Chapter 34

New York, August, Friday—Present Time

We took a long subway train ride to Brooklyn to take care of funeral arrangements after my meeting with the Dean. I had just enough time to fill in Pauline on what happened at Haber’s office. I didn’t feel like celebrating. I just wanted my life to get back to normal. Of course, it didn’t feel like it ever would. I checked my phone, but there were no more texts from David. I desperately wanted him to know how I managed to get my residency position back, that I had finally stood up for myself. And that he was right that it wasn’t my fault that Hailey died.

Baba Zoya had chosen her funeral home. She also had a plot, next to my grandfather, at the Jewish cemetery. They would take care of all the arrangements. When we entered Baba’s apartment to pick out a burial outfit, it still smelled like her. I automatically peeked in the kitchen to look for the fresh tea and cookies she always had ready for me. Her glasses were on the table by her reading chair, next to an open book. Her plants were still alive. She had a gift for growing indoor plants, and they covered her living room floor, making it look like a tropical greenhouse. I touched the leaves of the plants and then the wool blanket she kept on the reading chair because she got cold often. I imagined her sitting there comfortably, with her book and a cup of tea, waiting for me to return. Except that I never did.

“She has many pictures of you. I love these,” Pauline said, picking up one of the hundreds of photographs standing or hanging on every surface of the room.

“She does.” I wiped my eyes. “She did.”

“And what are all these paintings?” She pointed at the artwork hanging on the walls. “Was she an artist? These are really good.”

“No, she was an English professor. But she started to paint when my grandfather died. She painted all the time. I think it helped her with her grief.”

“How touching. I can see your grandmother in all her things here, she has so many special little objects. It must be hard for you to see it.” Pauline came close and gave me a hug.

I cried quietly into her shoulder, and she held me closer.

“We should probably hurry for today and just pick out her clothes. This is too much heartbreak for one day, right? Where is her bedroom?” Pauline gently pushed me out of the living room.

“There are even more things in the bedroom.” I took a deep breath.

“Oh, look at this,” Pauline called out from the bedroom. “This is such a beautiful box. Is it Ukrainian?”

“What box?” I walked in behind her. “I don’t remember this.” I examined a large hand-carved wooden box standing on top of her dresser. “It must be new.”

“It’s beautiful. See what’s inside.”

“I feel like I’m prying. She never liked for me to look through her things without permission.”

I stood paralyzed in front of the box, then took a deep breath and opened the lid slowly. It was filled almost to the top. An envelope with my name on it was taped to the inside of the lid. I gently peeled the tape off and opened the envelope. There was a note, written in Babushka’s calligraphic Russian.

My dear daughter,

You know you were always like a daughter to me. I fear my memory is not as good as it used to be. It’s been too long since we saw each other, and I don’t know when you will return to see me again. I thought of this when we spoke last. I want you to remember where you come from, and I know we haven’t talked enough about it. I collected a few items in this box for you to remind you of your childhood, of the life you have likely forgotten.

You said you wanted to know about my father. He was a great man. I’ve missed him ever since he passed away. I was only a young girl when he died. As he lay dying, he asked me to bring him his journal and a pen. He wrote something in it, right before he took his last breath. I’ve never wished to look at this journal, as the memory of that day has always brought me to tears. But you asked if he has ever been to Bern, and I thought I would give you his journal to help answer your question.

I found many pictures of you and Ella. You said you lost the one you kept with you. Don’t ever forget your sister. She should always be a part of you. I know you blame yourself for her death. But it was never your fault, dear girl. Your sister was born ill, and every day she was alive was a gift to us all. We didn’t wish to protect her; we wanted her to live the full and happy life of a child. The doctors told us she wouldn’t live long. Be assured, every day Ella was happy, every day, and no one has ever blamed you for her death. You were a gift to me and your grandfather. You still are.

Your Baba Zoya.

I clutched the letter in my hands. Then, sniffling and crying, I looked inside the box for more. There were pictures, lots of pictures, on top of other items.

“It’s a memory box she put together for me, Pauline,” I finally managed to say in a strangled voice. “It’s like she knew she was going to die.”

Pauline sat down next to me as I stared in disbelief at a picture of myself, age five, wearing a white plaid dress, red sandals, and a red bow. My hair was pulled back to hold the bow, but curls were bursting out on all sides. I was smiling widely at whoever was taking the photograph.

I looked closely at the picture. It was taken somewhere outdoors. I stood near a picnic table covered in vinyl; a plastic yellow bucket was on its side nearby. Over my head, grapevines hung low. Next to me stood a girl, about my size, in a white dress with ivy leaves on it, her face strikingly similar to mine, her hair wearing the same red bow, her feet in the same red sandals. Behind the table, the shape of a woman in a housedress was visible, her back turned to whoever was taking the picture.

Suddenly, a spasm of grief shook me as a memory flashed in my mind of the day Ella and I got new dresses for our birthday party. I closed my eyes and felt Baba’s hands in my hair, pulling and tugging to put the red bow in. I smelled the leather of my new red shoes. Grief came in waves, and soon I was drowning in it. Pauline held me until the sobs stopped wracking my body.

“I think you need tea,” Pauline whispered when I was calm.

“Thank you.”

“And I think you must stop looking in that box for today.”

“Let’s just have some tea.”

We drank tea, away from the box. There were still my grandmother’s favorite “Maria” cookies in the pantry and a jar of raspberry jam in the refrigerator. It wasn’t difficult to tell Pauline about Ella, but it was heartbreaking to realize that I would never drink tea with my Babushka again.

I pulled myself together after our tea and chose Baba’s favorite outfit. I found her cameo earrings she always wore out to dinner. As we were leaving, I also grabbed the wooden box. In case of a sleepless night.

“Are you sure it is a good idea? How about we come back tomorrow?” Pauline asked, her hands ready to take it back to the apartment.

“No, I need it,” I said firmly.

I could have gone back to the apartment I shared with two other residents and still paid for, but Pauline convinced me to stay another night at her hotel. The funeral was not until Sunday, and she was planning to stay in town that long. I was grateful for her company. I would start my new, different, lonely life on Monday.