Welcome to the World, Baby Girl! (58 page)

She rode the streetcar back past the botanical gardens near Schönbrunn Park, where she and Theo had been taken so many times as children. When she got off near her hotel, she did not go in. Instead she walked.

She had been so occupied with Theo that today was the first time she actually realized:
she was home!
Suddenly it seemed that the entire city had come into sharp focus. Colors looked brighter to her and sounds seemed strange and amplified, almost as if they were coming from an old radio or phonograph.

She walked over to their old apartment house in the Lothringerstrasse, looked up, and remembered the good times, the music, the laughter. She walked over to the Alsarstrasse, past the general hospital, where her father and grandfather had practiced medicine, and along the Elisabethstrasse Promenade beside the Danube, past the Central Café, the Café Mozart, and everywhere she went she heard music. She did not see the bombed-out buildings. She saw only what she remembered. Vienna was now occupied by French, English, American, and Russian soldiers but she did not notice them. To her the aroma of the coffee mixed with the rich, sweet smells of pastries and warm bread were still the same. As she rode the giant Ferris wheel two hundred feet high and looked across the city, she felt ten years old again and happy. She was so glad the war had not destroyed her beautiful city. Vienna seemed almost exactly as she had left it.

It was late afternoon when she walked back to her hotel. As she turned the corner she stopped and could hardly believe who she saw. It was her childhood friend Maria, watching the animated Christmas display in a shop window. She could see her face clearly in the blinking lights. She called out and rushed toward her.

“Maria! It’s me, Marguerite!”

The little girl’s parents looked at the woman who thought their
daughter was someone named Maria and realized she must not be in her right mind. They quickly took their little girl and hurried away into the crowd.

She went into the Hotel Sacher, asked for her key, and went upstairs.

Fifteen minutes later she stepped into the tub full of warm water. Despite the fever, she felt so relaxed and yet so alive. She was back where she had once been happy. She reached up and opened the small window and heard the sounds of the city below. She could hear a soprano rehearsing in one of the rehearsal rooms in the Staatsoper House across the street. She smiled and leaned back and waited until all the water had gone down the drain.

For the first time in years she wasn’t afraid. It had come to her this morning at Theo’s grave that she was the last of the Le Guardes. The only one left. The one, last drop of blood in her was the only link that could connect Dena with the Le Guardes. That little drop of blood was all that was left. She closed her eyes and squeezed the razor blade in her hand. She knew what she had to do.

It was so simple. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

Where was it, she wondered? Was it on her left side? Where was it lurking? Did it stay in one place or did it travel throughout her body, running and hiding, determined to haunt her year after year? She would just get rid of it once and for all. First the left side, the ankle, then the wrist. She must let it escape. Then the right side. There, it was done. She leaned back and waited. She felt a strange calm come over her as she felt the blood begin to leave and wondered if she would be able to feel it as it flowed out of her, so red against the stark white tub, past her, and on down the drain. Soon it would be gone. Oh, what a relief to finally get it out. Then she and Dena would be free. She leaned back and took a deep breath of the cold, fresh air that blew across her naked body and waited. As she lay waiting, a faint tune began to play over and over again in her head, a sad sort of waltz … what was it? She began to softly hum the tune.

What was it? Oh, yes, now she remembered. It was an old waltz, “Vienna, City of My Dreams.” A waltz from her childhood. Yes, soon she heard the music, softly at first, and then it slowly became
louder and louder, drowning out the sounds of the street and the piano across the way, until the sound of an entire orchestra filled her ears and the words sang to her from so long ago. She could feel herself moving with the music. But where was she? She opened her eyes and looked.… Oh, she was dancing with her father in the gold-mirrored ballroom, under the crystal chandeliers, and there was her mother across the way, sitting in a small gold chair, dressed in satin and chiffon. Glittering stones sparkled on her neck and ears and she swayed with the music, smiling at them. Marguerite was ten again and she was waltzing with her father. She glanced up at him, so handsome in his tuxedo and white gloves, and he was young and happy and she was so proud to be his partner, so happy to be dancing again, she felt light, free, as they were sweeping and turning. He lifted her higher and higher, up and up, and as they waltzed they were lifted still higher, twirling and turning, around and around all the way up to the sky; now they were dancing among the glittering stars … higher and higher until they danced past the stars and on out of sight. The music lingered for a moment, then softly faded.…

She had only been trying to get rid of one drop of blood. She had meant to go back to the little girl who now sat in the apartment in Chicago waiting for her and live happily ever after. She had not meant to kill herself. It had just happened.

Three weeks after she had been to Washington the phone rang. “Miss Nordstrom, it’s Richard Look.”

She closed her eyes and waited for his next sentence. “I have some news about your mother and I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

She sat down and listened while he read her the report.

Look had said he was sending it. Three days later, when the large, ominous-looking envelope arrived, she put it down on the kitchen table. She did not want to open it. The facts inside were so shocking, so brutal, so final. She knew when she opened it and saw the facts on official paper that she would have to accept them as true.

Her mother had destroyed herself over something that in a few more years might not even matter. It was so unfair that a person’s life could be changed so dramatically by just a simple matter of timing. Her mother’s life had been ruined by something as stupid and as changeable as the prejudices of the day. If only her mother had been born in a different time, she would have been spared all that unnecessary misery. Just a few years later, and she might have had her mother back.

Dena got up and walked around the block. Her neighbor, Poor Tot, was in her front yard on her hands and knees working in her begonia garden. She had on red jeans, her husband’s bowling shirt, and a straw hat, and called to Dena, “Hey … isn’t this a pretty day? I think we are going to have an Indian summer, don’t you?”

Dena had no idea what she was talking about but answered, “Yes, I think you’re right.” When she came back she sat down and opened the envelope. Inside was another envelope with a letter attached:

The envelope inside had been closed with a red wax seal. Dena took a deep breath and broke it open. Inside was her mother’s passport. Underneath her picture was written
Marguerite Louise Le
Guarde—born, Vienna, Austria, 1920.
A train ticket and about two hundred American dollars and some foreign bills. A few receipts and a folded sheet of Hotel Sacher stationery. Dena unfolded it and read the note her mother had hurriedly scribbled across the page to herself:
Pay hospital bill … Call Dena … Tell her to wait at apartment.

Seeing her mother’s handwriting again after all these years, and realizing that her mother had intended to return to her again, was a shock.

If only she could have told her mother that nothing mattered, told her how much she loved her and needed her. But she couldn’t. All she could do was sit there and cry while the cat, upset because Dena was upset, kept rubbing up against her, over and over.

Dr. Diggers had told Dena not to make any important decisions for as long as possible, that she needed to take a lot of time to think before she did anything.

After she found out about her mother, she did just that. She had a lot of things to think about. She felt sad, but mostly she felt as if she was not the same person she had been just a few weeks earlier. She realized that she did not know much about life at all. Everything she thought she knew as fact wasn’t. Everything she had believed was important wasn’t.

Today she was out in Aunt Elner’s backyard, walking along with her as she watered her tomato plants.

“Aunt Elner,” she said, “do you like people?”

“Oh, lands, yes, honey, sure, I do.” She cocked her head to the left. “Come to think of it, I guess you could go so far as to say that people are my pets. They just tickle me to death. There is nothing cuter to me than a pack of Brownies or Cub Scouts or a table full of oldsters. I used to make Norma and Macky take me up to Miss Alma’s Tea Room so I could sit there and watch all the little early birds come in for their supper.” Aunt Elner moved on down the row and looked up at the sky, which was turning slightly gray over to the
west. “You watch, as soon as I water, it rains. Anyhow, I used to go to Alma’s and listen to them chattering away, cute as pie.” She chuckled. “And now, I’m an oldster and Miss Alma’s is gone, closed down … of course they have an early bird special out at Howard Johnson’s … but, yes, I like people.

“To tell you the truth, I feel sort of sorry for most of them. Some days I could just sit down and cry my eyes out … poor little old human beings—they’re jerked into this world without having any idea where they came from or what it is they are supposed to do, or how long they have to do it in. Or where they are gonna wind up after that. But bless their hearts, most of them wake up every morning and keep on trying to make some sense out of it. Why, you can’t help but love them, can you? I just wonder why more of them aren’t as crazy as betsy bugs.”

“Do you believe in God, Aunt Elner?”

“Sure I do, honey, why?”

“How old were you when you started believing, do you remember?”

Aunt Elner paused for a moment. “I never thought about not believing. Never did question it. I guess believing is just like math: some people get it right out of the chute, and some have to struggle for it.” Aunt Elner spotted something. “Hold on a minute, dear.” She slowly reached in her apron. “Don’t move.” She pulled out a lime-green plastic water pistol and aimed it at her cat, Sonny, just as he was about to pounce on a fat robin, busy eating birdseed. She hit Sonny in the back of his head and he took off. “Hate to do it but it’s the only thing that works. I can’t stand to see him get one of my birds.” She put the water pistol back in her apron. “It has a range up to sixty feet. Norma got it for me up at the Rexall. Oh, I know a lot of people struggle, wondering is there really a God. They sit and think and worry over it all their life. The good Lord had to make smart people but I don’t think he did them any favors because it seems the smart ones start questioning things from the get go. But I never did. I’m one of the lucky ones. I thank God every night, my brain is just perfect for me, not too dumb, not too bright. You know, your daddy was always asking questions.”