Where did your brothers go? Why aren’t they here?” If Greta is safe , I wanted to ask, and you’re safe, why didn’t she save them too?
My baba pressed her lips together, considering. “Darling,” she said. “I think you’re trying to put me off. I think you don’t want to practice your scales.”
I shook my head. She knew that wasn’t true. Her eyes told me so.
“I think you need to go to your room and think about what you’re saying. Maybe when you come back out you’ll be ready to practice again, like a good girl.”
We stared each other down for a moment; then I spun on my heel and ran out of the room. Lying on my bed, I did exactly whatshe asked—thought about my questions, and thought about Ada’s answers too. All the girls, buried in the yard. All the girls, safe with Greta.
Except one.
I t’s unsettling to think that I’m still looking for my lost family all these years later: one more of Greta’s daughters tucked into the soil. I know it’s crazy, but part of me thinks, There’ll be a sign . Ada wouldn’t just leave me. As I step outside the apartment building, my phone rings again from the bowels of my purse, and I think, It’s starting . I answer without even checking the caller ID.
“Lu?” On the other end of the line, John sounds frantic. “Are you all right? I’ve been calling.”
“I’m fine.” I feel a little numb—just John. What did I expect? “I was in the shower.”
I hear him sit down as he says, “Oh,” and can in an instant imagine him exactly. On break from rehearsal, hiding from the elementary school audience in the singer’s greenroom, sitting on the old leather couch. Stirring honey into his midday cup of peppermint tea. His flushed cheeks. The chintzy tinkle of a cheap steel spoon in a microwaveable ceramic mug. He never really liked children before Kara was born, which is one reason his sudden devotion to the image of our perfect family unnerves me. That, and the fact that it can’t last. Once the truth is out, then what?
“Well,” he finally says, “any plans for the day?”
“Yes.” I readjust Kara with one hand, tuck the phone between my chin and shoulder with the other. “Ada.”
“What?” Concern creeps back into John’s voice.
“We’re going to see Ada.” I pause, letting him think I’m crazy. “Bring flowers.” I pause again. “To the cemetery , John.”
“Today? In this?” I imagine him gesturing to the weather, which, from his windowless room, he can’t see.
“We’ll be fine.”
John hesitates.
“Be careful, Lu,” he says. “Be gentle with yourself.”
He has no idea how much loss a person can stand.
Of course, I haven’t lost him yet. So maybe neither do I.
6
K ara’s infant form switches around in every Greta story; she’s bundled up inside them like a tiny egg. In Greta you can see us all, descending from her like wooden nesting dolls. But when I was a girl I thought the view stopped with me. That when my baba Ada braided my hair or led me through scales, I was the last note in the song, the last line in the tale. The little queen our family machine was built to make.
In her time, my mother, Sara, thought so too. I couldn’t know, as a child, what a surprise I’d been to her. All I saw was that she was suspicious of me. That she wanted to keep me close, but didn’t know how to stay.
If she was bored she picked up my hand, so much smaller than hers even I could see it was delicate, and clipped off the raw, smiling ends of my nails. If she was in a good mood, she’d file them down with her many emery boards, each possessing its own subtle use. And she’d pick a candy color she felt suited me and paint my nails until they resembled jelly beans.
“Okay,” she’d say. “Now blow on them. And don’t move. You can’t move until they’re dry because you’ll muck around with something and mess them up.” Then she’d frown. “I’m not doing this over again. So you’d better keep them
My baba pressed her lips together, considering. “Darling,” she said. “I think you’re trying to put me off. I think you don’t want to practice your scales.”
I shook my head. She knew that wasn’t true. Her eyes told me so.
“I think you need to go to your room and think about what you’re saying. Maybe when you come back out you’ll be ready to practice again, like a good girl.”
We stared each other down for a moment; then I spun on my heel and ran out of the room. Lying on my bed, I did exactly whatshe asked—thought about my questions, and thought about Ada’s answers too. All the girls, buried in the yard. All the girls, safe with Greta.
Except one.
I t’s unsettling to think that I’m still looking for my lost family all these years later: one more of Greta’s daughters tucked into the soil. I know it’s crazy, but part of me thinks, There’ll be a sign . Ada wouldn’t just leave me. As I step outside the apartment building, my phone rings again from the bowels of my purse, and I think, It’s starting . I answer without even checking the caller ID.
“Lu?” On the other end of the line, John sounds frantic. “Are you all right? I’ve been calling.”
“I’m fine.” I feel a little numb—just John. What did I expect? “I was in the shower.”
I hear him sit down as he says, “Oh,” and can in an instant imagine him exactly. On break from rehearsal, hiding from the elementary school audience in the singer’s greenroom, sitting on the old leather couch. Stirring honey into his midday cup of peppermint tea. His flushed cheeks. The chintzy tinkle of a cheap steel spoon in a microwaveable ceramic mug. He never really liked children before Kara was born, which is one reason his sudden devotion to the image of our perfect family unnerves me. That, and the fact that it can’t last. Once the truth is out, then what?
“Well,” he finally says, “any plans for the day?”
“Yes.” I readjust Kara with one hand, tuck the phone between my chin and shoulder with the other. “Ada.”
“What?” Concern creeps back into John’s voice.
“We’re going to see Ada.” I pause, letting him think I’m crazy. “Bring flowers.” I pause again. “To the cemetery , John.”
“Today? In this?” I imagine him gesturing to the weather, which, from his windowless room, he can’t see.
“We’ll be fine.”
John hesitates.
“Be careful, Lu,” he says. “Be gentle with yourself.”
He has no idea how much loss a person can stand.
Of course, I haven’t lost him yet. So maybe neither do I.
6
K ara’s infant form switches around in every Greta story; she’s bundled up inside them like a tiny egg. In Greta you can see us all, descending from her like wooden nesting dolls. But when I was a girl I thought the view stopped with me. That when my baba Ada braided my hair or led me through scales, I was the last note in the song, the last line in the tale. The little queen our family machine was built to make.
In her time, my mother, Sara, thought so too. I couldn’t know, as a child, what a surprise I’d been to her. All I saw was that she was suspicious of me. That she wanted to keep me close, but didn’t know how to stay.
If she was bored she picked up my hand, so much smaller than hers even I could see it was delicate, and clipped off the raw, smiling ends of my nails. If she was in a good mood, she’d file them down with her many emery boards, each possessing its own subtle use. And she’d pick a candy color she felt suited me and paint my nails until they resembled jelly beans.
“Okay,” she’d say. “Now blow on them. And don’t move. You can’t move until they’re dry because you’ll muck around with something and mess them up.” Then she’d frown. “I’m not doing this over again. So you’d better keep them
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