The Things We Cannot Say(104)

“The only other thing she said was Babcia fire Tomasz,” I say, then I groan in frustration. “But I know we think that just means love, which is sweet, but it really...”

“Doesn’t help us much. Look, there’s a saying in my family, Alice, and I think it applies perfectly to today.” I glance at her, and she grins. “Everything looks better after some vodka.”

We try several varieties of local vodka at a restaurant on the square back in Krakow, and try to brainstorm other ways we can approach this mystery.

“Okay, let’s think about Lia,” Zofia murmurs. “Lia’s a receptionist, right?”

“Seems to be.”

“But her great-grandfather once owned the building. Coincidence, or is there still a family connection?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Maybe the business is still owned by the family. Maybe Emilia became a doctor too, or maybe one of her children owns it now.” Zofia fishes her phone out of her pocket and a quick Google search later, we have a list of the GPs at the clinic. “Agnieszka Truchen is one of the owners. That’s got to be Lia’s mother, or at least a relative...”

We find a few dated and grainy pictures of Agnieszka online, but no social media, and all of her listed contact details point back to the clinic. Zofia is on her phone replicating my search, but I’m staring down at the photos on my own screen. As grainy as those images are, I think I can see a similarity to myself. I turn my phone back to Zofia.

“Do you think she looks like me?” I ask her.

“It’s hard to tell because the photos are so poor. But yes, it looks like there’s a resemblance there. Did you see her at the clinic today?”

“No, there were a few doctors coming out to get patients, but I would have noticed her.”

“We could call and ask to speak to her,” Zofia suggests, then she looks at her watch. “It’s not quite five o’clock...”

“They’ll recognize my accent...” I say weakly. Zofia grins.

“They won’t recognize mine.”

She finds the phone number on the clinic website, then she dials. I hear her speaking in Polish, but the call ends quickly and her shoulders slump.

“Agnieszka still owns the clinic, but other doctors do the patient care,” she sighs. “She retired a few years ago.”

“Of course she did,” I mutter, but then I brighten again. “What about Emilia herself? We could search for her on the phone directory?”

“Well, she had at least one child, so she’s almost definitely married, and given her age, I’d say there’s virtually no chance she’d have kept her surname,” Zofia says apologetically. We search anyway—but unsurprisingly, my eighty-seven-year-old great-aunt doesn’t seem to have a Facebook page. After that, we order a second mixed platter of local vodkas, and things get a bit silly.

“Well, if Lia won’t tell us where Emilia is, maybe we could get a private detective to track her down...”

“We could take out full page ads in the newspapers asking Emilia to contact us...”

“We could break into the medical clinic and see if we can find Agnieszka’s address...”

“Maybe I can cancel my return flight and wait in hiding outside the clinic until Agnieszka shows up for a visit and hope she’s more helpful...or at least helpful enough to not call the police...”

“Maybe we could steal some of Lia’s fingernail clippings and get a DNA test done...”

“Or we could offer a million-dollar reward for anyone who solves the mystery!”

At that, Zofia looks at me.

“Do you have a million dollars?” she asks hopefully.

I pause, then slump.

“I’m a stay-at-home mom, so no, not really.”

“Ah. That one sounded promising for a second there.”

We’re laughing a little too loudly when the waiter approaches with the bill, so we go for a walk to clear our heads, then share a delicious meal at yet another restaurant on the square. We chat about everything but my mission while we eat—I tell Zofia about my kids and the difficulties of leaving them. I even skim over the difficulties of leaving Wade alone with them, and the surprising realization I’m starting to form that just maybe, I’ve been holding on to Eddie a little too tightly. Zofia tells me about her work and some of the heartbreaking and hopeful family history searches she’s been involved with. I’m totally engrossed in the chat and enjoying the distraction from the awful dead end my search for Babcia has arrived at. Time gets away from us, so I gasp when I see the clock on the wall.

“I better get back and call my family,” I say, but despite the silliness of the evening, I’m definitely feeling better than I was. “Thanks for tonight though, Zofia.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I’ll walk you back to the hotel and we’ll start again in the morning.” She smiles at me gently. “Don’t lose heart, Alice. We’ll think of something.”

I call back to Wade without texting first, because it’s now 10:31 p.m. Krakow time and that means 5:31 p.m. Florida time, and I know they’ll all be home. Callie answers the phone on the first ring, and she’s crying.

“Mommy,” she croaks.

“Baby!” I gasp. “What happened?”