Four days after Thanksgiving, I switched my major from art to life science.
It had been Malcolm’s suggestion. “Only a suggestion. You can be anything you want,” he’d said. But when I thought of the money I could make teaching in one of the new silver schools, I leaped at it. No more struggling, no more pinching pennies to cover the electric bill. We’d fit into the world, and make the world fit us. We’d create our very own master class.
NINETEEN
Oma finishes her apple juice and leans back into the chair, obviously tired.
“You must stop thinking about these Qs. Or,” she says, “perhaps you must learn to think of them in another way. Think of them as questions you need to ask. And think about whether you want to send your daughter to one of these new schools.”
“They’re not the same thing as the—” I don’t know how to say it, so I don’t. “As the places where you were born.”
“You don’t think so, Liebchen?”
“Of course not.” It’s laughable, really. Oma has a good heart, but she’s always been prone to that certain hyperbole that comes with age.
She waves me away, as if she senses my ridicule and sees the disbelief in my eyes. “I’ll tell you more. When you are ready to hear it. Now, I am ready for my nap. Please put those . . . things back for me.”
From the kitchen, Mom calls me to lunch, and smells of Rouladen and seasoned Blaukraut waft up.
“Okay, Oma. After lunch, I’ll come back up,” I say, leaving her in the chair and folding up the uniform. My grandmother is already asleep by the time I put everything back into the cedar chest and pull her door closed.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I see Malcolm staring up at me from below.
“Get your coat, Elena. And Freddie’s and Anne’s,” he says, as if he’s speaking to his admin assistant or the kid he hired as an intern a few months ago. And then, before I can say a word: “Now.”
I’ve never been afraid of Malcolm, never been intimidated by him the way others are, the way Freddie is when he uses “Daddy’s scary voice,” as she calls it when he’s not around. Still, my body shrinks back against the wall, my limbs weak and almost jelly-like. Because his voice is scary in its definiteness.
Funny how I never realized this before now.
“We’re having lunch, Malcolm. My mother’s cooked it, and we’re eating it.” For effect, I add, “Now.” I want to walk toward him while I speak, but my legs aren’t up to the task. Not yet. So I square my shoulders and lift my chin, a small gesture that tells him I won’t be backed down in this Mexican standoff.
It doesn’t work.
Malcolm disappears into the little vestibule at the front of the house and reappears with three coats and three pairs of shoes. “We’ll eat at home today. And tomorrow. Just the four of us.” He sounds pleased with the prospect, and I wonder if he’s imagining I buy into his bullshit the same way I used to. Back then, I did buy into it. I gobbled up his snobbery and swallowed it whole, like some urban whore turning tricks in a cheap room, selling herself for cash, a fix, approval.
We stare at each other for a long minute, and I know he’s been listening from the bottom of the stairs. Nothing to do now but bundle up and walk out the door with him, this husband I’m told I need. This husband I loathe.
Or.
I could refuse. I could put my foot down and stay here with Mom and Dad and Oma, turn back invisible hands on an invisible clock and live the life I used to live, but differently, with only Freddie. But Anne catches me musing and gives me a pleading look. She’s my daughter as much as Freddie is. I can’t unconceive her, and I can’t give her up.
“What’s this?” Mom has come tripping into the living room, apron still on, a cloud of flour dust sparkling around