Your Perfect Year(21)
“She’s been here,” his father interrupted.
“Papa, will you listen to me?” He wasn’t prepared to go along with the abrupt change of subject, so typical of his father’s behavior since his decline. Not this time. “Of course, I could give in and take out an ad.”
“She—was—here!” The old man spoke the words so forcefully that Jonathan felt a shock run through his body.
“Who was?”
“Sofia.” Wolfgang Grief turned back to his son and smiled, his blue eyes shining. “Sofia’s been here.”
“What?” Jonathan swallowed, an icy-cold shudder coursing through him. He must have misheard. “Mamma’s been here?”
His father nodded.
“Here, you mean? At Sonnenhof? Recently?”
“Yes.” He nodded again. “She comes to visit me regularly.”
“Oh.” Jonathan wanted to say something but was prevented by a lump in his throat.
“We talk a lot when she comes,” Wolfgang Grief continued. “About the old times.”
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Jonathan said a little more calmly. “But that’s impossible.”
“She’s forgiven me everything, you know,” he went on as though his son hadn’t said a word.
“What has she forgiven you for?”
“It was all so long ago, and we’re both old now, so none of it matters anymore.”
“What are you talking about? What has Mamma forgiven you for?” Thoughts were chasing themselves around his head. Not only was his father clearly imagining things, but Jonathan hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about. One day his mother had simply up and left her family, so if anyone was going to forgive anyone else, it should be the other way around. But instead of a reply, Jonathan simply got another rapt smile. “Papa,” he insisted, “please, will you tell me what you’re talking about? Mamma’s been gone for years. We haven’t heard a thing from her for ages. You’re talking nonsense.”
Wolfgang Grief’s smile was replaced by a questioning frown. “Are you the new doctor?” His eyes roamed back to the window and stayed there.
10
Hannah
Two months before:
Monday, October 30, 4:53 p.m.
Simon says . . .
The music, which had been booming from the speakers at earsplitting volume, snapped off. Simon stretched his arms in the air and froze as nine giggling, screaming children copied him.
Hannah watched the scene in delight. Her boyfriend made a passable clown, even if the colorful costume was rather loose on him and the makeup on his sweat-drenched face was clearly beginning to run.
No wonder—for the last twenty minutes he’d been whirling like a dervish around the playroom, apparently finding their combination of Simon Says and Musical Statues as much fun as the kids did. Hannah’s theory—that Simon would soon feel better once he’d roused himself—was proving correct.
The game itself was simple. As long as the music played, the children simply had to copy Simon’s dance movements. The moment it stopped, they had to freeze in whatever pose they were in. Anyone who moved or fell over was out. Being out wasn’t so bad, since it meant going to join Lisa in the kitchenette making popcorn, then forming it into chains with needles and thread.
Hannah had learned one essential aspect of childcare during her training: to avoid tears and tantrums, don’t allow children to actually lose a game. And so the failed statues dashed enthusiastically to the kitchen, with one or two of the little scamps falling over on purpose so they could get ahead of the others at the popcorn station.
Yards of popcorn chains were already hanging from the ceiling of the playroom, and there would have been even more if half the popcorn hadn’t ended up in the children’s bulging tummies.
Feeling buoyant, Hannah pressed “Play.” The familiar sounds once again filled the room, and Simon performed a series of wildly eccentric moves like some sort of 1980s aerobics celebrity.
“I hope you don’t mind me sticking my nose in,” Lisa murmured to her friend as she tacked the next popcorn chain to the wall behind her, “but don’t you think it’s time he took a break?”
“He’s just hitting his stride,” Hannah replied. “And the kids think it’s a riot.”
“You’ll certainly have a riot on your hands if you’re not careful,” Lisa said, watching Simon with concern. “He looks like he could keel over at any moment. Look at his face—soaked with sweat. I bet he’s glowing as red as a beet under all that makeup.”
“At least he’ll be sweating the last of his cold out.”
“Is this revenge for yesterday?” Lisa asked.
“What’s revenge got to do with it?” Hannah flashed her an innocent smile. “Simon left the two of us in the lurch, and he’s simply making up for it. It’s only right, and we’re all benefiting. Anyway, it was his own idea to lead the dancing.”
“Probably the result of a guilty conscience. I’d have one, anyway.”
“Something else he can dance away,” Hannah said with a laugh. “Let it all out—get rid of all those pent-up negative emotions.”
Lisa threw her a look she couldn’t interpret, and with a shrug turned to go back to the kitchen. She muttered something Hannah didn’t quite catch, but which sounded suspiciously like “The girlfriend from hell.”