The Diplomat's Wife(102)
“Bath for you, young miss,” Delia says to Rachel, taking her from me and carrying her to the stairs. “There’s a roast in the oven,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll fix you a plate after I put her down.”
I start to reply that it is not necessary, but Delia disappears up the stairs, talking to Rachel. I look back at the fire, still seeing my daughter’s face. She reminds me more of Paul than ever since I came home. Suddenly I see him as the medics carried him away from me on the dock, face pale, eyes closed. A few days ago, Simon told me in an offhand way that he had news of the American. “He made it through the surgery and is recovering at one of the military hospitals.” I was barely able to contain my relief. “He’s to be shipped back to the States as soon as he’s well enough to travel,” Simon added. I wondered if this last part was true. Paul told me that he never goes back to America; he will surely head out on his next mission as soon as he is well enough. My heart ached at the thought of him leaving England. “If you’d like to send a note to offer your good wishes, I have the address of the hospital,” Simon offered.
“I’m sure the Foreign Office has thanked him sufficiently,” I replied. What would I say? That since coming back from Germany, I have thought of him every waking moment? That when I do sleep, I see him endlessly in my dreams? The truth is unspeakable. And to say less would feel like a lie. No, I decided, a note from me would just hurt him more by reminding him of everything that could never be.
The phone rings in the kitchen, jarring me from my thoughts. “I’ll get it,” I call to Delia, standing. There is a second ring as I cross the parlor to the kitchen. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I say. There is no response. I think then of the two earlier calls Delia had mentioned. “Hello?” A wrong number perhaps, or a bad connection? But I can hear breathing on the other end of the phone. There is something familiar about the sound, the way the caller inhales, breath seeming to catch and hold for a second. My heart skips a beat. “Paul?” I whisper.
“I’m an idiot,” he says remorsefully. “Calling like I’m a twelve-year-old boy with a crush.”
At the sound of his voice, strong and deep, warmth rises in me. I swallow, forcing myself to breathe. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” he replies quickly. “I called earlier but someone else answered so I hung up.”
“That was Delia.”
“I figured. And just now, well, I guess when you answered, I almost lost my nerve. I know I shouldn’t be calling. But I couldn’t help it.” He pauses. “I needed to hear your voice.”
I bring my hand to the mouthpiece. “Me, too,” I whisper, my voice cracking. I clear my throat. “I thought you were still in the hospital.”
“That’s the official story. We’ve said that because…” He stops, catching himself. Is he afraid of speaking openly on the phone, or of telling me too much? In Germany, we were a team. But now, back in our separate worlds, there are things that cannot be said.
“I’m glad to know you’re well,” I say.
“I’m not,” he replies. “That is, physically I’m on the mend. But I can’t stop thinking about us, about…” His voice trails off.
“Me, neither.” I pause as a vision of the cellar in Berlin, Paul’s torso beneath me, flashes through my mind. Then I remember Delia and Rachel, just one floor above me. Simon could be home any minute.
“But we can’t do this, Paul.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choked. “Goodbye, Marta.”
“Paul, wait…” There is a click and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for several seconds. Paul called me. He has not forgotten. Tears fill my eyes. Impulsively, I pick up the receiver once more, ring the operator. “I’d like to get the last number that called this line,” I say. There is a pause. I jot down the numbers that she recites on a pad of paper. I start to dial, then stop again. What would I say to him? Calling Paul will only make things worse for both of us. But he sounded so upset when he hung up, and the notion of him being sad or angry with me is unbearable. I start to dial the number.
Suddenly, there is a noise behind me. I drop the receiver, which clatters to the counter, and turn. Delia is standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “Y-you startled me,” I say, picking up the receiver and replacing it on the hook.
“Another empty call?” she asks, crossing to the stove.
“Yes,” I reply, feeling guilty at my lie. “I was just going to try to get the number from the operator.”
Delia does not respond but turns on the stove burner beneath the tea kettle. Then she opens the oven door and begins pouring some of the juices that have formed in the bottom of the pan over the roast. “Rachel went right down,” she says a moment later, closing the oven door. “Nearly fell asleep in the bath.”
“She was more tired than she knew.” I sink to one of the chairs at the table.
“More tea?” I shake my head, still reeling from my conversation with Paul. Suddenly, unable to hold back any longer, I burst into tears. “What is it, dear?” Delia asks, startled. She rushes to the table and sits down beside me. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I say through my sobs.