Strangers: A Novel(60)

“You were gone, just like that.” I try not to let it sound like an accusation, but instead it comes out as though I’m afraid of being alone in the house. My God.

“Yes.”

“How … well—are you all right? Your arm?”

“As can be expected under the circumstances.”

OK, so calling him was a bad idea. I’m desperately searching for words, and Erik clearly has no desire to talk to me. Maybe he’s already on his way back and will be here soon.

“Will you tell me where you are?”

He sighs, as though my question is the last thing he needs right now. “In the car, I’m driving to the station in Munich for work, to pick up some VIPs. Well, if this goddamn traffic jam breaks up in time, that is.”

And then on top of it all I have to deal with you. The words he’s clearly thinking remain unsaid.

“OK.” At the very least my guilty conscience is gone. “I won’t keep you then. Drive safe.”

The conversation hasn’t made anything better, in fact very much the opposite, but that’s my own fault. What did I expect, really?

I lean back on the sofa, ready to spend the day with the documentary channel. To not have to think. Or make any decisions.

A new program has just started, and I find myself unexpectedly moved by it. A documentary about dingoes in New South Wales.

Home.

The pictures of the Australian mountain landscape and Sturt National Park awaken within me, for the first time in months, a sense of burning homesickness. Is my father right? Do I belong there after all?

I hardly know the places rushing past me on the screen, but they still feel so familiar.

Here, on the other hand, if I’m completely honest, I still feel like an outsider. Especially given my current situation.

Suddenly, I know who I really want to talk to.

It’s half past ten at night in Melbourne now. It’s late, but I still want to try my luck. If there’s anyone in the world who’ll be there for me, then it’s her.

The phone rings three times, four times, then someone picks up.

“Hello?”

“Mama.” I’m filled with such a sense of relief, I almost start to cry. No. I can’t do that. I don’t want her to worry.

“Hey, sweetheart! How wonderful to hear your voice.” Her transition from English to German no longer sounds quite as effortless; she briefly pauses at times and has a soft, light accent. Maybe it’s because of the late hour, or the fact that she only rarely speaks her native language these days.

“How are you?” I try to sound cheerful. “Is everything OK there with you guys?”

“Oh yes. We miss you of course, so much—but other than that we’re good. Daddy’s blood pressure counts are finally OK, and I’m going to give a presentation about my projects at the nutritional congress in Sydney soon. Isn’t that … fabulous?”

“That’s wonderful, Mama.”

“But now tell me: how are you doing? What’s the news?”

Well, the day before yesterday I almost stabbed someone to death. Imagining how my mother would react to such a revelation almost makes me break out in hysterical laughter.

“Really good. Although, health-wise I’m a little run down at the moment, but…”

“Ah yes, the German autumn.” She sighs in a way that sounds nostalgic. “You just need a few more layers, darling; buy yourself a few chic jackets.”

“I will.” If I don’t get to it soon, we’ll drift off into small talk. “Mama, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Have I ever had problems with my memory before? Like, gaps in it?”

There are thousands of miles between us, but I know exactly how her face would look right now, in the three or four seconds she stays silent. Her forehead wrinkled in thought, her lips pursed just a little. She is trying both to find an answer to my question and to figure out why I’m asking in the first place.

“No, Joanna. On the contrary, you always had the best memory of all of us. Do you still remember that time when Dad forgot the code for the new pool house? You were the only one who could remember it, even though you’d only used it once or twice, and it had six figures. Or that time in the hotel in Sydney…”

I let her talk, let her tell one anecdote after the other. Soon the conversation is no longer about my memory, but simply about shared memories. Beautiful, familiar snapshots from a world in which I thought I was invulnerable.

My mother is enjoying the conversation, I know that. With Dad, she doesn’t get that many chances to talk; he likes the sound of his own voice too much.

But after a while I interrupt anyway. “Have I mentioned an Erik to you at any point over the past few months?”

“No.” She didn’t pause for even a second before responding. “Why? Who is he?”

“Doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”

“Aha.” Seldom has anyone placed so much weight on just two syllables. A short pause follows.

“It would be lovely if you’d come back home soon, Jo,” she says then, hesitantly. She knows that I don’t want to be put under pressure. “I mean, Germany can still be your second home, you could spend a few months there every year, perhaps I might even come with you someday.”