We Run the Tides(26)

“Vanessa Bell,” my dad says. “I need to do some research on her.”

“Vanessa Bell,” I say. “That rings a bell.” I don’t normally tell jokes like this but my dad’s a sucker for puns. I consider this bad pun my Christmas present to him.

“What do you mean?” he says.

“I wrote about her in a paper for Mr. London,” I say.

“Did we ever figure out if he’s related to Jack London?” my mother asks.

“He’s not,” I say.

“How do you know?” my mother says. “When I was talking to him he made it sound like he was.”

“Exactly,” I say. “So he’s not.”

“Excuse me, Greta,” my father says. He turns back to me. “What do you mean you wrote about her?”

“Well, I wrote about the Bloomsbury group and Vanessa Bell was part of it.”

I’m greeted by blank looks all around.

“I’ll go get my paper.”

I run up to my room. When I return downstairs my family is gathered around the painting, staring at it with rapt attention. They resemble the figures in the painting itself—the painting is of three figures surrounding a sandcastle.

I hand my father the essay and he reads it. My mom, sister, and I fold the wrapping paper and decide that most of it will have to be thrown away. It’s not crisp enough to save for another present.

“What do you think of the essay?” I say to my dad.

“I think this is exciting,” he says. “We might have something here.”

My mom and sister put out food for Santa (oatmeal) and his reindeer (carrot sticks) and my dad and I stare into the fire. I don’t know if Svea still believes in Santa, but this is not the time to ask.

“I have that feeling,” my dad says. “That this might be worth a lot.”

“I do, too,” I say.

My mother smiles a polite but exasperated smile—she’s been through this before. “Okay, dreamers,” she says. “Time for bed.”

*

ON CHRISTMAS MORNING my mother, Svea, and I put on wool hats and go for a walk along Land’s End.

“Just think. Everyone else is still sitting around opening presents,” my mother says, gloating as though the goal of Christmas Day is to go on a walk before anyone else.

When we make it back to the house, my father is standing by the front steps, waiting for us. Someone died, I think. I worry it’s one of my Swedish aunts. I’m crazy about them.

“Maria Fabiola’s on the news,” he calls out. “She’s been found.”

My mother thanks Jesus and God in Swedish.

We run into the TV room without kicking off our sneakers and there on TV I see the headline “Christmas Miracle: Missing Heiress Found Alive.” The same photo of Maria Fabiola fills the screen. She was discovered in a blanket on the steps of her family’s Sea Cliff home early this morning. The police aren’t releasing details about the kidnappers yet, the anchorwoman says. The anchor has a serious expression on her face—the situation requires it, of course—but I can perceive a bit of excitement behind her eyes. Her co-anchor is on Christmas vacation, and she’s going to have this story to herself.

“We have to go to her house,” my mom says. “We have to welcome her back.”

I’m in such shock that I follow after my mom. She’s walking fast, fists pumping. My dad and Svea come, too. As we approach Maria Fabiola’s house we see a crowd of people, fifty or sixty, standing outside her home. They’re gathered as though they’re the audience for a performance and the house is the stage.

Neighbors and strangers hug each other in the street. Some wear Santa hats and others wear Christmas sweaters that I doubt are ironic. More people arrive—some by car, some by bike. We wait for something, but we don’t know what. Finally, the living room curtains part. Maria Fabiola and her parents come to the window. I hear gasps, followed by a loud silence. Maria Fabiola stares out at everyone in the street. There are cheers and shouts about Christmas miracles.

Her father opens the window. The crowd applauds ecstatically. Maria Fabiola waves a Miss America wave—her arm moves only from the elbow up. She scans the faces in the crowd, taking careful note, I’m sure, of who has shown up to welcome her home. Soon her eyes meet mine. They pause, harden. Then they move on to the other, more adoring faces.





17


When Maria Fabiola was missing, all anyone did was wait for news about what had happened, where she was. Now that she’s reappeared, all anyone does is wait for her to reveal what happened and where she was.

A minute before the six o’clock news, my family sits down in front of the television. There are few updates about Maria Fabiola’s disappearance except that her kidnappers are said to be Russian. Poor Madame Sonya, I think. She offered Maria Fabiola her shed, and now her countrymen are being thrown under the bus. The anchorman is back—he must have cut his vacation short to cover the kidnapping. Even the anchorman and anchorwoman seem apologetic about how little information they have to report. The man reads a paragraph that goes like this: “The heiress to a sugar fortune has been returned home after what we now know was a kidnapping by Russians. She is recuperating with her family in their Sea Cliff home. We will be sharing more updates as they become available, but right now the family is asking that their privacy be respected.”