Wunderland(129)

“Yes,” Renate snaps, “Yes.” And then, more softly: “You have his nose as well. She must have seen it every time she looked at you.”

Every time she looked at me. Awed, Ava touches the outer corner of her eye, the very tip of her nose, as though she might be able to confirm the resemblance tactilely. She sees Ilse at her kitchen table again, the morning after the blackout. Staring at her with such bleakness, such utter despair that Ava hadn’t been able to hold her gaze.

“And now here you are,” the older woman is continuing. “And I have no idea what to do with you. None at all.” She breaks off, glaring at Ava before looking away again.

“I’m sorry,” Ava whispers, though she doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for.

Outside a siren blares, its tone rising and falling as its vehicle hurtles toward its unknown uptown destination. In a neighboring apartment, someone’s dog breaks into howling accompaniment before falling abruptly back into silence. Renate remains motionless, eyes on her overstuffed bookshelves, thin fingers tugging absently at a salt-and-pepper strand of hair. Ava imagines drawing her like this; not out of the urge to create art, but for the opportunity to really ponder her features: the fine dark brows and softly etched lines in her forehead. The small nose. The distant look in the dark eyes. How many of those features, she wonders, did Franz share with his sister? Was it possible to find her father in her aunt’s face? Does Renate have any pictures of him? She wants to ask her. Not just about that, but a thousand other things that Ava is just starting to know she doesn’t know. Were there other artists in their family? Were there illnesses? Was she in touch with anyone else from the Bauer side of the family? Was anyone else even left?

“So.”

Looking up, she sees that Renate has sat back down, briskly placing her hands on her knees.

“What’s next?” she asks, her dark eyes snapping and her head tilted in a way that reminds Ava of a bright-eyed little bird.

“I don’t know.” Ava hesitates, then adds: “I’d like to come back.”

Renate bites her lip. “I’d have to think about it.”

“I’d like Sophie to meet you,” Ava says. “She never got a chance to know my mother.” For a moment she sees her daughter again; the unfamiliar rage that had flashed on her face. Sophie, she thinks suddenly. She pulls herself to her feet. “Actually, can I use your phone?”

The older woman blinks first, then nods. “Around the corner. Next to the refrigerator.”



* * *





The kitchen, Ava discovers, feels as cozily stuck in the past as the rest of the little apartment. Wood paneling on the cupboards and sink make the windowless space even darker, the effect brightened only slightly by the mint-green glint of the oven door and matching exhaust shield over the stove. Thankfully, though, the wall-mounted telephone—the color of Pepto-Bismol—is a punch-button model, not rotary. Ava dials in, cringing at her own slightly frantic-sounding voice before punching in her access code for the machine.

At first, all that follows is muffled movement and static. But then comes Sophie’s bell-clear voice: “Hi, Mom.” Her daughter’s tone is tight-sounding, but the spitting rage of the morning seems to have faded. Sophie continues: “I’m okay. I’m just at Erica’s watching music videos.” She pauses. “And don’t worry. We didn’t go into the park.” In the brief pause that follows, Ava’s pulse leaps in time with the oversynthesized chorus in the background, a pulsing number she vaguely recognizes, something about blaming rain. “I was going to ask to sleep over,” her daughter continues. “But if you really want, I guess…I guess I can come home, too. Leave a message letting me know.”

An audible teenage snort in the background. Ava pictures both girls rolling their eyes in the eternal exasperation of the young. She’s about to hang up when her daughter adds—almost curtly:

“I love you too.”

Ava’s knees seem to go weak. She leans against the Formica counter so washed with relief that she feels like she’s drowning. She is tempted to call the machine again, just to hear those last three words (I love you, she said! She said I love you!). Instead, she hangs the phone up, redials, and leaves her own message after the tone:

“Hi, sweetie. Yes. Yes, please, come home. I have so much to tell you. I’ve had the most incredible day…” She pauses, wondering how she can possibly pack the past three hours into a thirty-second sound bite. In the end she just says: “We’ll talk. We’ll order in. I love you so much, Liebchen.”

Hanging up, she clenches the counter, briefly unsteady on her feet. Then she makes her way back to the living room.

“Is everything all right?” Renate asks, as Ava retakes her former seat.

“Yes. I was worried. But she’s okay.”

Renate just nods, as though she knows there is more.

“She was right to be angry with me,” Ava says, dropping her gaze to her hands. “You see, I—I kept Ilse from her too. For thirteen years, I told her my mother was dead. She only found out this morning that I’d been lying.”

“After the ashes arrived.” Renate raises a brow. “Ilse always did have a way of showing up at crucial moments.”

“She did.” Despite herself, Ava laughs. Then she shuts her eyes. “I suppose I’m an awful mother.”