December 2024
Anneliese
ANNELIESE DITCHED HER plans to practice piano when she learned she had the house to herself for a few hours. Willem was attending a lecture, and Katja had taken Hendrik to the neuropsychologist.
She hesitated in front of the locked staircase, fingering the bundle of keys in a pocket of her cardigan—actually Willem’s cardigan. Thick and warm, the sweater reached to her knees.
She turned the key.
She went up the stairs to the first landing, which led to the living room, and continued up the next flight, which was clad in a plush white carpet that absorbed the sound of her steps. The carpet was pristine, like freshly fallen snow.
The second landing gave on to a hall. The doors were closed. She opened the first: a spacious bedroom with a king-size bed. The walls were white, matching the carpet, and the furniture was white, with sleek, stark lines. No frills. Tidy and proper. She half expected to find a sign over the bed: “missionary position only.” The ensuite bathroom was tiled in white, gray, and beige.
Next to it was a smaller bedroom, also white, and across the hall, what had to be Hendrik’s study, his tan pullover draped over the back of the desk chair. This was where he spent most of his time. Her eyes were at once riveted to an enormous wall map pinned above the desk. She drew closer. It was a map of the North Sea and the bordering countries, filled with hundreds of curious pencil notations. She noticed the large, spidery letters in all caps: DOGGERLAND. She couldn’t make sense of it.
In the hall, she passed a second bathroom before coming to the room at the front of the house.
She turned the handle.
The door opened.
Anneliese felt a wave of icy air that was thick with the scent of jasmine. She scanned Katja’s study. The same plush white carpet, a bookcase crammed two-deep with books, an antique writing desk carved with curlicues, an ancient metal filing cabinet. The only window in the room overlooked the grassy median in the Apollolaan with its bronze statues. She buttoned up the cardigan and imagined herself in an igloo.
A clank from downstairs made her heart jump. She hastily retreated into the hall and listened, but the only sound she heard was a neighbor’s dog barking. The clank she’d heard was possibly the boiler switching on. She returned to Katja’s study.
Katja wanted to keep her child a secret, but if she had even one sentimental bone in her body, she might have kept something as a remembrance. If such a thing existed, where would she hide it? Katja could have slipped a letter or a photo between the pages of a book. Anneliese swore. She didn’t have enough time to search in each book.
She started with the desk and found the usual desk crap: pens, paperclips, Katja’s passport, a blood donor card, the device to access an online bank account—and a manuscript marked Draft on the front page. She lifted it out. The title was The Lie. Autobiographical, she wondered? A rubber band bound the five hundred double-spaced pages. She placed the manuscript in the drawer and turned to the filing cabinet. Locked.
When Anneliese was little, she’d sometimes wedged herself behind the living room sofa, a safe hiding place where Daan never thought to look. Once, she peeked over the back and saw Ray hide the key to the liquor cabinet on the top of the wall unit. He didn’t know that Daan had learned how to pick locks from a library book.
She rolled the desk chair over to the bookcase and climbed up. The seat wobbled and the chair rolled whenever she shifted her weight. Carefully, she stretched up her arms and ran her hands over the gritty top. Nothing. She climbed down and rolled the chair a few feet to the next section. She didn’t stop until she had run her hand over the length of the bookcase. No key.
Where else? She sat down on the chair and spun the seat, letting her eyes scan the room. The key might be behind a book or on Katja’s key ring. She closed her eyes and spun again, thinking hard. If it was her own filing cabinet, she would hide the key someplace handy.
She hopped off the chair and crossed the white carpet. Kneeling, she squeezed her hand into the space between the filing cabinet and the wall, and felt along the floor. Her hand closed around a loose bit of metal and drew out a key.
The key fit. She slid open the top drawer, which was filled with bank statements, ledgers, and receipts. The middle drawer contained printouts of Katja’s novels and short stories. Anneliese didn’t know what she hoped to find—maybe her adoption papers or a love letter to Katja from Anneliese’s father. Provided he had been more than either a random hookup or a violent encounter in a dark alley.
And then she had it.
Inside the bottom drawer were dozens of small spiral notebooks, each the size of a paperback and labeled with a year. She opened one at random and flipped through the pages. Her heartbeat raced with excitement when she realized what she had in her hand. The entries were written in a messy but legible hand. Here and there passages were crossed out with such pressure that the pen had torn the page. She shuffled through the notebooks until she found the one labeled “2000.” Her fingers trembled as she turned to December. Her eyes skipped at random over the pages.
December 2, 2000
Sorry I’ve been neglecting you, dear diary …
December 21, 2000
The baby will be born any day now …
The slam of the front door didn’t register. She kept reading.
December 28, 2000
The months of deception culminated in a visit today to an office of the Foundation for Aiding Unwed Mothers (FAM).
“What are you doing?” boomed a voice.
She startled and nearly dropped the diary. A folded sheet of paper slipped from between the pages and drifted to the floor. Hendrik stood in the doorway, his dark eyes fierce under heavy black eyebrows. Her face burned. The family would never trust her again. She might never learn who her father was. Worse, what would Willem think?
But it was only Hendrik. She could manage him. Surely.
She forced a bright smile. “I was looking for a book.”
“In Katja’s filing cabinet?”
The drawer gaped open behind her.
“Sorry. I confess. I’m terribly nosy. Will you forgive me?”
He stared at the diary in her hand.
She said, “Why are you back so soon? Did something happen?”
“The doctor was called away. I’m seeing him tomorrow instead.”
“Where’s Katja?”
“She went to the florist to buy flowers for Louisa.”
Today was Louisa’s birthday. After lunch, the family was going to visit her grave. It was an annual ritual, and Anneliese was invited, a sign they were on the road to accepting her as part of the family. Had she spoiled everything with her snooping?
She closed the diary, but every cell in her body rebelled at returning it to the drawer before she had read it properly.
“How does Katja stand the cold? I wonder if the radiator is closed. Would you check?” she said, trying to deflect his attention.
“Katja likes it cold,” Hendrik said.
“But it’s terribly damp. It can’t be healthy.”
When he turned toward the radiator, she stooped to retrieve the fallen sheet of paper, opening it for just a second to confirm what it was. She shoved the diary and the letter into a pocket of her cardigan and slammed the drawer of the filing cabinet. But she didn’t have time to return the key to its hiding place, so she dropped it into her other pocket with the house keys.
Hendrik rotated the knob on the radiator and Anneliese heard water trickling in.
He turned. “Katja doesn’t allow anyone in her study. She says it’s her private place to write.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Now you do. Will you fix me a cup of tea?”
Was that it? No lecture? No righteous anger?
Her heart was knocking against her ribs as she followed him downstairs to the kitchen. Katja could be back at any moment. She switched on the electric kettle. After serving him a cup of tea, she fished the house keys out of her pocket, planning to make a quick, cowardly getaway.
“Join me, please, Anneliese. We need to talk.”
Here it comes. Nervous sweat ran down her sides. She laid the keys on the table and tugged off Willem’s cardigan. She hung it on the back of a chair and poured herself a cup of tea.
“I’m not going to tell Katja,” he said.
“Why not?”
“It will be our little secret.”
Not at all a satisfying answer, she thought. Did he plan to use their secret as leverage for something … someday? What was it he had said the first time they’d met: Never look a gift horse in the mouth? Maybe he was merely being kind. Maybe he liked her and wanted to help.
The front door slammed and their eyes met. Neither said anything. A few minutes later, Katja entered the kitchen, carrying a pot of crimson poinsettias. It was comical how her mouth formed a small o of surprise when she saw Anneliese.
“Hendrik invited me for tea. Do you want a cup?” Anneliese said.
“Sorry, I don’t have time.”
Anneliese pushed back her chair. “I was just leaving anyway. See you later.”
She grabbed the keys and forced herself not to run out of the room.