VANGUARD(83)

“Hello Signe, Maxwell.” She felt oddly shy. She’d known the Nariovsky-Trents for years, and she had no reason to suddenly feel different. Yet she did.

Michael’s mother stepped forward first, embracing Sophie and kissing her on both cheeks. “Welcome home, mana meita.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie saw Michael’s eyes widen at the familial endearment.

Maxwell shook her hand first, then pulled her into a long embrace, thanking her over and over. After he released her, he turned to inspect the luggage. “It’ll be a tight squeeze with you two in the backseat and all this in the trunk, but we’ll manage.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s not necessary. I’ll cab back to Brooklyn.”

“Do you not wish to be with me tonight, mana mila?” Michael looked at her with consternation, keeping his voice low.

She blushed, looking away from his parents, who eyed them with far too much interest. Michael gave them both a warning look, which had no effect. His mother’s eyes grew bright with excitement.

“Of course I do. But I’ve had you to myself for some days now. Your parents want time alone with you.” She handed him his bit of luggage off the cart. “You know that I’d rather be with you than anywhere else in the world,” she said in a voice that only he could hear.

“As do I,” he replied. “I will miss you.”

Her eyes flickered nervously to his parents again. Understanding dawning on his face, Michael put his bag down, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her. She hesitated for just a moment, then kissed him back. The world seemed to go away for a few moments.

“Finally,” Maxwell said after they broke apart. Michael didn’t take his eyes from Sophie’s, just cupped her cheek in his hand. Signe had started crying again. Sophie hoped she wept tears of joy and not resignation.

“Yes.” Michael picked up his things. “Finally. I will call you tomorrow, mana mila. Later on, so you can sleep as long as you would like.”

“Okay.” She felt unexpectedly panicked, seeing him prepare to leave. He had not been out of her sight since she’d found him some weeks ago. “Goodnight,” she said to his parents. “We’ll catch up in a few days’ time.”





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The cab dropped her at her front doorstep in Brooklyn shortly before 2 a.m. She had no idea what time zone her body thought it was in. She gave the cabbie an extra twenty dollars to carry her things up to the second level of the house she rented.

Sophie surveyed her tiny home, which had survived another one of her long absences. She’d get her mail started back up the next day. Pick up some groceries. For now, she found a package of stale crackers in the cupboard, crammed a few into her mouth, and shuffled down the hallway to her bedroom.

Wearily, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Then she dug around in the bottom of her carryon bag and found a t-shirt of Michael’s that she’d pilfered. She stripped, pulled on the shirt, and sat down on the edge of her bed.

As she always did before she went to sleep at night, she grabbed her iPhone and plugged it into the wall adaptor. She hesitated, bouncing the phone in her hand. She remembered how many times she’d sat there last year, listening to Michael’s voicemail message over and over just so she could hear his voice. Never knowing if she’d ever hear the real thing again.

Michael is home. He’s safe. It’s okay now.

He’d lost his cell phone during the Soviet bombing that broke up his resistance cell, he’d told her. For some odd reason, it hurt to think of his phone out there, buried in the snow somewhere in the Orlisian woods. Maybe someone would find it one day, and wonder whose it was.

She flipped her phone open and dialed his number. It rang once and then went straight to a recorded message.

“We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again.”

They had finally cut the service off. Thoughtfully, Sophie set her iPhone down to charge overnight.

She fell into bed, pulling the shirt up to her face. Soap, a bit of sweat, his deodorant, a faint hint of male muskiness. The smell of Michael, touching her skin. It didn’t make up for his absence, but it would hold her until she could see him again.





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February 27, 2014