of booze again. Never.
Leli went down the crowded avenue. It was bustling with people hurrying home from work, women carrying bundles climbing onto a streetcar. A draft horse pulling a cart clopped down the street.
People stared at Leli. Probably because of her new hat with its ribbons and bow. Her blonde hair curled so nicely around the felt rim. It had been foolish to spend so much money on a hat, but she had fallen in love with it in the shop window. Besides, she’d make plenty more money this week. The show was a grand success. A dream come true. Twenty years old and on her way to stardom!
Leli turned down the alley toward the stage entrance to the theater. The avenue sounds fell away, and Leli could hear her high heels strike against the cobblestones. A cat darted past her. The street smelled like vomit and old garbage.
Leli pulled on the stage door. It stuck. She pulled again. Nothing. Then she noticed the sign plastered to the door. Cancelled, it said. The show had been cancelled.
But that was impossible. The show was a grand success. A grand success, the director had said. Hadn’t the cast held a big celebration last night? She stepped away from the door to see if she was at the correct theater, but of course, she was.
Cancelled. Now what was she going to do?
An old man was coming toward her, hunched over as he balanced on his walking stick. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and had a graying goatee. His coat and hat seemed to belong to an earlier era. She stepped aside to let him pass, but he stopped and gazed at her. For an instant, he seemed vaguely familiar, as though she’d seen him somewhere before, but then realized it was highly unlikely.
“Are you all right, miss?” He spoke a soft, elegant German, like the Viennese from home. Leli hadn’t acclimated to the harsh German that most people here in Berlin spoke.
She pointed to the sign on the stage door.
“Oh, my,” he said. “Cancelled. What a pity. Were you in it? An actress?”
She nodded.
“Well, you’re very beautiful. I’m sure there will be other shows.”
“I don’t think so. It had been hard enough to get a role in this one. And now—” She stopped. She couldn’t believe she was telling a stranger her problems.
A gray tabby jumped from one of the trash cans and darted past them. The old man tensed and raised his walking stick.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” He dabbed at his brow, then smiled. “That horrible cat caught me by surprise is all.” He reached into his overcoat and checked his gold pocket watch. “I was just heading around the block to that very nice Konditorei for a coffee and perhaps a piece of strudel. I’d be honored if you’d join me.”
Leli shook her head. “That’s very kind of you, but I’d better get going.”
“Because I’m a stranger?”
He said it kindly, but she felt herself blush.
“That’s very prudent, young lady.” He made a little bow. “My name is Dr. Altwulf.” He gave a small smile and his blue eyes twinkled. “There now, we’re no longer strangers.”
He was charming and not as old as Leli had originally thought— maybe fifty or sixty years old. Her father’s age.
“Of course. I understand if you want to get home to your parents, or perhaps a boyfriend?” He raised an eyebrow.
“No. I have no one here. No family in Berlin.”
“Come then, my dear. I’ll bet you’re hungry. And I’m just an old man. An artist—a painter. I teach at the university.”
“My father’s a professor.”
“Indeed?” He held out his arm for her.
She hesitated.
“You know, my dear, that’s a very striking hat.”
Leli smiled and took his arm.
A sweet voice was whispering in her ear. “Please come back to me.”
15
Javier Guzman pulled his car over to the side of the road next to an overgrown vacant lot, turned off the ignition, then leaned back against the headrest. It was dark on the street with little traffic, so it wasn’t likely he’d be noticed, especially if he didn’t linger more than a few minutes. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata was playing. Javier kept the volume low so he could hear any untoward sounds coming from outside the car.
Although the sonata’s rippling arpeggios usually calmed him, Javier was edgy and impatient as he studied the two-story white-columned house with its ivy-covered walls. The shutters were askew and shifting palm fronds cast giant gray claws over the cracked, flaking façade.
For a moment he was back in his childhood home in Buenos Aires, palm-frond shadows playing on the whitewashed walls, Beethoven filling the room as his father unlocked and opened the small trunk.
The hat was swathed in tissue paper and kept in a special airtight package so it wouldn’t deteriorate. His father gently unwrapped it, as one might an infant at baptism.
“This was hers,” his father said in a hushed voice.
The hat was made of felt and covered with ribbons and a large bow. How soft and pretty it looked. Little Javier reached out to touch it.
“No.” His father slapped his hand away with a painful chop.
Javier stifled a cry and brought his throbbing hand to his mouth.
“It’s not a toy.” His father held its inner headband to his face and inhaled deeply, again and again. “Her scent,” he said, his eyes closed. “I can hardly smell her anymore.”
The pain in Javier’s hand subsided as the violins gently took over the melody. He wanted to ask who she was, but was afraid of angering his father.
“Someday, Javier, I’ll find her. She can’t run from me forever. I’ll find her and touch her and smell her, and then—”
His father sniffed the inner headband and little Javier felt a tingle in his groin, almost like his father’s desire had become his own.
“Yes, Vati,” Javier said to the darkness as the music swirled around him in the car. “I’ll find her for you.”
Javier turned his attention back to the dilapidated house. There were no lights on inside and, if Javier didn’t know better, he would have believed from its rundown condition that no one had lived here for weeks, or perhap
s months.
But this was where the old woman who had been treated for smoke inhalation yesterday lived. Then, earlier today, the very same woman showed up on a fresh 911 call. This time, for a stroke.
Javier had hacked into several different databases and discovered the woman, Lillian Campbell, was a widow, married to the deceased Harold Campbell, a banker. Javier’s interest had been piqued when he discovered she was ninety-three. Problem was, when Javier continued digging, the information he was able to find on Mrs. Campbell was sketchy. He discovered she was formerly Lillian Breitling, born in London with a British passport, but couldn’t find any photos or other details about her roots.
Probably a waste of time to investigate further. It was unlikely that she was the woman who had so consumed his father, and Javier couldn’t be allocating resources to pursuing women not connected to Austria and Germany. Even if the woman was the right age. But because Javier was the kind of person who left no stone unturned, he had decided to drive by her house tonight. Maybe there’d be something of interest. Besides, he liked riding around in the dark, slowing to gaze into brightly lit rooms.
He’d developed the practice as a teenager, noticing that young women often undressed as if they didn’t realize every movement was visible to someone outside their window. Javier preferred slender blondes with narrow necks and large breasts, much like his ex-wife and the woman in the photos and films his father had sequestered. It was like viewing an X-rated movie, but better. Only a piece of glass stood between them.
A car swished through a puddle of rainwater, the sound merging with the crescendo of Beethoven’s liquid moonlight.
No one was home at the Campbells’ tonight. Nothing to watch. Nothing to do for now.
Javier started the engine and turned up the volume. He’d drive around the block one more time, then check back.
16
Kali returned to her grandmother’s house around eight. It was dark outside and she could hear cars splashing through puddles as they drove by. She didn’t know when it had stopped raining since she’d been inside the hospital the entire day.
She leaned against the kitchen table feeling lightheaded. She hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. The chipped china teacup that her grandmother had been drinking from was still on the table with the dregs from her tea. Just this morning, Kali had been sitting across from her, having the first real conversation they’d ever had. A couple of hours later, she’d almost lost her.
Kali took a bran muffin from the package on the counter and stuffed it into her mouth to quell her nausea. The tests and hospital red tape had taken hours. Lillian had had a stroke, then apparently fallen, cutting her head and bleeding everywhere. The doctors wanted to keep her for observation. But what did that mean? A day? A week? And then what?
Her cell phone rang. Seth said he’d call when he got home. He had been at his office all evening to prepare for his trial, but Kali couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding her or her grandmother.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey. How’s she doing?”
“They finally brought her to a room a little while ago. She’s sleeping a lot, and when she wakes up she’s not making a lot of sense.” After Seth’s remarks about her grandmother last night and earlier today, Kali didn’t dare mention Lillian was speaking German and had no idea who Kali was.
“What did the doctor say?”
“He didn’t sound worried. He said it’s not unusual in an old person after a stroke.”
“I guess that’s good news.”
“I guess.”
There was that awkwardness between them, again.
“So when do you think you’ll be able to leave?”
“I already left. I just got to her house.”
“Her house?”
“I’m picking up a few things for her. A nightgown, robe, her hair-brush.”
“You must be starving. You need to eat regular meals for the baby. Should I order in?”
Kali looked at the half-eaten muffin in her hand. “Sure.” She felt a wave of sadness that he spoke about the baby instead of using one of the silly names he liked to tease her with.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“Whatever. You decide.”
“Chinese? Thai? Italian?”
“I don’t care.”
“Okay. Chinese then. How about Szechuan-style eggplant, veggie fried—”
“Whatever you want is fine. Let me get Lillian’s things together.”
“Sure. Sure. But hurry. Food should be here in about a half hour.”
“I’ll get there as soon as I can.” Kali ended the call, put her phone back in her pocket, then headed up to Lillian’s bedroom. She’d pack a bag for her and go home. She and Seth would eat dinner together. He’d come up with a new ridiculous name for the baby like Sinbad or Popeye, and everything would be fine. No awkwardness. No tension.
Her sneakers padded against the marble steps. The house felt eerily empty. She shuddered and touched her abdomen, wondering if it was her hormones that were heightening her perceptions of things.
She went into her grandmother’s bedroom. The smell of lavender and smoke still hung in the air. Lillian kept her nightgowns and underwear in the walk-in closet just outside the bathroom.
Kali stopped. Her hand went to her mouth as her stomach revolted. Blood from Lillian’s head injury had puddled on the white marble floor. Someone had to clean it up, and there was no one but Kali.
She found a cleaning rag and a bottle of Pine-Sol and tried to imagine something else as she wiped up the mess. Red paint. That was all it was. Red paint. Jackson Pollock readying his canvas. But the tang of iron sickened her. Paint never smelled like this. She rinsed out the rag, holding her breath, then finished up the job. She needed to get out of here quickly. She gathered Lillian’s things from the closet, noticing the small rectangular panel in the wall, behind which was a built-in cabinet with several narrow shelves where Lillian kept thimbles, sewing needles, and spools of thread.
Where, beneath a spool of never-used cherry-red thread on the top shelf, Lillian used to hide the key to the storage rooms. Was it still there?
Kali hesitated. Seth was waiting. But something tugged at her. An addict’s need to go back and look just one more time.
She pressed the panel and it popped open. The cherry-red thread was still on the top shelf. Kali felt beneath the spool. There it was.
When she’d first found the key fourteen years before, she’d been baffled by its purpose. She’d gone around the house, checking for locked doors, and realized the key was for the closet near the back door. Opening the door and seeing the hidden storage rooms had been like discovering the secret to Ali Baba’s caves. Kali began the practice of sneaking in there whenever her grandparents were out of the house, always hoping to find some secret paper or book or picture. Something that would help Kali decode her past. But she’d never found anything.
Maybe this time.
Kali took the key from the sewing cabinet, ran down the stairs and through the kitchen. She tried to push the wicker étagère away from the door that led to the storage rooms. It was weighted down with piles of newspapers and required a bit of effort for Kali to move it. Finally, it scraped against the linoleum flooring and away from the door. Kali was breathing hard as she put the key into the lock and turned it.
She felt a twitch in her abdomen and froze. Stupid. Stupid. She was crazy to be exerting herself. She waited, afraid to move or breathe. Nothing more happened. She patted her belly. “Sorry, Bucephala. No more foolish chances. I promise.”
She flipped on the light and went up the creaky wooden stairs. There were no window A/C units up here and it smelled close. Each of the two rooms was barely large enough for a twin bed, a chest of drawers, and maybe a small table, and they were connected by a tiny bathroom. But no house help had ever lived in here, at least as far as Kali knew.
The first room was as she remembered it from fourteen years ago,
filled so that there was barely enough space to walk around. It was a pastiche of broken and chipped chairs, an oak icebox, a Singer sewing machine, the cushions from the lawn furniture, several cans of house paint, a rickety ladder, and a folding cot. Kali touched the metal springs of the cot. But she hadn’t come here to remember that one night.
She checked her cell phone again. Seth was probably starting to get worried. She’d just take a quick look around, then she’d call and let him know she was on her way.
She stepped into the other room. A study in brown and black, cubes and rectangles. Cartons were in uneven stacks against one side of the room and old-fashioned luggage was piled haphazardly in several groupings. Kali recalled going through each of the suitcases fourteen years ago, but there was a black suitcase that she wasn’t sure had been here last time. She opened it and was instantly filled with sadness. It contained her grandfather’s clothes, neatly folded. There was a tweed suit that she didn’t recognize and a dozen or so caps. She touched a faded yellow polo shirt that had been a favorite of his. Dear Grandpa. She’d always called him Grandpa, never Harry, even when she began calling her grandmother Lillian. He’d been gone ten years, but how she still missed him. Always a cigar hanging from the side of his mouth, a cap on his head. She closed the lid on the suitcase, then clicked it shut.
She surveyed the cartons. They were all unmarked and rearranged from when she’d first examined their contents years before, so she couldn’t tell what had been added or changed around. She tested the weight of one of the top cartons. Not too heavy. She took it down as thick white dust floated around her. She put the carton on the floor and opened it. The bright color of sunflowers was unexpected. Kali lifted her old quilt from the carton and buried her face in it. The smell was wrong. Musty. She put it back and closed the carton.
She slid out a battered carton from the wall. It was filled with magazines and newspapers. Probably her grandfather’s. She remembered going through this box years ago. Pieces of paper disintegrated and flew up as she lifted the magazines to see if there was anything of particular interest at the bottom.
