was clearer than ever that big-M Mother is no mother. And Michal, what kind of mother is she? What kind of mother throws out her own flesh and blood? Yeah. Going back. My last try. Last try to get myself a mother.
And did you? asked the doctor.
No.
No?
But I found someone else. Someone else I’m related to.
Oh! said Dr. Schussler. Wonderful!
The patient did not immediately reply.
Wonderful, repeated the doctor. Yes?
Maybe. Maybe not.
118.
I took a last-minute flight, said the patient, standby. I let the taxi driver suggest some hotel—it was fine. I dropped off my bag, and went directly to Michal’s house.
I found the door open. A crack. I gave it a little push. It fell open all the way.
I yelled out, Hello? Anyone there? I waited. No one answered.
I walked halfway down the hall and yelled again, Hello, hello.
Finally someone in the kitchen—from the direction of the kitchen—called back: Here. I am in here.
The kitchen. I stopped at the threshold. There was a woman in an army uniform standing with her back to me. There was a rifle slung over her shoulder. I saw groceries on the table—milk, bread, apples. She took off the gun. Put it in the corner.
Hello, I said again.
And the woman turned around.
She looked like me.
Exactly like me.
I was on instant recognition. But I should check, came to me. To be sure. Each feature. Eyes, mouth, chin, cheekbones, shape of the head—the same, the same, the same, the same. Hair dark brown, little halo of frizz—the same.
Gott! whispered Dr. Schussler.
(A sister! How did I not know there was a sister?)
Then I felt tricked. My eyes playing tricks on me. Seeing what I wanted to see. Another look. Army uniform, rifle over the shoulder, strange expression on her face: Suspicion? Disdain? Not me, not me, not me.
All this is happening in—what? A second? Two? And I’m thinking, How do I know what I really look like? In the mirror. A pose. Preferred angle. Flattering expression. Maybe someone would say we don’t look alike at all.
We were just standing there. Not moving. Then in some heavy accent the woman said, Who are you.
It wasn’t a question. Her tone was flat, dead flat.
I’m Michal’s daughter, I said. From America.
My sister—she had to be my sister—tipped back her head and squinted at me. Then she said in that same dead flat voice:
I am also Michal’s daughter.
We kept standing there, just looking at each other. She scanned my face, features, body. Like I did with her. She inventoried me—that’s what it felt like, being inventoried. Probably that’s what she saw in me. When I was checking. To be sure.
We are similar in appearance, she said.
I think more than similar.
Yes, more than similar.
I look like someone.
My head went light. Balloon light. I don’t know what expression Leni saw on my face. Leni—she told me later her name was Leni—I don’t know what she saw. My face felt inert. Like my whole body. Inert. My breathing, gasps for air—maybe she understood from my breathing.
But I saw something in her. Her expression was the same as when she first saw me. Head back. Squinting. Then her mouth slowly turned down.
She said: How did you come to be here?
I came to find my birth mother. Last summer. I’m adopted. Michal—she is my birth mother.
I knew it, said Leni. I knew something must have happened. Last summer. Something changed. So it was—
Me.
We didn’t know what to say after that. The clock ticked. I heard a car go by. Leni stopped scrutinizing me. Finally she said,
And how did you find her to be? I mean, what sort of reception did she give you?
Why do you ask?
She tipped her head to one side and laughed.
I am imagining she was not happy to see you.
Yes. Right. She sent me away.
So why did you come back?
I don’t know.
You should not have come back. You should leave.
I was startled, a little afraid. I didn’t know what to do. But just finding her—a sister, almost a twin—it never occurred to me to turn around and leave. I kept staring at her. And she stared back: Standing taller. Shoulders back. Chest high. A soldier. A soldier’s stance.
Leave? Do you really think I could leave now? I said. Just when I find a sister—we have to be sisters.
Yes. Sisters. What else could we be?
It was strange. We didn’t say more about how alike we were. As if it was too weird. Or something we couldn’t cope with right then, or wouldn’t, not knowing each other.