“It’s been holding on for quite some time now,” I reminded him in hushed tones. “And it doesn’t seem to be losing any ground.”
“That’s always the way before a movement like this fails. The country will come to its senses soon enough.”
“I hope you’re right, Knuddelbär,” I said, kissing his cheek and wishing I could dismiss the churning in my gut that told me he had more faith in change than was truly warranted.
CHAPTER FIVE
A PICTURE WORTH A THOUSAND QUESTIONS
BETH
April 27, 2007
San Diego, California
Though it sat at home on my kitchen table, the box with Dad’s war memorabilia whispered to me seductively as I gave a two-hour lecture comparing the political systems of the Scandinavian countries, graded a pile of term paper outlines, and attended compulsory Friday drinks with the department chair and the other professors racing for tenure. I walked through my door ready to collapse on the couch and lose myself in Food Network, but I found myself fighting the urge to load up the box in the car and trek back to Encinitas through rush hour and ask Dad about the blond woman with the bright eyes. I hung my purse in the entryway, kicked off my shoes, and removed the lid to the plastic bin that now housed the fading photographs. I admired the picture of Dad with the young woman. He was tall and his spine was straight back then. His eyes twinkled, and he wore a kind smile that the war had turned wary but hadn’t erased entirely.
The woman’s blond curls and the softness of her expression were a stark contrast to Mom’s silky dark tresses and sharp features. They were both beautiful women but resembled each other the way a rose resembles a lily. As I looked at the black-and-white image, I found I didn’t harbor any resentment toward Dad if he hadn’t been a saint during wartime—he wouldn’t have been the first soldier to seek shelter from the hardships of war in the arms of a woman. Dad didn’t meet Mom until after the war, so I couldn’t fault him for infidelity.
Still, the possibility of this woman’s significance to my father sat heavy in my stomach. I’d never considered that he’d had a life before Mom, and I felt childish at my lack of imagination on the subject. He’d adored Mom so much, it was easy to believe he’d just spent the first years of his life waiting for her to come along. Had Dad loved this strange blond woman too? Was the baby his? Did I have an older brother or sister out there somewhere? Nieces and nephews? Maybe even a stepmother of sorts? It would be a family, if they were interested in having me be part of it. But that all seemed impossible. If I knew one thing about my father, it was that he would never have abandoned his child if he’d had any choice in the matter.
But the photo could mean nothing. She might have been a French housewife, wanting a photo with a dashing American liberator that she could show her child one day. You see that man there? He, and millions like him, is the reason we are still alive and have a country of our own. The expression on Dad’s face might not be adoration, but a charming smile for a pretty woman after too many months without the sight of one.
Or it might not.
I considered the lure of the couch, but decided the exuberant celebrity chefs didn’t hold their usual appeal. I went to the kitchen, still foreign and not particularly well organized. I’d left behind the palatial granite-and-stainless-steel Tuscan revival kitchen that Greg and I had crafted from the ruins of a lime-green midcentury nightmare. He’d inherited the house from his grandparents and had made it his mission to update it into something fit for a magazine cover. The project had been a long haul, but we didn’t bicker over details like a lot of couples did. The cabinets were darker than I would have preferred, and I know the professional-grade stove I chose didn’t fit the aesthetic as well as Greg might have liked, but the overall effect was warm and inviting. There were few things I regretted about leaving my marriage behind, but the kitchen we’d designed together was one.
I pulled out the notebook my mother had given me as a wedding gift with all her recipes copied down in her perfect, efficient script. She had loathed computers and would never have taken the time to type them all out, but each and every recipe in the book was clear enough to read as though they’d come from the printer’s. Each recipe had been tested for generations and was positively bulletproof if you weren’t completely helpless in the kitchen. There was a bit of her on each page, and looking through the pages was like being transported back to the kitchen of my parents’ home where she’d used every ounce of her patience to teach me her craft. I flipped it open to her recipe for the challah bread she made for every Sabbath and holiday meal. I didn’t celebrate the Sabbath like Mom and Dad had done, and there wasn’t a holiday on the horizon, but the kneading and mixing were therapeutic. And there was nothing like challah for French toast, which was a sort of holiday of its own.
I put the humble ball of dough in a bowl, covered it in plastic wrap, and left it to rise on top of the gently warming oven, as my state-of-the-art warming drawer had been left behind. I heard the ring of my cell from my purse as I was washing the wayward bits of dough from my hands. I dashed to the hall and rifled for my phone with still-wet fingers.
Greg.
I hesitated a moment, considering letting the call go to voice mail, but my finger pressed the green answer button out of reflex.
“Just checking in,” he said by way of greeting.
“You don’t have to, you know,” I said, hoping there wasn’t too much of an edge to my voice. I could hear my mother in my ear: He’s being kind, Beth. You might have given up on your marriage, but love doesn’t bloom overnight, and you can’t stamp it out overnight either. I stopped the voice before she started in on how I’d made a mistake letting a good man, a good provider like Greg, slip away. She’d managed to get in a few of those digs while she was still alive, and I didn’t need to manufacture any more.
“I want to,” Greg insisted. “Are you out?” There was a pang in his voice, and I knew he was praying the answer was no. To him, the marriage wouldn’t truly be over until I’d found someone else. I’d considered going out on a few dates just to give him the signal, but even dates to help him move on were as appealing as a tax audit.
“No,” I admitted, wishing I were a better liar. “Raging Friday night at home baking challah.”
“Going back to your roots, then?” he observed. “You only bake when you’re upset. What’s going on?”
I held in a sigh. I baked plenty when I was in good spirits as well, but it was invariably a source of comfort when I wasn’t. I considered telling him about the photo, but he’d launch into a million scenarios about its subjects, all of which would be meant to disprove whatever theories I had. Though there was nothing in the photo that proved Dad had a real connection to the woman, there wasn’t anything proving he didn’t—but Greg would insist it was nothing. Everything was always nothing until it was something. And even then, it was never as important as I made it out to be.
Until I spoke with Dad, there was no sense in opening speculation with Greg.
“Dad’s test numbers aren’t great,” I said, admitting the real heart of my discontent. I took a seat on the couch, propping my feet on the coffee table. Dad wasn’t there to chide me, and Greg wasn’t there to shake his head. “He wants to stop all his meds and treatments.”