Almost doubles—what it meant. In Leni: no sign of joy, tentative joy, or happiness, or relief. Something else.
We exchanged names. She told me then: Leni Gershon. We said what we did for a living—she’s an engineer, a civil engineer. We compared birth dates—she’s just a year and a half older than I am. We both said we didn’t know about the other’s existence.
So why do you think I shouldn’t have come back? I said finally.
You may not like what you find out. About Michal. About where you came from.
My body bent over into a sort of crouch. Being tired. Maybe to defend myself. I don’t know from what—yes, I knew, from her, something steely in her. How she towered over me.
And what did Michal tell you?
Everything.
Leni laughed. Well, not everything. You did not know about me. So you could not have come here looking for me. Then why are you here? What is it you hoped to gain by returning?
One thing, I said. The truth about why she gave me away. Why she never looked for me.
Heh. That is two questions.
I said nothing.
Are you sure you want to know? she asked.
Everyone has warned me off, I said to her, finding some bravery in myself. Mother—my adoptive mother. And a … a doctor that I see. And Michal. Everyone warning me. Thinking they’ll spare me something. But I’ve already heard some awful things—and I survived. See? I’m back. And if there’s more that’s bad, I can take it.
Then I suddenly lost my little surge of courage. I couldn’t go on. If I said, I don’t have a mother, I need a mother, I came back to find a real mother, I’d break down in front of her. I could tell she wasn’t a person who wanted to deal with sobs and tears. And I didn’t want to look weak in front of her.
But she must have seen it in my face. She let go of her stance. She went “at ease,” I suppose. Then she sighed and said:
Sit down. I will put the groceries away. Then we can talk.
She scraped back a chair for me, and I sat as the apples and milk went into the refrigerator. Bread, other things still in the bag, into cabinets and pantries. She picked up the rifle and put it in some other room. Then she came back, sat down in what had been Michal’s chair last time I’d come.
She put her arms out on the table, leaning on her elbows, hands together, a triangle.
First, she said, before I tell you anything, you need to know a little about who I am, who I am in relation to Michal.
Her daughter.
Wait, please. “Daughter” tells you nothing. When Michal brought me here, it was very bad for me. Very bad. I was angry, furious. I hated her. Nine years old and hating everyone and everything around me to my bones.
Brought you here? From where?
Later. I will get to that later.
But why—
Later.
From her tone, I knew better than to keep asking questions. So I only said,
But you’re still here.
Heh. Where else? Look. I had to come to terms with it. I am here, she is here. After all, she is my mother.
Mother, I said. Your mother. Maybe in time you forgave her for whatever happened. Maybe in time … you came to love her?
Leni laughed at me.
Are you still so sentimental about “mother”? Even after Michal sent you away? Between me and Michal, it is more like an armistice. We stopped fighting. We came to accept each other. Rely on each other. For day-to-day things. But love … Do you know what love is?
I was going to jump in and say of course. Then I thought of big-M Mother, drinking and disapproving. And about Michal, her face full of love—vanished in a moment. A few girlfriends, maybe, when it seemed like love in the beginning, the sex time. But … love?
I looked at Leni’s face. Almost a duplicate of mine. And so hard, defended. And I saw myself in that, too.
Not really, I said.
119.
The patient seemed on the verge of tears. Yet several minutes had passed since the carillon had chimed the three-quarter hour. Dr. Schussler took in the breath that tells a patient—somehow, subliminally—We must stop now.
The days went by. The next session began. As if no time at all had passed, the patient resumed her story precisely where she had left off: after telling Leni she had no experience of love.