The Time Between (22 page)

I turned to look at the photograph Gigi held in her outstretched hand. I took it and gently held it as if it were a fragile butterfly. The subject was a young man leaning against a tree with one leg bent, the booted foot resting on the trunk. He wore a uniform—what could have been a gray or green jacket with a wide black belt and inch-wide strips of fabric buttoned onto each shoulder. A patch of an eagle with outstretched wings sat above the right breast pocket.

The boy—he looked too young to be called a man or to be wearing a uniform—had white-blond hair and large light eyes. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at least once, but it did nothing to hide the shy, sweet smile. His hair seemed lifted off his forehead, and he had a hat tucked under one arm as if he’d just swept it off to be able to feel the breeze. But the smile was all for the photographer, his eyes full of secrets.

“I don’t know,” I said, turning the photograph over in my hand. Written in a feminine cursive with a pencil across the back were the words
Gunter Richter
. I turned it around again to stare in the boy’s face and said the name out loud. “Gunter Richter.”

“That’s a funny name. Is it Hungarian?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. It sounds more German to me.” I studied the uniform, wishing I could place it.

The grandfather clock from downstairs chimed. I glanced at my watch, appalled to see how late it was. I quickly started placing everything back in the basket, wishing I’d had more time to go through all the photographs. “We’ve got to get on the road.” I placed the lid on the basket, then went over to Gigi’s suitcase and closed it easily since there was about one-third of what had been in there previously. “Let’s not give Mrs. McKenna a heart attack and try to make your room look a little less like a disaster zone.”

We both began darting around the room, tucking clothes into drawers and forcing them shut. All of the extra shoes I put in a neat pile in the closet and shut the door with a promise to myself that I would straighten it all properly another time.

When it all looked passable, I grabbed the suitcase. “If you could carry the basket, I think we’re good to go.”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

Resisting the need to sigh heavily, I put down the suitcase. “All right, but please hurry. I don’t like driving over the bridge after dark.”

She rushed to her connecting bathroom and slammed the door, only to open it right away. “Don’t forget the photo of me in my dance recital costume. My daddy’s room is at the end of the hall and the picture’s on the table next to the bed.”

Before I could protest, she’d slammed the door again. Feeling a little like I had when I’d entered Bernadett’s room at the Edisto house, I made my way out into the hallway toward the room at the end of the hall. Thankfully, the door was wide open and I breezed through it as if walking into Finn’s bedroom was the same as walking into his office.

I’d made it only halfway inside before I stopped. The middle of the room was dominated by an enormous dark wood sleigh bed with a gold brocade bedspread and at least a dozen throw pillows artfully arranged on top. I assumed Mrs. McKenna had made the bed because I couldn’t imagine Finn expending energy in that direction.

Like the rest of the house—with the exception of Gigi’s room, which held more personality than most people I’d met—this room seemed torn right out of an interior design magazine. The furniture, fabrics, and color palette were exquisite—and completely cold. I couldn’t imagine Gigi jumping on top of the bed or whipping aside the heavy draperies to hide during a game of hide-and-go-seek.

I looked up toward the ceiling, wondering what was missing, and I found myself grinning when it occurred to me. There wasn’t a model airplane, paper planet, or moon-phase chart anywhere on the ceiling or any of the four walls. I couldn’t help but think that their additions could only add to the beauty of the room.

My mind’s eye formed a picture of Harper Beaufain Gibbes, with her perfect bone structure and elegant limbs, and I knew this was her bedroom regardless of who had slept in it before or who still did.

I heard a door shut somewhere in the house and figured Gigi must be ready. Quickly, I moved to the side of the bed, my eyes scanning the scattering of framed photographs that sat on the large round skirted table. I pulled a crimson tassel on the bedside lamp to see better and I found the costume picture immediately. But as I leaned forward to pick it up, I knocked over a simple acrylic frame that had been decorated with pink sequins. As I straightened it, I made the mistake of looking at the photograph.

It was a picture of an impossibly small Gigi in a hospital bed surrounded by nurses and doctors and Finn. All—including her father—were wearing pink head scarves and holding pink balloons with the number six printed on them. A large banner behind her bed read
HAPPY 6
TH BIRTHDAY, PEANUT!

Gigi wore the broad grin I’d become familiar with, and I wondered if she’d been born with such a propensity for joy or if it had been God’s recompense for a childhood interrupted.

But it was Finn’s image in the picture that captured my attention. Even with the silly pink head scarf, I could see his serious eyes and the tautness in his jaw. I couldn’t imagine what he was going through or thinking when that photo was taken, but the fact that he wore a pink scarf over his head and willingly subjected himself to a photograph told me more about the man than I’d learned in nearly two years of working for him.

“Can I help you find something?”

I startled at the sound of Finn’s voice, enough so that I shook the table and knocked over several more frames. I cringed, realizing this was the second time he’d caught me in a place I wasn’t supposed to be.

I began scrambling to replace the fallen frames into their upright positions but ended up knocking more over in my nervous haste. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Gigi asked me to come in here and get the photograph of her in her dance recital costume to show Helena because she’d originally packed the costume in her overflowing suitcase but there really wasn’t any room for it, and I thought . . .”

“Stop,” he said, and I felt his hand on my arm. “You’re starting to talk like Gigi and I’m finding it a little unnerving coming from a non-ten-year-old.”

I stopped, listening as one more frame fell onto the glass-topped surface. Slowly, I raised my eyes to his, surprised to see a hint of amusement in them. “Sorry,” I said again.

“Please stop apologizing. That’s almost as irritating as the nonstop chattering.” He pried the acrylic frame from my frozen fingers and replaced it without incident on top of the table. “I don’t think that was the photograph you were looking for.”

I took a deep breath, trying to pretend that everything was normal and that I wasn’t standing next to Finn Beaufain’s bed with the man himself very close to me, his gray eyes studying me and seeing more than I wanted him to. I took a step back, bumping the table. The answering sound of falling frames told me without turning around that I had probably knocked over the rest of the pictures.

“I’m sor—” I stopped, heat rushing to my cheeks. I quickly searched for something else to say. “We weren’t expecting you home.”

“Obviously.”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.” I stopped for a moment, remembering the basket and the real reason why we were running behind. “I need to show you something.” I hadn’t quite figured out how Gigi and I were going to explain how we’d come across the basket, but he didn’t have to know about it right now. I just needed to know what was written on top of the silver box, and who Gunter Richter was.

He looked alarmed. “Is it Gigi?”

“No. Not at all. It’s something we found in Helena’s house. We’re just not sure if we should show it to Helena or not.”

He glanced at the antique carriage clock that sat on the Georgian mantel of the fireplace across from the bed. “Can it wait? My plane to New York leaves in less than three hours and I haven’t packed yet.”

I began a hasty retreat to the door, eager to leave. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” The word was out before I could call it back. Our eyes met, and I knew we were both thinking about his last words to me earlier that afternoon.
What are you trying to atone for?

“Have a good trip,” I said, grabbing the photograph of Gigi in her costume before turning on my heel and practically running to Gigi’s bedroom.

On the way to North Charleston to pick up a few days’ worth of clothes and my toothbrush and during the forty-five-minute drive out to Edisto, Gigi kept up a constant chatter, including two quick phone calls to her father on my cell phone. I listened to her babble with only half an ear, murmuring a “yes” or a “no” at the appropriate times, my mind occupied with the images of a serious Charleston businessman wearing a pink scarf on his head and of a young soldier with a smile full of secrets.

Helena

I
dreamed that I was walking across the beautiful Chain Bridge over the Danube, the four crouching stone lions that guarded the bridge seeming to watch me. I could feel the chill, damp air and hear the sounds from the boats beneath. I was like a ghost, part of the scene but unable to interact with the world around me. I wondered if death would be like this, moving endlessly in a shadow world, searching for what would not be found. Or if my dream merely echoed my life.

I looked down into the murky brown of the river and watched as a single drop of water became a gushing torrent of bright blue until the entire river had turned the color of his eyes. I wanted to clap my ghost hands in delight, to shout that Strauss had not been wrong after all. But someone called my name, and I looked up, hoping and praying it would be him, finally coming for me, his last words still lingering in the shriveled organ that had once been my heart.
I will come back for you.

Instead I saw the white ceiling of my room and Nurse Kester leaning over my bed, and for a brief moment I imagined her eyes were a deep, bright blue.

“Are you all right?” she asked, a worried frown wrinkling her face. “You were talking in your sleep.”

“What did I say?” I asked, although I already knew.

“I’m not sure. It wasn’t in English.”

I closed my eyes and turned to face the wall. “I wish to go back to sleep now.”

The infernal woman would not be deterred. “You need to eat your breakfast. And Eleanor and Gigi arrived last night after you retired. They can’t wait to see you.”

I wanted to laugh at her exaggeration. At least half of what she said was true. I turned over, trying to give her my most put-out expression, but was secretly pleased that they were there. I had been looking forward to having the two of them to myself for three days. Gigi, because she filled the old house with joy and laughter and made my old bones move easier. And Eleanor because of the way she had played the Debussy piece.

It had not been horrible. It had been brilliant, despite the obvious fact that she was unprepared and not properly trained. She had played the way I once had, before my fingers had betrayed me and my heart had forgotten the music. But it went beyond the notes and the unschooled and rusty mechanics. The poignancy of her musical expression had told me something about her, something she was not even aware of. Yet still, she was holding something back, something precious to her that she did not want to share. It was the one thing that separated good musicians from great musicians.

I sighed heavily. “I suppose I should eat, then, to build up my endurance. They are here through Sunday.” She helped sit me up, propping pillows behind my back. “I am tired of this room and this house. I think it is time that I venture out.”

The nurse smiled. “I think you’re ready—although we’ll have to take it easy. It hasn’t been that long since you were in the hospital.”

I waved my hand, dismissing her concern. “I am fine. I think I will ask Eleanor to take me on a drive. Perhaps to the beach.”

I stared with what I hoped was my most imperious look. At least she knew me well enough not to continue with her efforts to dissuade me. Instead she said, “I’m sure Eleanor will enjoy that.”

I looked at her sharply to see if she meant it, but her expression showed bland innocence. “I am hungry now. Please tell me my breakfast is ready.”

The nurse moved to the door. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back. It’s your favorite—oatmeal.”

I was in the middle of voicing my disapproval when she turned back.

“I almost forgot. You had a visitor yesterday while you were napping. It slipped my mind until this morning. Actually, he was here to see Bernadett, but when I told him she had passed, he asked to speak with another member of the family.”

My neck stiffened. “Who was it?”

“He said his name was Jacob Isaacson. But he left a card.” She reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out a white card and handed it to me. Before I could complain about not being able to read it, she reached for my glasses on the bedside table and placed them on my nose.

Jacob B. Isaacson

Isaacson & Sons

European Fine Art, Antiques

The bottom of the card listed an Atlanta address. To hide my shaking hand, I placed the card on the bedside table, then let my hand fall to my side. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No. But he said he was in town through the weekend. He said you could call the cell number on the card.”

I waved my hand. “I am sure it is because he heard of my paintings. He wants to see if he can take advantage of an old woman. If he comes back, please tell him that they are not for sale. I hope you did not give him our unlisted number. I do not like to be disturbed.”

She gave me the blank look used by those who are dependent on others for their livelihoods and meant to mask thoughts or feelings that might offend. I knew it well, having once relied on it.

“Yes, Miss Szarka. And can I send Gigi and Eleanor in?”

“I suppose so. As long as it does not delay my breakfast.”

She had barely moved into the kitchen before they appeared in the doorway, Gigi’s smile more authentic than Eleanor’s—as if that should surprise me.

“Good morning, Aunt Helena!” A yellow shopping bag flopped against Gigi’s leg as she raced toward me to give me a hug and kiss.

Eleanor was more sedate in her approach, her smile not yet wavering. She carried three large books and a smaller one, on top of which was a small open sweetgrass basket, placing them all on the floor when she sat down. “Good morning, Miss Szarka. I hope you slept well.”

I recalled my dream, and the image of the blue Danube and the pair of eyes in the same shade, and almost said yes. “No. When you get to be my age, a good sleep is an impossibility. Something is always hurting and it is too much trouble to bother with changing position. Besides, something else will find a way to start hurting, so what is the point?”

Gigi moved to the other side of the bed so Nurse Kester could place my meal tray on my lap.

“Yum, oatmeal,” Eleanor said, giving an exaggerated sniff. “Your favorite.”

I frowned at her, but before I could ask her to feed me, she said, “If you’re strong enough to feed yourself, then Nurse Kester thinks you’re strong enough to go for a drive to the beach. Or a walk to the dock. Or even a visit to church. Your pick.”

Nurse Kester tucked a napkin into the neck of my nightgown and then left the room, walking faster than necessary. With as much dignity as I could, I picked up the spoon and took a bite. Glancing at Gigi, I asked, “What is in the bag?”

“Yesterday was my four-year-remission birthday. So Daddy bought me this.” She turned the bag upside down and something that resembled pink stuffed animals with ribbons tumbled onto the bedclothes. “It’s a mobile of the planets! They’re soft and smushy and pink, so Daddy knew it had to be mine, and we both agreed that my room at home had plenty enough pink in it, so we thought that maybe we could hang it in my room here to make it more like home when I come to stay with you.”

I nodded, then took another bite of oatmeal so that I wouldn’t have to respond. I was still busy translating what she had said.

“Ellie brought you a gift, too, although it’s a just-because gift and not a birthday or remission birthday or anything else. . . .”

Eleanor retrieved the basket, stood, and put a soft hand on Gigi’s arm. As she placed the basket on the night table, she said, “We spotted this at the sweetgrass stand on Highway One-seventy-four and thought you might like it to put your glasses and watch in while you sleep.”

“It’s called Dreams of Rivers. That’s what the basket-maker lady told us.” Gigi gently lifted the glasses from my nose and placed them in the basket along with a pen and notepad and a small tube of hand lotion I kept by the bed. I thought she was done when she spotted the business card and stuck it inside, too, where it disappeared into the bottom of the basket. “Perfect!” she said.

“The name of it made me think of you,” Eleanor said quietly.

Our eyes met, and I wanted to ask her how she had known, how she had seen the two rivers that always flowed through my dreams. But I suppose I already knew, had probably known since I had first heard her playing the piano. She reminded me of Bernadett in many ways, but she reminded me of myself even more. Perhaps my constant irritation with her was simply directed at a younger version of myself intent on making the same mistakes.

“Thank you,” I said. “It is lovely. And so useful, too,” I added for Gigi’s benefit. I glanced at Eleanor. “Have you brought books to read to me?”

She smiled tightly as she picked up the three larger books she’d set on the floor. “Actually, I think these were for Bernadett, but I thought I’d show them to you first and you can decide if we want to keep them or not.”

The hair rose on my arms, as if someone had just walked over my grave. “How do you know they were for her?” I asked, concentrating on my oatmeal, unable to see the titles on the spines because Gigi had removed my glasses.

“I found the first book,
The Art of Origami
, in the sunroom and saw that it was long overdue. I threw it in the back of my car to return it but kept forgetting to ask you, so instead I went to renew it. While I was there, the librarian told me that Bernadett had requested an interlibrary loan and that the books were still waiting for her. So I brought them home, just in case you were interested in them, too. If you don’t want any of these books, I’d be more than happy to take another trip to the library tomorrow and return them and pick up something else.”

She dropped the origami book on the bench, then held up two more books, the front covers facing me, and I had to squint to see the words. “What are their titles?” I asked, almost sick with impatience, as if she held a communication from beyond the grave from my sister. I dropped my spoon in the bowl and pushed it away from me.

“
Great Art of the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries
and
The Dutch Masters
.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Probably not great reading-out-loud material.”

I stared at the books as time seemed to stop and I was back in our kitchen in Budapest, at the time when we did not have money for heated water. I sat in a cold tin washtub next to the oven as my mother poured icy-cold water over my head. I remembered that now, remembered it because Eleanor’s words cut into my flesh in much the same way.

The girl was watching me closely, as if to measure my reaction. I kept my face calm as I flicked my hand in the air. “Bernadett always had the oddest reading tastes. I suppose I should keep them since you went to all that trouble. I might enjoy looking at the pictures.”

If she was disappointed by my reaction, she did not say anything. Instead, she placed the books on the bench at the foot of the bed. “Just in case you
did
need reading material, I brought another book for you, too.” She reached down to the floor again and held up a paperback novel, a man with a woman wearing a gown from a previous century wrapped in a passionate embrace on the cover. “I saw that you already had several books by this author, so I thought you might enjoy her latest.”

Her eyes seemed to challenge me to deny that I knew anything about those books, but I would not give her the satisfaction of telling her that I had been embarrassed to let my sister know what I was reading—my good and dutiful sister who volunteered at church and taught Sunday school. But I had once known the girl with the romantic heart and sweet singing voice who loved a pretty pair of shoes as much as she loved a God she thought she knew. I suppose that the masks we choose to wear can sometimes become permanent if we are not careful.

“How kind,” I said coolly. “Unfortunately, the print in those books is usually too small for me to read, so you will have to read it out loud to me. I hope that certain scenes will not cause you too much embarrassment. Especially since you are an unmarried woman.”

“Not at all,” she said, her tone matching mine. “You’ll just have to let me know when you want me to skip over certain parts, seeing as how you’re also an unmarried woman.” She smiled sweetly and placed the novel on top of the art books.

Touché.
It took all of my strength not to give in to the temptation to throw my head back and laugh. I did not want her to know that her words had reached their target, and besides, it would have hurt my neck too much.

“I want you to play for me again today. Perhaps after Gigi’s lesson. After supper I would like to go for a drive with the windows down. And then after we put Gigi to bed, we can sit in the sunroom and you can read to me.”

Eleanor slapped her palms against the tops of her legs. “Glad to see you have your day planned. That’s a good sign.”

I looked up at her sharply. “A good sign of what? That I’m not planning on dying today?”

She flushed, then sent a glance over to Gigi, who was busy studying the origami book. “No. Of course not. I meant it’s a good sign that you want to get out and do things. That means you’re moving forward.”

“And you know so much about that.”

She stood very still, her eyes flashing. “You know nothing about me. Please don’t pretend that you do, and just let me do my job.”

“I know a lot more than you would like to think. You and I are not that different. Except I have had more years on this earth to dwell on my mistakes. And you are still young enough to wrongly believe that your mistakes are permanent.”

Her chest rose and fell in an attempt to dispel her anger, or maybe she was simply trying to decide who would get in the last word or if she should just leave. I was not surprised when she chose the former.

“Those art books—did you know that Bernadett went all the way to the Mount Pleasant Library and ordered them to be sent there? And she left instructions that they would be held for her until she came to collect them—that under no circumstances should anybody call this house to let her know they were in, because I’m assuming she didn’t want you to know about them. I can’t imagine why she’d be so secretive. Can you?”