The Things We Cannot Say(74)

That’s the first time in years he’s called Eddie by his nickname. It’s also the closest Wade has ever come to admitting he’s failed our son, and in doing so, he’s failed me. I should probably be upset at this acknowledgment—that he does, in fact, know exactly what he’s done to us in these years of neglect of his emotional obligations.

But I’m not upset.

Because this is not news to me, and it’s not news to Wade, and now it’s not unspoken. There’s something exceptional about having this awful thing out in the open between us, and just like that, I can breathe again. I know it’s going to be hard to get on that plane. I can’t even imagine how I’m going to sleep tonight, knowing I’m so far away from them, knowing I’m all on my own.

But Wade is right. There’s a chance here for me. Somehow it’s simultaneously a chance he’s giving me and a chance I’m taking greedily all for myself, and that’s kind of how a partnership should work—we are both making this happen, for Babcia and for me.

I have no idea what waits for me in Poland. I have no idea how I’m going to find answers when I don’t even know the questions but the challenge of that goal suddenly seems divine.

“Go,” Wade says, and he kisses my forehead gently. “I love you. I won’t let you down. Go on your trip...and try to have some fun too, okay?”

I have to turn away before the tears overwhelm me, so I do—I spin away from him and I grasp my suitcase tightly in my hand and I march to the check-in counter.



CHAPTER 25

Alice


I’ve been worried about the language barrier, given the only Polish words I know are Jen dobry—hello—and, somehow during my many hours being babysat by Babcia as a toddler, I picked up the phrase Is′c′ potty—go potty—neither of which seem likely to be very useful in all of the steps I need to take before I meet with Zofia tomorrow. But as soon as I clear customs, I find the driver from the hotel waiting, holding an iPad that displays the logo of the hotel and my name. He introduces himself in lightly accented English.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “I’m Martyn. Long trip? Let’s get you to the hotel.”

I settle into the back of the late-model luxury car and stare out the window as the city flies past. Everything is much more modern than I’d expected, with seemingly endless construction work and block after block of modern buildings as we move through the city. The traffic is heavily congested, worse even than the traffic I’m accustomed to when I drive at home. Some single-lane roads manage to house simultaneous modes of transport—cars and buses, a tramway and the surprisingly heavy foot and bicycle traffic. At the outskirts of the city, other than the plentiful advertising being in Polish, I could almost be at home. But as we get deeper in, the modernity fades from the facades of the buildings that line the streets—until I am surrounded by stone and brick buildings that wouldn’t have looked much different even a hundred years ago.

The hotel lobby is plush, with huge crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and highly polished marble floors, and amongst the other guests mingling in the space, I hear plenty of English—in fact, plenty of English accented just like mine. The driver brings my bag in, and I approach the counter.

“Checking in?” The young receptionist greets me, again in English.

“Yes, thanks. I’m Alice Michaels. I have an early check-in arranged.”

“One moment,” the receptionist says, and her fingers fly over the keyboard, then she looks up at me and winces. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Michaels, your room isn’t quite ready.”

“Oh—but my guide said she’d confirmed an early check-in? I’m just getting off an overnight flight and I haven’t had any sleep...”

“I’m sorry. It won’t be too long, maybe another hour or two? You can leave your bag here. Why don’t you go for a walk, find yourself some lunch and come back in the early afternoon.”

I blink at her. What I want to do is put my head on a pillow and get some sleep. Exploring a foreign city on my own probably wouldn’t sound appealing even on a normal day, but when I’m this tired? Hell no.

“But...”

She smiles at me reassuringly and withdraws a map from beneath the desk.

“You’re here. Old Town is just here, and the Square is there too. Enjoy!”

I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s 11:45 a.m. here in Krakow, which means its 5:45 a.m. back home. I can’t call yet, even if I do get into my room, and I’m starving.

Looks like I’m going for a walk.

It’s busy on the street. The traffic is manic, with endlessly congested cars and trams and buses competing for the narrow street space. The sidewalk is packed with people too, all flowing in the same direction I’m headed, so I slip into the crowd and start to walk. Bicycles push past me on the sidewalk, and a few adults ride on skates and rollerblades. It’s now midday on a Tuesday morning, but as I walk with this crowd, I feel a bit like I’m headed to a party or a festival. Soon, the restaurants start—brands I know from home, as well as unfamiliar restaurant names promising “authentic Polish food” and even “authentic American cuisine.” I’m struck by the flowers all around me—brightly colored blooms on live plants are featured in pots on tables and in planter boxes along the street, even hanging in pots from balconies, and cut flowers rest in the arms of men and women as they walk. Babcia’s love of flowers is starting to make a lot of sense.