The Things We Cannot Say(112)

“Alice, I don’t have kids yet, so you go right ahead and ignore me if I’m way off base here but...I just have this feeling that whether you go home today or tomorrow, the outcome is probably the same. You’re going to slot right back into your life and carry them all, and a week or two from now, everything will be back the way it was. And when you look back at this amazing trip, all you’ll have to remember are the failures. Okay, we can’t figure out what your grandmother wanted you to find—I know that’s upsetting and disappointing but...maybe instead you can just experience a little more of the country that produced her.” She slides the napkin off her lap and dumps it on her plate, then stands and shrugs. “My two cents, as the saying goes. I’m going to go put gas in my car, and you take some time to think about it? If you decide to stay, I have some ideas how we can kill the time. Or I can take you to the airport if you want. I’ll be back soon and you can let me know what you decide to do.”

She gives me one last little smile, then leaves the table. I sink back into my chair and look around the hotel dining room. People sit in small groups, eating, laughing, smiling. All of those accents and languages blending together into one generally excited din. Aside from a group of men in the corner in suits, everyone else is wearing casual clothes today—mostly active clothes too. I wonder if everyone else here is on holiday. I wonder if I’m the only person in this room who is here, but not really here.

It suddenly seems completely, brutally unfair. I’m doing something I dreamed of for years. Yes, this trip hasn’t gone as I’d hoped it would. I wanted to go home with answers—instead, it seems inevitable that I will walk away having only uncovered more questions.

I let myself face the full depth of my failure. It seems that I have to accept that Babcia is going to pass away sooner or later with threads left loose that she hoped I would tie for her.

It feels so unfair that after all of the love she’s given me, this one thing she’s asked of me is something I just can’t give her. I want to sulk. I want to run home and spend her last days with her begging her forgiveness. I don’t want to give up, but it feels like I have no choice. What else is there left to try? What more would she want me to do?

The answer comes in an instant.

She’d have me stay.

Babcia would never want me to feel so guilty. She’d never want me to sulk, or to throw away this opportunity. I know if she was here advising me right now, she’d give me a haughty look and she’d point to the door. I can hear her voice in my head.

Go see some of my country, Alice. You’re probably not going to get another chance.

She’d have me look around this country she once loved so much and soak it all in. She’d have me take the downtime and resist guilt for doing so. She’d cheer me on and celebrate my courage at having tried. She’d tell me that my family would be okay without me for another day. She’d tell me that my rushing back won’t make her better, in fact, it would probably be the only way I could disappoint her.

When Zofia returns to the lobby twenty minutes later, I greet her with a smile.

“Okay. So we have today. What do you suggest we do first?”

“Mountains or salt mines,” she says, without missing a beat.

“Which is better?” I ask her.

“Depends. What do you fear more, heights or enclosed spaces?”

“How far underground are we talking?” I ask her.

“One hundred and thirty-five meters?”

I can’t quite figure out the math on the fly to convert that to feet, but I know it’s a long way and I hate confined spaces. I shudder and shake my head.

“No thanks. Mountains it is.”

Ten minutes later, we’re back in the car and headed through the dense traffic and out of the city. Zofia again slips into tour guide mode, pointing out landmarks and historical sights, but this time I make myself focus on her words because whenever I let myself zone out, I think about the situation back home and I feel myself tensing up. Fortunately, Zofia is good at this tour guide gig—and by the time we’re out of the city and starting the climb into mountain country, my mind is full of information about the region, like she’s conducted a rapid-fire brain dump.

“You must try ociepek,” Zofia exclaims suddenly, and she pulls the car abruptly into the parking lot of a tiny wooden hut by the side of the road. The structure is tiny—about the size of one of the small bedrooms in my house. There’s smoke pouring from the chimney, and five cars already in the car park.

“What is...”

“Ociepek,” she repeats, correctly guessing that I’ve already forgotten the word. “Smoked cheese. Out of this world.” Zofia reaches across into her handbag and withdraws her mobile phone, which she switches off.

“Service is all but nonexistent out here,” she warns me. “Best to turn it off now or your battery will be drained from all of the roaming.”

“Oh,” I say, and I hesitate, because I ended all of my conversations late last night on a terse note. “But my family might need me...”

“We will be back here by about 6:00 p.m. You can talk with them this afternoon their time?” she suggests. I look down at the phone, then sigh and send a group text. I flush with embarrassment when I realize I can send exactly the same thing to Mom, to Wade and to Callie.