December 2024
Anneliese
ANNELIESE SQUEEZED WILLEM’S hand as they followed Hendrik and Katja through the tall iron gates that flanked the entrance to Zorgvlied. She couldn’t help but admire Katja’s elegant figure in a camel coat and black ankle boots with high heels. Hendrik looked distinguished in a long wool trench coat. Jurriaan took up the rear, clutching the pot of poinsettias to his chest. He had been quiet in the car—resigned—the plant clamped between his knees.
The two-story white visitor center stood at the end of a short drive. The building had intersecting gable roofs with red roof tiles. Behind it, the driveway changed to a winding gravel path, straightening at the canal, the plots along the water close together, like cars in a parking lot. On the opposite bank, trees, bare of leaves, bordered the back lawns of villas. From her side, the trees reflected upside down in the water.
They followed the path, fairly straight for several minutes before curving sharply to the left. The plots in this sector were larger and not laid in a discernible pattern. Water dripped from the branches overhead.
“Is it much farther?” Anneliese asked, shivering.
“Five minutes. Her grave is in Paradiso. It’s in the far eastern corner.”
Paradiso was a newer part of the cemetery, set aside for large and unusual monuments—some of them bizarre. They passed graves adorned with statues: plump cherubs, a towering angel, an enormous gorilla holding a baby. Willem stopped at a grave under a sweetgum tree. The slab was covered by a mat of rotting black leaves.
“I pay them to keep the slab clean,” Hendrik grumbled.
“Let me,” Jurriaan said.
He knelt, set the flowerpot on the ground, and began brushing leaves aside with his gloved hands, the bottoms of his corduroy trousers soaking up the damp. The ends of his scarf kept getting in his way. Gradually, he uncovered the once-white stone slab, longer than six feet and nearly as wide.
Anneliese read the inscription.
Beloved wife, mother, and sister Louisa Veldkamp
December 6, 1964–August 17, 2004
Sculpted in relief below the dates was a pair of hands poised over a piano keyboard. Each hand was three feet long from wrist to fingertips, and the fingers were disproportionately long. The details lent the hands a creepily lifelike appearance, with veins, knuckles, wrinkles, and short-clipped nails. She noticed Willem pushing his fists deep into his pockets.
Jurriaan scrambled to his feet, brushing off his cords. The family drew closer, pulling Anneliese with them, and formed a semicircle at the foot of the grave. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Anneliese peered from beneath her lashes at the somber faces. Was someone going to lead them in prayer? Make a speech? The seconds ticked by, and no one spoke. The icy drizzle coated Anneliese’s face. Her lips went numb. A seagull wheeled overhead. All she could hear was the muffled roar of traffic from the highway that ringed the city. One minute. Two minutes.
An image popped into her head, and a little shudder rippled through her: Daan’s body decomposing in a coffin in a cemetery on the edge of Noorddorp. She had attended his funeral solely to see for herself the coffin being lowered into the ground. But she swore never to visit his grave—never.
Heads lifted. Eyes opened.
Hendrik swayed.
“Are you all right, Dad?” Willem asked, reaching out to steady him.
“A little tired.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No,” Hendrik said, staring at the grave. After a silence, he said, “Louisa shouldn’t be alone. When the time comes, I want to be buried beside her.”
Anneliese’s eyes darted to Katja’s face, which had flushed red.
“What about Katja?” Jurriaan asked.
“What about her?” Hendrik said.
“Don’t you want to be buried next to her too?”
“No, son. I belong with your mother.”
Jurriaan nodded.
Willem leaned toward Katja and whispered, “Hendrik doesn’t mean it.”
“I know,” she said, her voice low. “But he’s unpredictable. I never know what he’ll do next. What happens when he has more bad days than good? We can’t put him in a nursing home.”
Why not? thought Anneliese, and she looked at Willem, but his gaze was fixed on Katja. A silent communication seemed to pass between them, suggesting intimacy and shared secrets, shutting Anneliese out. A burning sensation spread out from her chest.
It wasn’t her place to comment, but her mouth had a will of its own. “Louisa isn’t buried here, though, is she?”
Hendrik frowned at her but said nothing.
Jurriaan turned to Willem. “Where do you think Mom is?”
“Nobody knows. But when her remains are found, we’ll give her a proper burial.”
“I don’t really remember her,” Jurriaan said.
“That’s okay. It was a long time ago, twinnie.”
Jurriaan pondered a moment. “Once she brought me chocolates from Belgium and let me eat the whole box. I had a stomachache that night.” Looking satisfied that he had recalled a memory, he dropped to the damp ground and began cleaning the rest of the rotting leaves off the slab.
Anneliese hugged herself. How long was she expected to stand in the freezing drizzle? She dug her phone out of her purse and checked the time. It was a few minutes early, but not too early.
“I have a surprise,” she said. “I booked a table for drinks at the Amstel Boathouse. It’s a two-minute walk from the cemetery. We can go now.”
Four sets of eyes stared at her.
“That was thoughtful of you, but you shouldn’t have.” Katja said. “I brought a thermos of coffee. We always drink coffee at the grave.”
“At the Boathouse, we can sit inside, where it’s warm, and drink a glass of wine,” Anneliese said.
“I made cookies, and anyway, should you be drinking wine in your condition?” Katja said.
“When did you have time to bake?”
Anneliese didn’t expect a reply, and she didn’t get one. But it felt important to go to the Boathouse, to get her way for once. Wine sounded especially appealing right then. “Willem?” she said.
“Cancel the reservation. Katja brought refreshments.”
“But—”
He laid his finger on her lips.
Seething, Anneliese dug out her phone again and called the Boathouse.
Katja unzipped her oversized handbag and pulled out a thermos, a stack of Styrofoam cups, and a cookie tin. Jurriaan held the cups, one by one, while Katja poured.
The coffee smelled like boiled beans. Anneliese took a sip, and her stomach churned. The queasiness passed quickly, but she clutched her stomach anyway. “Willem, I think I’m going to be sick. Can we go home?”
He raised his eyebrows, and she saw the skepticism in his eyes, but he slung his arm around her. “Let’s go home before we all catch pneumonia.”
Jurriaan set the poinsettia on the slab and collected the used cups. Katja linked arms with Hendrik, who shuffled through the puddles like a kid. Jurriaan dumped the cups in a trash barrel at the visitor center.
In the car, Anneliese sat behind Hendrik and cracked the window, trying to stave off real nausea—brought on by Katja’s perfume and Jurriaan’s musty-smelling coat and damp trousers.
Rain hissed against the tires, and Willem switched on the wipers. Anneliese watched the scenery race by—murky patches of placid river between the dark, weeping trees. Unease stirred deep inside her.