by Lev AC Rosen
“Sorry,” he says. “But I’ll be on the game later tonight. We have a reward to collect. And I want to join the Thieves Guild. You in?”
“Yes,” Nat says. “Time to get out of Wellhall, see some other cities.”
“Cool,” Nick says. “And maybe I can go to your mom’s restaurant after school tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Nat says. “We have to finish those damn history papers. You done with yours?”
“Almost,” Nick says.
• • •
After school, Dad picks him up and they drive to the home. It’s a chilly day—really starting to feel like fall now. Nick is wearing shorts, and being outside gives him goosebumps from the chill. The sky is old-sword gray, and the parking lot’s white stones seem like pebbles without the bright sunlight. Nick takes off his seat belt and turns to Dad.
“I want to see her alone,” he says.
Dad looks up at him and starts to shake his head.
“Please,” Nick says. “I won’t upset her. I just need to…say goodbye.”
“It’s not goodbye, Nick.”
“I know,” Nick says. “I didn’t mean like, goodbye-goodbye. Just…the goodbye I should have said when she first moved out.”
Dad takes off his glasses and rubs the space between his eyes. “Why now?”
For a moment, Nick thinks of telling him—about Reunne, about his fantasy and how it toppled around him but somehow didn’t kill him. Didn’t even hurt as much as he thought. He wants to tell him he’s still angry but not as much, that he feels like he’s moved up a level, and he needs to do this to figure out where to put his new skill points. But he doesn’t think Dad will get it.
“ ’Cause of what you told me,” Nick says.
“Don’t tell your mother what I said,” Dad says quickly.
“I won’t,” Nick says. “But can I see her alone, for just a few minutes?”
Dad inhales deeply. “Okay,” he says. “But the nurses and staff will still be there.”
“That’s okay,” Nick says, getting out of the car. They walk to the porch together. No one is outside today; it’s too cool. Inside, at the desk, Maria is writing something on a clipboard and absently scratching the back of one leg with her foot.
“Hi,” Nick says.
Maria turns. “Hi,” she says, cautiously. “You guys aren’t normally here Monday.”
“I know,” Nick says. “Do you know where my mom is?”
“Pottery,” Maria says, her worry lines appearing on her forehead. “But she’s not expecting you….She might be confused.”
“That’s okay,” Nick says. “I just want to talk to her.” Maria looks up and behind Nick to Dad, and Nick watches her expression as they have one of those silent conversations that they think kids don’t pick up on.
“Okay,” Maria says. “I’ll show you there.”
He follows Maria down a few halls and into a lower level, where the windows are just on the top halves of the walls. There are six or seven residents down here, and four nurses. The residents are all at pottery wheels, and a woman in a smock goes around helping them. Mom’s pot is low and wide, more like a bowl. He starts walking toward her, then backs up a few steps to where Maria is leaning against the wall, watching him.
“I’m sorry if I was rude that first day we met,” he says to Maria.
Maria shrugs but smiles faintly. “I’ve seen a lot worse,” she says. Nick nods and walks over to Mom. He studies her profile. She’s so pale in the light of the basement, almost glowing. He sees the cameo necklace dangling from her neck and feels a moment of guilt, remembering how he left it on the floor. There’s an empty stool next to her that he sits down on.
“Hi,” he says.
She looks up from her pot and smiles at him.
“Hello,” she says. Nick expects something more, but she’s focused on her pot. Her hands press on the sides of the pot, coaxing them upward, taller and thinner, as it spins.
“I wanted to talk to you about the night the wall fell,” Nick says. Mom looks up at him again and smiles, the lines around her eyes crinkling into stars.
“You look like my son,” she says, and looks back at her pot. “He’s such a good kid, but he’s at that age, you know? I worry.”
Nick swallows. His ears are ringing like he’s just been punched, and he can feel himself blinking away the water building up in his eyes. Worse than being punched—beaten. Drained. By his mother. A few more drops of sadness fall into his bubble, one after the other, making echoing splashes. But he’s lived through his mother killing him once already, even if he was wrong about it, so he swallows and takes a breath, then forces himself to speak.
“I am your son,” he says.
“Oh no,” Mom says. “My family only visits on the weekends.”
“Oh,” Nick says, looking down. “Right.” He watches her hands on the clay again. The pot has gotten so tall now that at the edge the clay is paper thin and she can’t keep it even. It ripples, like the edge of a scallop, and then it tears.
“Scheisse,” Mom says. She coaxes the clay back down, tries to repair the damage, but it’s uneven now and toppling inward.
“I wanted to ask about the night the wall fell,” Nick says. “The Berlin Wall. And about your dad.”
“I remember that very well,” Mom says, her eyes focused on the clay. She’s pushed it back down and started anew. It’s a plate now, rising into a bowl. “I remember…something awful had happened. To me, just before. And I was walking along, and people ran past me, excited. And then more people, so I stopped and asked them what was happening, and they said the wall was open. They were going to see the West. And that’s what I’d always wanted, just to escape. To get out of East Berlin, so I ran after them.” She coaxes the bowl up into a vase, more carefully now, bending the rim slightly outward. “I waited in line—well, more of a crowd—for a long time. And then I walked through. It was so easy—the guards had given up by then, so I just walked through. Through the stone and the barbed wire and the other wall beyond it. And then I was in the West. It was…beautiful. Lots of light, even though it was nighttime. Brightly colored advertisements everywhere.” She carefully curls the rim downward, keeping it separate from the rest of the vase underneath. It looks like the jet of a fountain, the water spilling over when it reaches the top, or maybe a tree. “And I thought to myself that I could stay there. I could just stay, and no one would know I’d gone. I could travel to America. I could see the world.” She lifts her hands away and stops the pottery wheel. The vase stays in place. “It’s for my husband,” she says. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
“Yeah,” Nick says. “Dad will love that. But what happened next? What happened once you’d crossed the wall?”
“Oh, I went back,” she says with a shrug. “I had responsibilities. I wandered around first, of course, but that night I went back, and I felt miserable the whole walk home. And then when I got home, my father was gone. He’d gotten out and gone who knows where. They found him a week later, dead in a river. I was so…so, so relieved.” She turns and looks at Nick. “Does that make me a bad person?” she asks.
“No,” Nick says. “Not at all.” He lays his hand on Mom’s hand, feeling the slick gumminess of the clay covering her hands like gloves.
“I hope my son never feels that way about me,” Mom says. Then she lifts her hand away from Nick’s, and raises it in the air. The woman with the smock comes over and looks at it.
“Very nice work, Sophie,” she says. “Beautiful.” She turns to Nick. “Isn’t she talented?”
“Yeah,” Nick says, though he feels like they’re talking about her like she’s a child, which makes him feel weird.
“I’m sleepy,” Mom says. The woman in the smock waves to the nurses, and Maria comes forward.
“You want to lie down, Sophie?” she asks. Mom nods.
“Why don’t you say goodbye?” Maria says to Nick. Nick hugs his mother, who seems surprised but pats him lightly on the back. Nick tightens his g
rip, then lets go. And then she hugs him back, too, and Nick knows that, for this moment, it’s not just some parts of her but every part of her that’s hugging him back. Every part of her loves him.
“Bye, Mom,” he says. “I’ll be back on Saturday.”
Mom nods.
“Can you find your own way?” Maria asks.
“Yeah,” Nick says. “I can.”
He walks slowly up the stairs and down the halls, noticing the other residents; white hair, polite smiles, expressions like curious cats. They’re all inside today, and when he passes a rec room, he sees them all gathered around a TV, one of them with a game controller in his hand. He steps in and watches the old man play Wellhall for a while. He’s a knight, hitting goblins with a sword.
“Get ’em!” one of the other residents shouts. The others all laugh and start shouting what else to do next: “On your left!” “Watch your back!” “Cut him in two!” Nick grins and walks away. Dad is talking to Jess at the front desk. They don’t notice Nick approaching.
“It’s always hard,” Jess says. “But I think you’re doing a good job. You can ask him, too, you know.”
“Ask him if I’m being a good father?” Dad asks. Nick stops where he is. “How does one even ask that?”
Jess shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Just…check in.”
Nick steps out and walks quickly up to Dad.
“Thanks, Dad,” he says, so they know he’s there. He hugs Dad tightly. Dad hugs him back.
“What for?” Dad asks.
“For letting me talk to Mom,” Nick says.
Dad nods.
“And for taking us to Nat’s mom’s place for dinner. I’m too exhausted to try your cooking tonight.”
Dad laughs and then rests his hand on Nick’s head. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks, Jess. Say hi to Ms. Knight for us.”
“Will do,” Jess says, smiling. “See you soon?”
“We’ll be back,” Nick says.
“WELL,” SEVERKIN says, drinking his third mug of ale, “you ready to head out? I hear there’s a ruin near Blackwater that no one has ever come out of alive.”
“Ooooh, sounds fun,” Elkana says. “Are ye sure ye don’t want ta see yer new home first? A big ol’ mansion right up against the wall of the mountain must have quite a view. And we went ta a lot of trouble for it.” They get up and head through the crowd of drunks and revelers for the door. Rorth had happily given them their requested rewards once they’d returned the artifacts. He’d gripped the object, and it had hummed slightly, and it had seemed to work. There hadn’t been any more giant sightings in days.
“It’ll be here when we get back,” Severkin says as they stumble out the door. He takes a big gulp of air. It’s dark out, and the night winds of the high mountain have worked their way inside. Rorth had said he had a new mission for them—to find out what woke the giants in the first place, so they could make sure it didn’t happen again. They’d get to that. Eventually.
“Well, just don’t forget about it,” Elkana says. “Be a shame never ta use that beautiful house.”
“It’ll be a museum one day,” Severkin says. “Filled with the treasures of my adventures. And we’ll be old, and we’ll charge a gold piece for a ticket and totter around giving tours and telling young people about how we fought the Wizard of Someplace and got the Sword of Something.”
Elkana laughs.
“They’ll be very impressed,” Severkin says. They start walking for the gate out of the city, the cold winds sobering them as they go.
“Why have ye roped me in ta this now?” Elkana says. “Cannae I just die in valiant battle?”
“No,” Severkin says, taking her hand for a moment, then releasing it. “I’ll need you around, to make sure I don’t forget the stories, the adventures.”
“The name of the Sword of Something?”
“Yeah, like that,” Severkin says. They’ve reached the gate and look out at the sky. It’s dark, and to Severkin, the stars smile like freckles.
“Well, let’s move on, then,” Elkana says. “Gotta have these adventures if ye want ta make yer museum happen.”
Severkin nods and takes another step forward.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AS WITH any book, I have many, many people to thank for helping me fine-tune it into what it’s become. Without their support and advice, this book wouldn’t exist.
First and foremost, I need to thank my friends Ann and Amy, not only for talking me through their multiracial experiences, but also providing me with academic texts, kind feedback on my missteps, and enthusiastic support for something I often felt anxious writing. They’ve inspired me in this writing in more ways than I can count.
None of this would have been possible without my agent, Joy. She is my fiercest advocate, my most stalwart defender, my consigliere, and one of my dearest friends. I owe her way more than I can ever say. Thanks to everyone over at David Black, including Luke, Susan, Emily, Antonella, Sarah, and, of course, David himself.
My editor, Steve, deserves thousands upon thousands of cat photos for his ever-precise and valuable feedback, and for dealing with my rambling nature. I cannot thank him enough for taking a risk on this book, unwieldy and patchwork as it was, and helping to shape it into what it is today. I don’t know what the right emoji is for “eternal gratitude,” but if I did, I would tweet it at him indefinitely.
Dr. Alexis Eastman, my dear friend, cannot be thanked enough. I went into this knowing only a small amount about Alzheimer’s, and how treatments and facilities run, but she not only took me through it all, step by step, but read and re-read the book to make sure everything felt medically sound. Also my mother-in-law, Beverley, and my sister-in-law, Angela, both nurses, for talking me through some aspects of care.
I want to thank the entire team at Knopf and RHCB, especially Nancy, Adrienne, Melanie, Dominique, Katherine, and the hardworking publicity team. Also the folks who created this amazing cover: Nicole and Julie.
I have many, many readers to thank, people who read this—sometimes multiple times—and gave me feedback and advice on how to better it. My writing group—Laura, Robin, Paula, Holly, Margel, and Dan—especially deserves thanks for reading this so many times. Also Christian, Leslie, Jackie, Sarah, Teri, and Teri (no relation). Their notes were invaluable. And, of course, my amazing mother, who has read all of my books many more times than anyone else, and is still surprised when I leave out apostrophes.
I also need to thank my youth advisory team—Macie, Elyn, Barry, MacKenzie, and Kristin—for helping me to understand how young people talk (on their phones, mostly, it turns out).
And Staab! My wonderful former housemate and all-around amazing human being deserves credit not just for his feedback about perceptions of Germany, but for all the actual German he corrected. Especially the swearing. Also Boris, who talked to me about growing up under communism.
Thanks to my old college professor Elizabeth Hamilton, with whom I took some East German cinema classes, and my friend Mary for encouraging me to take them with her. I learned way more about the Cold War through those classes than I ever did in high school, and the images in and feeling of many of those movies helped to guide the feeling of this book.
As always, I owe eternal gratitude and love to my parents for their endless support and encouragement.
And Chris, for being Chris.
