or two. Immediately the crash of the Pacific filled the room, along with cold, damp air. Fog obscured the view.
Her mother dropped her weight onto the sofa that faced the sliding door. Her back was to the patient as she said:
Was it difficult? I mean finding her?
Not really.
And you saw her.
I did.
Her mother took a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table and lit it. Then she patted the sofa cushion next to her.
Come sit down, she said.
They sat side by side, saying nothing for several seconds, her mother dragging on her cigarette and blowing out smoke, and the ocean below thrashing beneath its clouds. Looking back at mother and daughter were their pale reflections in the door glass: two outlines against whiteout, and the dancing red spot of her mother’s cigarette.
Finally the patient said: I found her through the Catholic agency Father used—well, it was his father, I suppose—the one he used to adopt me.
Her mother turned, shocked.
What?
Through the agency that arranged my adoption.
But—she took a drag on her cigarette—but I don’t think there ever was an actual agency. I mean, not a real one, not in the sense of social workers and so forth.
But didn’t you tell me that? That I got adopted through a Catholic agency?
Her mother smoked. Well, maybe I did. I don’t remember that time too clearly. As I told you, I never wanted to remember it at all, until you—
The patient all but saw her mother’s censor leap onto the stage: a figure in a black robe, priestly, rushing in to clip out any deep, hard emotion that might have the audacity to express itself.
They have a bar here in the room, her mother said. Completely stocked. We could have martinis.
No martinis for me, Mother. I’m not drinking. But you go ahead.
Not at all?
No. Not at all these days.
It was a rebuff. Her mother stubbed out her cigarette, stood, took the four steps into the kitchenette, where she opened the freezer and retrieved a small bottle of vodka. She simply poured the liquor over ice, as if too annoyed to go through the cocktail ritual herself.
She remained standing, leaning on a counter, sipping her drink.
So, she said after several seconds, I suppose she is living in some horrid circumstances.
You mean my birth mother? Not at all, said the patient. She has a charming stone house in Israel. South of Tel Aviv. Her name is now Michal, by the way, not Maria. And the G stood for Gerstner when she was in Germany. But now her last name is Gershon. She changed it to make it more Israeli.
Of course, said her mother. Now it sounds even more … Jewish.
She had flung out the word, and left it hanging there. Then she returned to her drink and asked:
And is she pretty?
The patient laughed. Yes, she said.
Prettier than I am?
The patient sighed.
Mother. Please.
Well. Naturally, I’m curious about her looks. Last I knew of her, from the records, she was slim and blond with “Aryan” features. Is she still?
Yes.
Still slim and fit?
Still slim. But not as fit as you are. She walks with a limp, using a cane.
Poor woman.
She drank. Then she went to sit on the sofa next to the patient, her focus on the invisible ocean.
How was it? she asked. Did she … receive you well?
Not at first, said the patient. She laughed. At first she tried to throw me out—
Throw you out?
Yes. Look. I just walked into her life and scared her to death.
Well, said her mother. That I can understand. The sudden upset—
Before her mother could condemn her for creating “upset,” a terrible breach of Mother’s extensive social code, the patient rushed in to say:
But Michal eventually told me her whole story.
Her mother listened with a noncommittal face, smoking one cigarette after another, as the patient relayed Michal’s history in some detail, from her early days in Germany to her landing, finally, in Israel. The patient did not leave out the circumstances under which she was conceived, under which she was born and given away.
What a dreadful story!
Hard at times, yes, the patient said. But Michal’s experience wasn’t all dreadful. The camp organized itself into a sort of village. She made it to Israel. All those horrors she was able to survive and overcome.
For all of her … surrendering you, said her mother, it seems you still think her noble.
Yes, replied the patient. Now that you bring up that word, yes. I might say her surviving was noble.