thirty-nine
Nicole awakened to birds singing. The clock read 7:45, which meant she’d slept less than five hours, yet felt as energized as if she’d slept for ten. She showered, pulled on some jeans and a flannel shirt, and tore out the phone book page with Paulette’s number and address.
Her father was at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and sipping coffee, when Nicole walked in. “My eldest is up before ten on a Sunday morning? What’s the occasion?”
“None.” As if she could even begin to explain. Nicole poured herself some coffee and checked the time again. Eight-thirty. She planned to call Paulette at nine. How slowly time passed when you wanted it to speed up; how quickly it fled when you wanted it to linger.
She could already imagine her fingers pushing Paulette’s number into the phone, imagine the miracle of their conversation. Yes, she’d say, I understand now about things unspoken, things only the heart knows.
“Dad,” she began, sitting across from him. “Did you ever read Anne Frank’s diary?”
He was momentarily taken aback. “I’m sure I must have. Years ago.”
“Meaning you don’t remember? How could you not remember?”
He put the paper down. “Is this an interrogation?”
She stirred sugar into her coffee. “Maybe. You interrogate me about school all the time.”
“What has gotten into you, Nicole?”
She had no idea. But she did know this: She felt reckless and brave enough to say things she usually only thought.
“I’ve just been thinking, Dad. We don’t ever talk to each other. Not really.”
“That is entirely untrue. We spend more time together than any other family I know.”
“That’s not what I mean.” She had to make him understand. “Dad, you don’t even know who I—” She paled. Her eyes had caught a small teaser at the bottom of the front page of the Sunday newspaper.
LOCAL HOLOCAUST SURVIVOR
LITZGER-GOLD, 74, DEAD. P. F-12.
“What is it, Nicole?”
Nicole rifled through the sections on the table, searching frantically for section F. “She can’t be dead.”
“Someone you know died?” her father asked gently.
“It just can’t be.” Nicole found the obituaries. There was a small photo of Paulette and an article about her. She had died the day before of a heart attack. The funeral was set for ten o‘clock this morning at Congregation Beth El. Nicole noted the address. It was on the other side of town. She’d have to take two buses to get there. She lurched up from her seat, looking around for her backpack. “I have to go.”
“Where?” her father asked, bewildered. She spotted her backpack in the corner and grabbed it. “Nicole,” he repeated, “where are you going?”
“To see my friend.”