“Okay,” I said. “That doesn’t sound like anything my dad would be involved with. Not at
all.”
“Exactly. It was like everyone could see it—but them.”
“Didn’t you try to talk some sense into her?”
“I loved my sister, but no one could tell her anything. Just like no one can tell your father anything. They were totally alike in that way. Anyway, within . . . I don’t know, six months of the wedding, they were at each other’s throats. You know how your dad is. He came down hard on her. Always criticizing. She wanted to leave him, but she showed up on my doorstep pregnant. She felt trapped.”
“She could have just had me . . . and left him. Raised me as a single mother.”
“I think part of her loved him. She gave him one more chance. But the pregnancy didn’t help. They fought horribly. One time, they were screaming so loudly a neighbor called the police. Maybe someone else might have handled it differently, but your mom started getting very nervous, anxious, depressed. Your father accused her of being a bad mother.”
I felt as if the world stopped. I heard Harry. I heard him say the words from somewhere far away, like hearing a voice above the storm at Miriam’s. “But she was a good mother. I remember her. I remember us painting together. Finger painting.”
“Yes.
On the walls
. Stuff like that drove your father—in a word—
insane
. I thought . . . I really thought she was going to have a nervous breakdown. I considered getting her to agree to go to a hospital. Then she started acting all happy again. Out of the blue.”
“What was it? Did they finally work out their differences?”
“No. She had fallen in love again. She was having an affair.”
“What?”
How did I know none of this?
“Don’t judge her for it, Callie.”
“So was he . . . he the guy in the picture? Next to her in the hospital bed?”
Uncle Harry nodded. “The man in the picture made her happy. He saved her, in a lot of ways, before she got sick. He calmed her down, made her joyful again. Then she found out she had ovarian cancer. And that was . . . it. Stage four. He was with her. She chose him over your dad to go to treatment with. She lived a separate life from your dad. And you. She lived in an apartment near the hospital. It made treatment easier.”
“But . . . I don’t understand. He never said anything about a separation.”
“It wasn’t a true legal separation. She couldn’t be around you during treatment. Her immune system . . . Kids are like miniature germ factories. And, well, she didn’t want you to see her like that. She’d see you on visits, but she was fighting for her life. And I guess I really thought that after all your father had put her through, he would just let her die in peace. But he didn’t. He served her divorce papers in the hospital . . . fought her to her dying breath.”
“So who is the man? The one she fell in love with. What’s his name?”
“Raphael.”
My knees shook. “I used to ask about a Raphael. When I was little. My father told me Raphael was an angel. That I must have heard the story in Sunday school. And to forget about it.”
“He was a good man. He lives here in the city. Married and then divorced. No kids. I see him maybe once a year for lunch. He’s a photographer. Has had showings in a couple of galleries. He asks after you every time. I don’t think he ever got over your mother completely.”
“Uncle Harry . . . I don’t understand. Why would my father be so heartless? Why would he try to destroy her when she was already dying?”
“He loved her. And it’s the way your father loves. He . . . he consumes people. Your mother loved you very much. She just . . . she and your father were two people who tried their damndest to destroy each other. And in some ways, they both succeeded.”
“This is too much, Harry. I—I need to be alone for a little bit.” I jumped from the chair, my heart slamming against my chest, and went into my bedroom.
And there, alone, I cried. At first, it was a weird aimless crying. I cried for Miriam, for August, for Professor Sokolov, for Astrolabe and Heloise and Abelard. And then, finally, I felt the hard tears start, and I cried for me. For the motherless little girl and the woman in the picture in my room whom I never had the chance to know.
12
How much has my mother lost because of her beloved?
—A.
H
arry rapped gently on my door. “Come out, Calliope. You need to eat something.”
“Please go away, Harry.” I sniffled. I rolled onto my side and pulled the pillow into my stomach.
“None of this changes how much she loved you, Calliope. She doted on you. It doesn’t change how much Gabe and I love you.”
“I said go away. Please, Harry. Just go away.”
“All right.” His voice sounded choked. “If you want to talk, come to my room. It’s not like I’ll be able to sleep anyway.”
I listened as his footsteps grew quieter as he walked down the hall. Aggie was sleeping on my pillow, and I lay down next to him and listened to him purr, sliding my fingers through his velvety fur, almost absentmindedly.
“Oh, Aggie,” I whispered, wiping at my eyes. “How can things turn from so wonderful, so happy, so perfect, to ruined? How?”
I turned my head. I had a picture of my mother in a small silver frame on my desk. I looked at it. I really never knew her. I had a few memories. But they were just quick flashes, not a fluid continuous narrative of our life together. I remembered a song she used to sing, this humming song, actually, with no words.
Sometimes, I thought I remembered a smell. Lilies of the valley reminded me of her. I remembered finger painting. And making cookies one time. And then there was the one dark memory, her crying. I remember tugging at her shirt, trying to get her to stop crying, and she crumbled to the floor. I remember touching her hair, “making nice” I used to call it. But I don’t remember anything else. Not really.
Sometimes, I looked at pictures of her, and I would
think
I remembered. But I knew in my heart it was more like filling in the gaps—seeing the pictures and making up a memory. Or I filled in Harry’s pretty stories, tied up with ribbon, and made them a little present I called my own. But they were gifts from Harry and not really mine.
At some point, I dozed off. When I woke, I could hear Harry yelling. He never yelled. Except at my father. I guessed that was who was on the other end of the phone. I sat up and crept to the door, but I couldn’t make out any words, just the tone.
I changed into my pajamas. My stomach growled, but I didn’t want to see Harry. I heard his footsteps in the hall again.
“Callie, hon . . . August has called your cell phone fifty times, I think. It’s on silent, on the coffee table, but I can see it lighting up. Don’t you want to talk to him?”
“No.”
“How about something to eat? I’ll make you some soup. Or I’ll go down to the store and get you Chunky Monkey ice cream, or whatever you want.”
I didn’t answer.
“Can I come in?”
I sighed and unlocked the door, but I didn’t turn the knob. He opened the door and poked his head in.
“I should have told you.” He stepped all the way in and sat on my bed. “But you know, the only two people who know what goes on in a relationship are the two people in it. It wasn’t my place to tell you. And I thought, eventually, if you wanted to learn more when you were older, that was when I would explain what I knew. I didn’t know if you would be angry at Raphael. At your mother. At your father. Raphael has some beautiful portraits of her, and it has always been his intention to give you one someday. But . . . when you asked questions, I sort of told you the fairy tales I thought you wanted to hear.”
“But I really just wanted to
know
her. That’s one reason I love spending time with you. You’re my connection to who she was.”
“In my defense? Your spending time with Gabe and me? It’s not like any formal arrangement. With your dad, I always feel like I’m at the whim of the emperor. I didn’t want to risk his cutting me off from you. I
couldn’t
risk that. After your mother died, he excised her family from your life. Your grandma had already lost her daughter. She didn’t need to lose her granddaughter, too.” He paused, then continued. “So we just agreed to avoid the difficult topics. We agreed—your grandmother, Gabe, and I, among ourselves—that we would do whatever it took to keep you in our lives. So if you asked about your mom, we just stuck to the good stuff.”
“He can’t control me anymore, Uncle Harry. I can make up my own mind who I want to see, where I want to live even.”
He shrugged. “I know. Now I know.” He looked over at the bookshelf at the picture he kept of my mother, the one of her laughing. “She was so special. She was. You remind me of her, sometimes. How you hope for things. You’re not the typical jaded teenager. She believed in love. She believed in wishing on a star. Finding lucky pennies. She would go whole blocks not stepping on the crack.” He laughed. “She was winsome. She would believe in Astrolabe. She would be here with us—I know it. Hunting for the history of the book. That would be like her. The only thing she believed in that she shouldn’t have? That she could make things work with your dad. That two people so fundamentally toxic together could figure out a way to live happily ever after.”
“You told Dad I know about the divorce papers? The affair? I heard you shouting.”
He nodded. “He’ll be here Friday. Staying until Sunday, then off to the L.A. office. Negotiating some entertainment deal out there for that record label.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
“I don’t know that you have a choice.”
“I hate him right now.”
Uncle Harry exhaled slowly. “I’ve never been a big fan of his. And I kind of hate him, too, sometimes. But he’s your dad, which means I’m stuck with him and have to get along with him. And you are most certainly stuck with him.”
“Was he ever nice?”
“Yeah. When he was trying to win over your mother.... He was a pretty romantic guy.”
I sighed. “I guess I don’t really have a choice. I have to see him. I have to talk to him.”
“And what about August?”
“I’ll call him back.”
He handed me my cell phone. “I’d say he’s crazy about you.”
“What if I end up like my mother? What if love ruins everything? What if we’re really not good for each other?”
“There are people like your mom and dad . . . and then there are people like Gabe and me. People who somehow make it work. You’ll figure it out, sweetie.”
“Thanks.”
He hugged me. “Calliope . . . I love you like you’re my own daughter. So does Gabe. Know that, okay? I would never hurt you intentionally. I promise, from now on, if you ask me a question, you’ll get the truth. The real truth.”
“I know.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt tears spilling again. “I really love you. Thanks, Harry.”
“Call August.”
“I will.”
After Uncle Harry left my room, I shut the door again and dialed August.
“Where were you?” he asked. He didn’t even say hello. “I came into the garden and you were gone.”
“I needed to think. And then when I got back here, I needed to talk to Harry. About my mother.”
“Are you okay?”
“Sort of. I’ll tell you about it when I see you next. It’s kind of... huge. What about you? Are you okay? What about your dad?”
“You know, he’s calmer now . . . but he’s worried about us, about the trail of the book.”
“I’m not stopping.” I said firmly. “I don’t care who’s worried. I’m not.”
“Really?”
I felt a flash of anger. “No. I already told Harry. I won’t stop. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
There was a long silence. I was almost afraid of what his response would be. Then one word.
“Good.”
“Really?”
“I’m going to Paris. I haven’t told my dad yet, but a piece of me is really pissed that someone broke into my house and stole
Leaves of Grass.
They are not going to chase me off the Book of Hours.”
“Then I’m going, too.”
“Harry called my dad. He said you weren’t . . . you couldn’t.”
“Well, I am. I’m going. I don’t care if I have to sneak on the plane.”
“Really?”
“Really. I know it sounds crazy, but . . . after talking to Harry about my mother, I have to. I can’t explain it, but I’m following the story of Heloise and Abelard all the way to the end.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. But for now, let’s keep this between us. Because we may just have to go to Paris on our own.”
I swallowed. My dad would so kill me. And for the first time, so would Harry. But I was going to do it.