When We Meet Again (13 page)

For the second night in a row, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, battling my apprehension about taking a trip with my father. We hadn’t spent more than a few minutes in each other’s presence in more than twenty years, and now we were setting off together on a transatlantic journey? The more I thought about it, the more insane it sounded.

I finally drifted off sometime after two in the morning, and I dreamt of being trapped in a deep pit filled with quicksand. I was trying to get out before I was pulled under, but everyone I knew was peering over the edge at me with blank expressions on their faces. My father was there, scrolling through his cell, while I screamed for help. “Dad!” I cried in the dream. “Save me!” He looked up only briefly, shrugged, and turned his attention back to the phone. It was then that I noticed Nick standing there at the top of the pit, staring down at me with a look of horror on his face. “Nick?” I cried, somehow not surprised at all to see him there. “Help!” Without a second of hesitation, he jumped in after me, wrapped his arms around me, and began to pull us both up the walls of the pit using his bare hands.

I awoke with a start, still feeling the solidity of Nick’s chest and the comfort I’d felt in his arms. I’d known for a moment that everything was going to be completely okay. But it was just a dream, and lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling at four in the morning with a racing heart, I was just as alone as ever.

I got out of bed, booted up my laptop, and clicked over to the bookmarked site for NW Creative, the advertising agency I knew Nick owned in Atlanta. Scanning his website was a guilty, self-destructive pleasure, an urge I gave into now and then when I was at my lowest. Yawning, I skimmed the news column on the left of the main page—noting with a smile that Nick had just won a prestigious ADDY Award for a campaign he’d created for a local nonprofit—and then I clicked over to his bio, which I knew practically by heart. It was playful, revealing just enough tongue-in-cheek information about Nick for potential clients to feel like they already knew him. It appeared he still liked ’80s movies, enjoyed golfing, and had appeared on
The Today Show
once to discuss advertising trends in America, a clip I had found and rewatched so many times that I knew every word. And according to the bio, he was married to a woman named Jessica. I knew it was bizarre that I kept checking that last sentence, waiting for it to disappear, but of course it never did.

Sighing, rubbing my temples, and feeling like a loser, I went back to Google, and for the next fifteen minutes, I scrolled through the threads of the most popular adoption search sites, looking—as I always did—for some trace of Catherine. But no one matching her description had posted anything about looking for her birth parents, and all of my search strings remained unanswered. I finally closed my laptop and climbed into bed feeling dejected. I was tired of being so lonely.

Before I could stop myself, I reached for my cell phone and dialed Scott’s number, even though I knew he was certainly in bed already. “I can’t sleep,” I said when he picked up.

“Is that an invitation to come over?” he asked, his voice thick.

“If you want to.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Twenty minutes later, Scott was at my front door. He leaned down to kiss me, and I silenced my internal objections and leaned in to the feeling of being wanted. I led him to my bedroom, where I let him clumsily peel off the T-shirt and boxer shorts I’d been sleeping in. As we fell into bed, I wasn’t thinking about Munich or a path of destroyed relationships anymore. I was just thinking about Scott’s hands on my body, the feel of his skin against mine, the way he filled me when he slid inside me with a groan.

But afterward, as he was snoring beside me, I closed my eyes, and all I could see was the painting. My mind spun with the details of the letters, the things I’d been told, and the blanks I was beginning to fill in about a past I didn’t yet understand. Finally, I drifted off to sleep thinking of Catherine and the life we could have had together if I’d been stronger, wiser, better. No amount of distraction could change the regrets I’d always carry with me in my heart.

T
he next evening, after a connection at Dulles International Airport, I was on a flight to Munich with my father.

“You didn’t have to spring for business class,” I said as we took off, the monuments of Washington, D.C., spreading out below us like miniature pieces on a Monopoly board.

My dad patted my knee and smiled. “Once you’ve gone business class, you never go back. I don’t think I could have managed folding myself into an economy seat for a flight this long.”

“Well, thank you.” I paused and gave him a half smile. “Although I suspect you’ve now ruined economy flying for me.”

He chuckled. “I think you’ll be okay. Besides, it’s a father’s job to spoil his daughter, isn’t it?”

The sentence hung awkwardly between us, the silence an indication of the wrongness of his words.

“Dad—” I began.

“I’m sorry,” he said before I could complete my thought. “I keep sticking my foot in my mouth, but it isn’t really about that, is it? It’s the fact that I totally screwed up for all those years. I can’t expect you to forgive that.”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “Let’s just not talk about this for now,” I said. “Nothing will change the way you left, but I can’t keep punishing you for it, can I?”

He looked surprised. “It would certainly be your right to.”

“Honestly?” I looked out the window for a second before turning back to him. “I’m exhausted. I’m so tired of being angry at you.”

He nodded. “I don’t think you have to forgive me,” he said after a moment, “in order for us to start over.”

“I know. But the starting over scares me.” I didn’t elaborate, but from the look on his face, I knew he understood what I meant. What guarantee did I have that he wouldn’t do the same kind of thing again? What if I let down my guard and began to reestablish a relationship with him and he decided to simply walk away again? I hated to admit it, but it would destroy me. The walls I’d built up were my only protection.

“I don’t blame you for hesitating, but I give you my word that I’m not going to let you down this time.”

I nodded and looked out the window again. I wasn’t sure whether to believe him, and at the same time, starting over with him felt like a betrayal of my mother. He’d hurt her, and now she was gone. But my mother wasn’t a person who held grudges, and maybe she wouldn’t want me to be either. Maybe she’d encourage me to open my heart a little.

Your mom probably wouldn’t want you to hate him, you know.
The words floated back to me unbeckoned, startling me with their clarity. It was exactly what Nick had said to me when I first told him about my father, about a month after we’d started dating. It had also been the start of the only real fight we’d ever had.

“Oh, so you know exactly what my mom’s thinking and feeling?” I had snapped defensively, turning away from him. We were heading to a movie in his little Honda Civic, and as I stared out the window, I tried hard to blink back my tears before he could see them.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Nick said. “I just meant that, well, you seem really mad. And it’s not like you’re wrong or anything. But I think it’s hard to be that mad at someone for such a long time.”

His patient tone somehow made me feel even more combative. “It’s actually pretty easy when the person you’re talking about just completely vanished from your life.”

“I know, Em. But I guess what I’m saying is that maybe your mom wouldn’t want you walking around so pissed off just for her sake, you know? Like, she’d want you to be happy and not to worry about her.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” I said flatly, trying not to let his words worm their way inside my brain. I knew on some level that he was right, but my anger toward my dad was like a badge of honor, something that united my mom and me. Letting it go would be like losing a piece of who I was.

“But I know you,” he’d said after a long pause. His tone had turned careful, and I knew he was trying hard to say the right thing, but I’d been so annoyed at him for butting in that there wasn’t anything he could have said that wouldn’t make me angrier. “And I know you would do anything for the people you love. But I don’t know, sometimes you kind of forget about doing things for yourself.”

“Yeah, well, looking out for my mom makes me happy, okay?” I snapped. “And it’s none of your business.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said finally. “I guess you’ll let go when you’re ready.”

“So have you been to Germany before?” my father asked, cutting into my thoughts and jolting me back to the present. I realized I’d been silent for a long time.

I cleared my throat. “It’s actually the first time I’ve been anywhere outside the United States except for a cruise to the Bahamas,” I admitted, and my dad looked so surprised that his mouth literally fell open.

“What about seeing the world? Experiencing life beyond our borders? Eating a baguette in Paris or drinking a cup of tea in China?”

“Last time I checked, the supermarket carried French bread and green tea.” I didn’t want to tell him that I’d always dreamed of traveling the world, but I’d never made the time. And somehow, I’d never lucked into the journalistic assignments that came with international travel.

We were interrupted by a flight attendant delivering us small bowls of snack mix and offering us flutes of champagne from a tray. My dad and I clinked glasses, and we both took long sips of bubbly.

“I could get used to this,” I said.

He looked past me out the window. “You’re going to love Germany, Emily,” he said after a minute. “I’m glad I’m going to be there with you.”

From the air, Munich looked like something out of a fairy tale. We landed just past eight in the morning, and by the time we got through customs and retrieved our luggage, it was nearly ten. I’d slept on and off during the eight-hour flight, but I still felt groggy and disoriented; Germany was six hours ahead of Orlando, which meant that as we climbed into a taxi at the curb, it was just past four in the morning at home.

“Need a nap at the hotel or anything?” my dad asked as our taxi driver accelerated onto the highway heading for Munich.

His concern rubbed me the wrong way, somehow, but I forced myself to take a deep breath before responding. “No, I’m good.” As we drew closer to the city, the pine trees and apartment buildings of the suburbs gave way to the magical-looking outskirts of a Bavarian city with creamy Gothic architecture and brick-colored roofs set against an impossibly blue sky.

“That’s the Frauenkirche,” my dad said, pointing to a pair of twin clock towers topped by bulbous green domes. The towers seemed to dwarf the rest of the buildings. “The main cathedral of Munich. The church was built in the Gothic style during the 1400s, but the domes were added on later, in the 1520s, in a completely different architectural style.”

“You sound like a travel show.”

“I used to travel here occasionally on business. I’ve picked up some things here and there.” He smiled at me.

“How nice for you,” I said, but he didn’t seem to register my sarcasm, and after silence fell over us, I wasn’t even sure how I’d meant the words as a dig.

Our hotel was on a side street near the city center, and after we’d checked into rooms down the hall from each other and changed out of our travel clothes, we met in the lobby. My father was already deep in conversation with the concierge when I walked up.

He turned around holding a map. “I asked for a taxi to the address you have for Franz Dahler, but the concierge tells me we’re only about fifteen minutes away on foot. Feel like walking?”

I nodded, and with the help of the tourist map and the GPS on my father’s iPhone, we wound our way in silence down a few side streets until we emerged in the Marienplatz, Munich’s central square. For a moment, we both simply stopped and stared.

It was gorgeous and unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was laid out in a rectangular shape, with cafés and shops spilling into the bustling central area. In the middle was a tall column with a gold statue of the Virgin Mary on top. The buildings around the square were a charming mix of historic and modern. The Gothic-looking building with the soaring clock tower that seemed to anchor the square was breathtaking.

“Look,” my dad said, nudging me and pointing. There was a crowd gathered around, and as bells chimed the hour, the Glockenspiel beneath the clock tower began to move. First, on the top level, there was a procession of figurines carrying horns, swords, and flags. Then, two sword-toting figures on horseback appeared, rotating in opposite directions. “That was supposed to be the wedding of Duke Wilhelm the Fifth, complete with knights jousting,” my dad whispered, just as the lower half of the Glockenspiel began to rotate. “The second part is a dance called the
Schäfflertanz,
which first took place during a plague in the 1500s to demonstrate loyalty to the duke despite hard times.”

We stayed to watch as a bunch of male figurines danced and twirled around the bottom half of the tower. It was charming and magical and reminded me of an old-fashioned carousel. “That was kind of amazing,” I said as the music ended. There was a smattering of applause from the tourists gathered in the square.

“I’m glad we got to see it,” my dad said, and I felt a surge of guilt for enjoying myself with him. What would my mother think? As the crowds began to disperse, he pointed off to the right and led me in a weaving zigzag through the crowd until we were in the midst of a sprawling, bustling farmers’ market. We were surrounded by stalls that overflowed with everything I could imagine: fruits and vegetables in every color, meats, fish, cheeses, spices, flowers, and clothing. There was a beer garden, alive with people, in the center of the mass of booths, and the market’s edges were dotted with more established-looking shops and restaurants.

“This is the
Viktualienmarkt
,” my dad said as he gestured for me to follow him. “The city’s main farmers’ market. It’s been here for a couple hundred years.” I didn’t say anything, and he consulted the map again as we wove through the maze of booths, the scents of yeast, sausage, and spices heavy in the air. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I’d been so intent on hitting the ground running that I hadn’t eaten since the croissant and coffee we’d been served on the plane just before landing.