The Things We Cannot Say(75)

I planned to stop at the first appealing place that I came across, but I just keep walking, because everyone else is walking and I thought I’d feel alone, but I don’t. The sidewalk is paved with a delicate cobblestone comprising slightly uneven square granite bricks. Maybe heels would be impossible to manage on it, but I’m just wearing canvas shoes and even the sidewalk seems charming.

Soon, I arrive at an expansive square, and it’s clear that the crowd and I have arrived, because this is a place that would draw you. There are immense, ornate churches and restaurants and stores around the edge, and young people holding giant strings of helium balloons and carts for lemonade and pretzels and coffee in the center. One young man is working enormous sticks wound with rope, and he’s dunking the rope into a huge bucket of watery bubble mixture, so that when he lifts it into the breeze, giant bubbles float all around the square. Masses of young children squeal and run to pop or try to catch them. Other performers sit on cushions and sing or play accordion or guitar. Several of these have adorable puppies or kittens sitting sedately on cushions beside them, patiently watching their owners work. It’s a magnificently sunny day, but the sunshine has no bite to it, and as I step into the square, I close my eyes for just a moment and I breathe it all in—the sunshine, the laughter of the children as they run around the car-free space, the scent of sausage and beer and even cigarette smoke.

I wonder if Babcia ever visited Krakow—if she ever visited this square. I wonder if it looked just like this, seventy-odd years ago—the buildings feel old, so surely it did. I fish into my pocket for my phone and I snap a few quick, casual photographs, then I turn the camera around and take a selfie in the square with the buildings and crowd behind me. I stare at the photo, and then I can’t help but grin, because I look exhausted but also, I look happy. Proud. Excited.

I send all of the photos to Mom and ask her to show Babcia, and then I march across the square to a restaurant with planter boxes of red and white geraniums all along the outside of the outdoor seating area. The menu on display is entirely in Polish, and I hesitate a moment before I walk toward the waiter.

“Table for one?” he says in English. When I give him a surprised nod, he reaches under a counter and says, “English menu?”

“Yes, please. How did you know I speak English?”

“We assume everyone speaks English until they tell us otherwise.” He shrugs. “All young Polish people speak English and so do most of the tourists so...makes sense, no?”

As I settle at my table, I plan to order the safest dish I can find, maybe just a sandwich, perhaps a strong coffee—I mean, perhaps with some caffeine, I could stay up until a more sensible bedtime and explore just a little. But then I read the menu—and there are no sandwiches on offer at all. Instead, it’s herrings and soups and sausages and odd cuts of pork and something called bigos and stews, and then several pages of varieties of pierogis. And the beverages list is equally decadent—there’s vodkas and wines and beers. So many beers.

“Have you made a selection?” the waiter asks me. I close the menu.

“Yes please,” I say. “Can I have a beer and some pierogi?”

“Which kind, miss?”

“Surprise me,” I suggest, and he laughs as he nods.

The pierogi is a revelation—but the beer goes straight to my head, so I’m a little too happy as I wander back to the hotel, and more than ready for a nap by the time I get to my room. It’s 7:30 a.m. back home now, so I crawl onto the hotel bed and Skype to Wade.

“Honey,” he greets me. As the video feed kicks in, I see he’s sitting at the kitchen table. He’s clean-shaven and his hair looks damp. He’s wearing a neatly pressed business shirt—and I normally do the ironing, but I ran out of time this week, so I know he’s had time to iron it himself.

He looks perfectly put together, and not at all flustered. I’m surprised and kind of impressed.

“Hi,” I say.

“You made it safely?”

“Yep. I just had lunch in the Old Town Square. It’s...”

“It’s what?” he prompts when I trail off, and I smile uncertainly.

“You know, it’s actually a pretty amazing city.”

A broad smile covers Wade’s face, and I am struck by how handsome he looks this morning. Familiarity has a way of masking that kind of observation. I guess that right now, I’m basking in all of the benefits of doing something completely out of routine.

“That’s great, honey,” he says, and he sounds thrilled for me, which makes me even happier.

“And things are good there?”

“Oh sure. Things are fine,” he says, and he smiles again. “All under control.”

Except that just then, there’s the sound of glass breaking, and Wade’s easy smile becomes panicked. He stands and I see that he’s only wearing his boxers, and then Callie comes flying into the room and she’s still in her pajamas and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs and Eddie is hot on her heels and he’s clutching his stuffed Thomas the Tank Engine and sobbing. The last thing I see before the screen goes black is Eddie’s tearstained face as he picks up Wade’s phone from the table.

Adrenaline pumps through me as I redial, and Eddie answers on the first ring. He’s staring into the iPad, and he looks incredibly distressed.