then one evening, a full sentence is born. “Dear Anna,” he says, interrupting her reading aloud. “You remind me . . . you remind me of our mother.”
“Do I?” she says, smiling. “Can you tell me about her?”
And with that one query, the dike is breached. A flood of memories pour out of William. How their mother had the tiniest teeth, like a child’s, and showed her pink gums when she laughed. How everyone remarked that her English was so perfect, so unaccented that she could easily have been born in America. She was proud of that. Their father spoke with an unmistakably German accent, as did all their friends.
William’s face animates for the first time in months as he tells her stories of his childhood, of her brothers whom Anna barely knew, of the rainy night baby Anna was born, and how their mother wept, for at last she had given birth to a girl. Anna has never heard any of this before. She cannot even recall her own mother’s face. All her life, when people spoke of her mother’s death, they sighed. They said she died of rheumatism. But Anna knows it wasn’t so. Once, when she was fifteen, Aunt Charlotte told her that just months after Anna was born, when she was still being nursed, the flesh of one of her mother’s breasts developed a lump like the stone in a peach. By the time Anna was two years and two months old, her mother was gone. No one’s spoken the word. Cancer. Yet, what hurts her is that when they speak of Elise Rasche, it’s always about her untimely death, never about her life. No one seems to recall what she loved, how she laughed. Until now. “She read poems aloud to all of us. Even as a baby, you calmed down when she recited poetry.”
“You do not know what you have done for me,” she tells him as they both climb the stairs to bed, hours later. “You’ve brought Mama to life.” William laughs aloud.
“If only I could bring her back,” he says. “Mother and Lydia. And especially Lewis.” He closes his eyes when he says his son’s name. “If only I could bring them all back.”
“Tonight, Mother was in the room with us. Tomorrow, we’ll speak of Lewis.”
“I don’t know if I can bear to,” William says.
“It will help. I know it will,” she tells him. “It’s swallowing down the memories that turns the world so black.”
Before he heads for his room, he takes her hand. He looks as if he might speak. Instead, he squeezes her fingers and smiles faintly. It’s all she needs to know she’s made a difference.
“Papa’s so much better when you’re around, Aunt Anna.” Anna Louise tells her before she goes up to bed that night.
“Oh my dear Aennchen. Do not let your hopes rise too high. There’s a very long way to go yet.”
“But at least you’ve begun the journey. You will stay, Aunt Anna, won’t you? You will!”
The summer wears on for Edith as slowly as one of Henry James’s more recent tomes. So she’s overjoyed when Walter Berry arrives from Washington, D.C., for a visit.
Though she’s had guests throughout the season, all this summer they’ve felt like an intrusion. But with Walter, she feels nothing but relief. When his long arms enfold her, she is at peace. When he wanders the gardens each morning at dawn in his snowy linen suit, Edith glances down from her bedroom window, wondering what her life would be like if she could make a clean swap and trade Walter for Teddy. How beautifully he stands out against the kelly green grass and brilliant flowers! How regal his gait! But because she has a far-too-developed rational side, she recognizes the negative aspect of this fantasy: unlike with Teddy, she never could have hidden a thing from Walter. Could she ever have felt free? Even now she feels him watching her with concern.
“What is playing at you, Edith? Are you quite all right?” he asks one evening, wandering into the library after a dinner at which Edith wasn’t as talkative as usual. “Am I not the company you hoped for?”
“Do I?” she says, smiling. “Can you tell me about her?”
And with that one query, the dike is breached. A flood of memories pour out of William. How their mother had the tiniest teeth, like a child’s, and showed her pink gums when she laughed. How everyone remarked that her English was so perfect, so unaccented that she could easily have been born in America. She was proud of that. Their father spoke with an unmistakably German accent, as did all their friends.
William’s face animates for the first time in months as he tells her stories of his childhood, of her brothers whom Anna barely knew, of the rainy night baby Anna was born, and how their mother wept, for at last she had given birth to a girl. Anna has never heard any of this before. She cannot even recall her own mother’s face. All her life, when people spoke of her mother’s death, they sighed. They said she died of rheumatism. But Anna knows it wasn’t so. Once, when she was fifteen, Aunt Charlotte told her that just months after Anna was born, when she was still being nursed, the flesh of one of her mother’s breasts developed a lump like the stone in a peach. By the time Anna was two years and two months old, her mother was gone. No one’s spoken the word. Cancer. Yet, what hurts her is that when they speak of Elise Rasche, it’s always about her untimely death, never about her life. No one seems to recall what she loved, how she laughed. Until now. “She read poems aloud to all of us. Even as a baby, you calmed down when she recited poetry.”
“You do not know what you have done for me,” she tells him as they both climb the stairs to bed, hours later. “You’ve brought Mama to life.” William laughs aloud.
“If only I could bring her back,” he says. “Mother and Lydia. And especially Lewis.” He closes his eyes when he says his son’s name. “If only I could bring them all back.”
“Tonight, Mother was in the room with us. Tomorrow, we’ll speak of Lewis.”
“I don’t know if I can bear to,” William says.
“It will help. I know it will,” she tells him. “It’s swallowing down the memories that turns the world so black.”
Before he heads for his room, he takes her hand. He looks as if he might speak. Instead, he squeezes her fingers and smiles faintly. It’s all she needs to know she’s made a difference.
“Papa’s so much better when you’re around, Aunt Anna.” Anna Louise tells her before she goes up to bed that night.
“Oh my dear Aennchen. Do not let your hopes rise too high. There’s a very long way to go yet.”
“But at least you’ve begun the journey. You will stay, Aunt Anna, won’t you? You will!”
The summer wears on for Edith as slowly as one of Henry James’s more recent tomes. So she’s overjoyed when Walter Berry arrives from Washington, D.C., for a visit.
Though she’s had guests throughout the season, all this summer they’ve felt like an intrusion. But with Walter, she feels nothing but relief. When his long arms enfold her, she is at peace. When he wanders the gardens each morning at dawn in his snowy linen suit, Edith glances down from her bedroom window, wondering what her life would be like if she could make a clean swap and trade Walter for Teddy. How beautifully he stands out against the kelly green grass and brilliant flowers! How regal his gait! But because she has a far-too-developed rational side, she recognizes the negative aspect of this fantasy: unlike with Teddy, she never could have hidden a thing from Walter. Could she ever have felt free? Even now she feels him watching her with concern.
“What is playing at you, Edith? Are you quite all right?” he asks one evening, wandering into the library after a dinner at which Edith wasn’t as talkative as usual. “Am I not the company you hoped for?”
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