I turn back to the photographs. Little Gram is in all of them. There she is sitting cross-legged in the grass beside a picnic spread, and there she is in knee socks and a tunic, posing in front of a school.
“So do you think this apartment is . . .”
The next photo answers my question. It’s Gram again, sitting at what is unmistakably the long wooden table in the other room. I recognize the paintings on the wall behind her. Gram lived here. This was her childhood home—her very fancy childhood home. I don’t know what else I expected it to be, but the truth is so bizarre, I can hardly wrap my head around it. Maybe the family abandoned it to escape the war. But if that was the case, why didn’t they ever come back? What happened to them?
I’m mulling over dozens of new questions when I notice the girl. In the photo from the picnic, she’s lying on her stomach and flipping through a book. In the one by the school, she’s posing next to Gram in a matching outfit. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but she has dark eyes and dark curls just like mine, only she’s much more beautiful. It’s an objective fact. She looks like a movie star; I look like a dork who’s maybe kind of cute, if you squint your eyes and tilt your head to the left.
“Mom,” I ask gently, “did Gram ever say she had a sister?”
“No,” she says. “Apparently there’s a lot your grandmother never told me.”
But there’s no doubt about it. They have to be sisters. Farther on down the line, there’s a professional portrait of Gram, the girl, and two people who must be their parents. The woman looks immaculate in diamond earrings and a necklace with a big gemstone hanging at the base of her neck. The man is rougher around the edges, his suit a few sizes too big for his thin frame, and I notice that he’s missing the last three fingers on his left hand.
Dad squeezes Mom’s shoulder. “Have you ever seen a photo of your grandparents?”
“No,” she snaps, wriggling away from his touch. “All I knew is they died before I was born.”
I have an idea. I find an opening in the top of the frame, slide out the photo, and flip it over. Sure enough, there’s writing on the back: Maman, Papa, Chloe, et Adalyn. 1938. Chloe was Gram’s name, which means her sister had to be . . . Adalyn.
I haven’t heard that name before. In my grade at school, there are five Emilys, four Hannahs, three Ashleys, and three Samanthas, but nobody named Adalyn. I like it—more than I like Alice, which sounds so mousy and uptight. There’s something about the dark-haired girl that makes it hard to look away, and it isn’t just that she’s prettier than any other human I’ve seen in my life. There’s a strange sort of look in her eyes, like she’s analyzing the person taking her picture.
“Her name was Adalyn,” I tell Mom as I hand her the photograph. She slots it back into the picture frame without so much as a passing glance. Dad runs his palm over what’s left of his thinning hair. He does it whenever he’s in over his head and contemplating what to say next.
“Maybe we should go get some lunch,” he suggests. “Diane, what do you think?”
“That’s fine with me.”
My heart sinks. I’m not ready to leave yet. I want to keep exploring—I haven’t even seen any of the bedrooms yet. But at the same time, I know Dad is right. This is a lot for Mom to absorb all at once, and it’s better for her if we don’t stick around for too long. I don’t want to be selfish. With one last sweeping look at the apartment, I make a silent promise to Gram that I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s probably best that I come alone next time so I can stay for as long as I want.
I follow my parents into the stairwell and close the door behind us. I left the curtains open so the light will shine in.
Chapter 2
Alice
Sunshine streams through the window above my bed in the rental apartment. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and I’m wide-awake, buzzing with anticipation.
For three long days, my parents and I have been wandering around museums and other landmarks. We saw the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, the Eiffel Tower . . . and the whole time, nobody said a word about Gram or the apartment. Dad and I were Prewitt-ing even harder than usual, commenting on the magnificent paintings and the stunning architecture and desperately hoping that Mom wasn’t too miserable. Finally, late last night, Dad got an email from the head of the cleaning crew saying they were done removing the dust and debris, and we were free to come back whenever we wanted. The guy said he’d never seen anything like Gram’s apartment—une capsule temporelle, he called it.
A time capsule.
I press my ear to the paper-thin wall between my room and my parents’. They must still be asleep. Quietly, I brush my teeth, change into shorts and a T-shirt, and put on my sneakers; they’re the only shoes I brought with me, because I wear them with everything. As I slip out the door, I shoot my parents both a text so they don’t freak out when they wake up. All things considered, it’s probably a good thing I didn’t come face-to-face with Mom this morning. I mean, she did say that I’m free to go back to the apartment whenever I want, as long as she doesn’t have to come along, but it’s hard to know what she’s really thinking. I wish it were easier.
Part of me feels guilty for abandoning her today, but she does have Dad to keep her company, and after seventy-two hours away, the apartment at 36, rue de Marquis is pulling me back. As I make my way on foot up the rue de Richelieu, there’s something about the world around me that seems inexplicably brighter, like somebody cranked up the sun. Walking past a tiny park, I notice a fountain that must be fifteen feet high, its jets of water arcing gracefully through the air. That’s one of my favorite things about Paris so far—that everywhere you turn, there’s something stunningly beautiful plopped in the middle of an ordinary city block. Our Airbnb is a cramped two-bedroom apartment over a cell phone repair shop, but across the street is a gorgeous church that was built in the seventeenth century. The city is full of surprises like that.
My first stop is a coffee shop I find along the way, a place so tiny and so aromatic, you could probably get your caffeine kick just by breathing in the air. Feeling bold when I step up to the counter, I use my so-so French to order a black coffee: “Un café noir, s’il vous plaît.”
It’s my go-to order, even though it’s so bitter. Whenever we go to Starbucks, my friends Hannah and Camila order pumpkin spice lattes and mocha Frappuccinos with whipped cream on top. I’ll admit they taste pretty good—okay, fine, they taste amazing—but Gram taught me to appreciate coffee that isn’t pretending.
When the barista hands me my order, it isn’t what I expected. The cup is three inches tall, smaller than kiddie size. The coffee is sludge-like, deep brown and opaque. There’s barely any of it in here.
When I take a sip, I can see why. It’s the strongest coffee I’ve ever had in my life. It tastes like a slap in the face. Is this a trick they play on Americans? Could she tell by my accent? But looking around me, I see other people drinking it, too, no problem. How are they doing it? I’m too embarrassed to ask for something else, so I take it with me in the hope that I’ll get used to it, the same way I trained myself to tolerate cilantro. Every three blocks I take another sip, but somehow, I think it’s only getting stronger. When I get to Gram’s street, I force myself to down the last nose-wrinkling dregs before I toss the cup triumphantly into the trash.