The Silence of Trees (31 page)

"Well, let’s give it a try."

I directed him to what used to be a highly industrial area but was now filled with converted lofts and new homes. Everything had changed; instead of homeless people, well-dressed couples walked the streets, but Chuck’s 24-Hour Diner was still there and looked largely untouched.

We drove around looking for parking and luckily found a spot across the street. The temperature had dropped and the wind was biting. We ran across the street to the diner, where there were a few couples and groups even at that hour. Fortunately, we were able to sit in my and Ana’s regular booth. I took it as a good omen.

"Do you mind if I eat something?" he asked. "I had to skip dinner."

"Of course I don’t mind."

"What do you recommend?" he asked, looking at the menu. I thought he might have felt out of place in his tailored suit and shiny shoes, but he looked completely at ease.

"I usually only ordered coffee." I answered.

"Is it any good?" he asked. Just then the waitress came by with a pot. We both turned over our cups and she promptly filled them.

"Not really," I answered after she walked away. I added cream and sugar, but Andriy drank his black.

"It’s not bad," He said.

I tasted it and agreed. Chuck must have switched his coffee. Maybe the young diners had more discriminating tastes. I laughed and Andriy smiled, his face lighting up.

I was suddenly self-conscious again. I felt comfortable with him, but we were strangers.

The waitress came back, and he ordered the Greek omelet.

"Anything for you, ma’am?" she asked.

"No, thank you," I answered, suddenly feeling self-conscious about my age. The alcohol must have started to wear off because I began to worry about how I looked. Had my powder caked up around my wrinkles? Did my neck look flabby? Andriy was looking at me so intently that I wondered if I had spinach in my teeth from the puff pastry I had tried back at the Black Hat Lounge.

"So what did you—"

"I thought the play—"

We both started talking at the same time and laughed.

"Please, you go ahead," he said.

"I thought the play was beautiful," I said, looking at his watch. It looked like it had diamonds on the face.

"Thank you. You weren’t angry?" he asked.

"Not angry, but surprised," I said. "Do you often use real life to inspire your plays?"

"Always," he said and went on to talk about how he had returned to Ukraine with his mother, then moved to England to study after she died, and eventually to America. While he was still living in Ukraine, he collected material about folklore and superstitions from the small villages, recording songs and poems and taking photographs.

"I wanted to preserve the old ways which were disappearing. I have given much of my collected material to Slavic folklorists, but it left a lasting impression on me, as did the war. As did you."

I blushed, not sure of what to say.

"Was Mama Paraska—was your mother furious with me? Did she ever forgive me?" I asked him, trying to change the subject.

"She was. She did. Mama was simply disappointed that you hadn’t come with us. She loved you like a daughter, and she could tell that I cared for you."

"I loved her, too," I said. "She was an amazing woman."

"I heard about your husband; I am sorry for your loss," Andriy said as the waitress set his food in front of him. "Uh oh, now it’s your turn to talk so I can eat all this food." He winked at the waitress, who gave him a big smile in return. He was so charming.

"I’m not sure what to talk about." I stopped and searched for something to say. Then, I don’t know if it was because of the alcohol, because we were in the booth where Ana and I used to talk, or because I felt connected to this stranger from my past, but I opened up to him. I told him about the envelope from my sister, about Pavlo hiding the letter from Stephan, and even about Katya and Robin’s purification of my house. I told him how sad I had been, how afraid and guilty, how lonely I had been feeling.

While I was talking, he watched me carefully, spooning food into his mouth like an afterthought. Andriy sat so straight at the table, his shoulders back, his head held high and cocked slightly to the right. He was an attentive listener. I never felt like he was bored or drifting in thought.

When I finished my story, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, set it on his empty plate, and said, "You’re an amazing woman, Nadya. I can’t believe you’re here with me in this place having coffee. Thank you for sharing that with me." He stood up.

For a minute, I thought that was his sign for ending the evening. Had I talked too much? Was he disappointed with me? Had I bored him after all?

"May I sit beside you in the booth?" he asked.

I was too surprised to say no, so I nodded.

"I didn’t want to have to shout over the noise of the diner," he said, and only then did I notice that all the tables and booths were full, and the voices around us had gotten louder.

"Nadya, I don’t want to scare you away. I don’t want you to think me too forward, but you really did save my life during the war, and I never forgot you. For most of my life I’ve been hoping that you and I would meet again."

"I know it’s getting late, and you’re probably tired, but can I see you again? I think we have more to talk about, and it would make me very happy."

I nodded. "All right, I would like that."

He leaned over and kissed my cheek before getting up to pay at the counter. I touched my cheek after he walked away.

Snowflakes had begun to fall outside; the first of the season. Andriy insisted that he bring the car around so I didn’t have to walk outside in the snow. Driving to my house, I looked at the Chicago skyline in the distance, obscured by the light snowfall. It was a beautiful night, and I felt like a princess. Maybe it was the cold or the late hour, but I felt exhilarated and bold. When Andriy walked me up to my door, I gave him a hug and whispered, "thank you" in his ear.

He smiled at me and then slipped down the stairs and fell.

"I’m okay!" he shouted.

Andriy stood up, spun around, and bowed in my direction. I laughed out loud and applauded, and he walked a little more carefully to his car. I smiled in the window as his car drove away, and then I sat down on the couch and looked around the room. I almost wished I had invited him in just so the evening would not end. Then I could have lived in the fantasy a little longer. Unless it wasn’t a fantasy? I was afraid to consider the possibility. Then I felt guilty for even thinking that. What would Pavlo think? Would he be angry? Jealous? I remembered my vision of Pavlo in the park. He had said, "It’s never too late," but what did he mean?

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

Winter settled into Chicago, the temperatures dropped, and the sun spent more time behind the clouds. It was a winter without snow. None had fallen since November, and anticipation hung heavy in the air. Over the next few weeks, Andriy and I spoke frequently on the phone, but we hadn’t seen each other. He was busy with his play most of the time and also had to fly back to New York on business.

I remembered my Baba’s words, that I find someone to share my stories with. I hoped to share them with Andriy, but I also wanted to reconnect with my family. I invited Katya and Lesya to come by and help me bake bread. I was glad that Lesya’s mother had other plans, because I wanted to spend the time alone with my oldest daughter and my favorite granddaughter. I wanted to share my life with them, and even though I was afraid, I knew I had to take this step. Katya knew some of the story; Lesya knew very little. If I had any hope of putting the past behind me, then I would have to entrust my memories with those I loved.

They came by after breakfast, letting themselves in with the spare key I always kept under my statue of Mary in the front yard. I had them sit at the table with cups of coffee and my freshly made almond torte.

"Wow, Mama. A torte? You haven’t made one in years. What’s the occasion?" Katya asked playfully, but she was right. The torte took hours to make, and it was created with the sole intention of honoring my life, a life that I was going to start enjoying again.

"I’m celebrating my return to the land of the living," I answered, "and I wanted to share this moment with both of you."

First, I handed Katya the letter from my sister, watching as she read it, tears forming in her eyes. Then I gave her Stephan’s note. When she finished reading, she passed the letters to Lesya.

Watching her read, I felt as though I were standing outside myself, as though I were viewing this scene from far, far away: a mother, daughter, and granddaughter in a play or a movie: The kitchen was pretty, neat, yellow. There were plants all around, decorated with silk flowers. Cheerful. Everything was in its place except for a throw rug lying crooked on the floor, a tiny coffee stain on one corner. The oven was preheating, releasing a faint smell of old cheese burning on the bottom. The aging cat slept under the grandmother’s chair. The clock ticked, ticked, ticked too loudly, exaggerating the seconds, creating a heartbeat in the room to match the old woman’s heart. An army of pictures arranged on the wall tried to fight off time—to freeze the past, to rekindle happier moments. A life in pictures from every decade, some black and white, some color. The counter of the hutch was cluttered with birthday cards and a vase with dying flowers. The smells of yeast and cinnamon lingered in the air from unkneaded dough on the counter. Light focused on the letter—written on white lined stationary—in the granddaughter’s hand. Everyone was still, barely moving, only breathing, and the clock ticked, ticked, ticked. Except there were things the camera couldn’t see. Things the daughter and granddaughter almost sensed, but could not see—ghosts that lingered in the corners of the room. An old man and an old woman with a scarf around her head stood with their arms around one another, just behind the grandmother. A handsome young man in uniform sat on the radiator, holding his heart. A tiny old woman with rosy cheeks carried a laughing baby. A girl wearing gloves rubbed her hands together, healed and whole. And still the clock ticked, ticked, ticked. The camera didn’t see the visitors, couldn’t capture them except as a shimmer in the shadows, or a streak of light on the lens. But they were there watching them—watching the grandmother—watching me.

"It’s an amazing story, Baba." Lesya said, putting the letters back on the table.

"Are you okay, Mama?" Katya asked.

"I left them behind." I said.

"What happened?"

"So much. I was young. I wanted to know the future, and instead I lost everything."

"But what happened?"

For a minute I felt the familiar sensation that the earth beneath me was slipping away, like I was going to slide into a deep dark hole. This was usually the point when I stopped talking, but this time I felt as if I were supported. I felt as if my roots were dug deep into the earth, too deep to be washed away. Ana would have said I felt grounded, and I did.

I remembered my conversation with Katya in the chapel on the night of Pavlo’s heart attack. I was afraid of how I would be judged by those I loved the most. I was afraid that the life I had lived had somehow not been authentic. As if Halya and I had switched places. Maybe she should have been in Chicago with a large happy family. Maybe I should have been in Ukraine, alone.

"I sometimes feel like I don’t deserve this life," I said to Katya and Lesya. "I feel like I should have been there when the Germans came."

They had both read the letters, so I had no choice but to fill in some of the blanks in the story. When all was said and done, I didn’t know who they would see when they looked at me. I was like that black pysanka, covered in wax and layers of paint. The letters had come to melt it all away. Then it would come together—the story revealed.

Katya had already heard the beginning of this story, but I had to start at the beginning for Lesya.

"At the age of sixteen, more than anything, I wanted to have my fortune told," I said, and I told them about Stephan, about the vorozhka, about the soldiers.

"If I had only been there, maybe I could have saved them. Maybe I could have been there for Halya," I said in between tears. I avoided their eyes, afraid of what might be reflected there.

But when I cried, they both cried with me.

"I hated myself for leaving them. I hated myself for living." I said.

Katya hugged me, stroking my hair. Our roles had reversed.

"Baba, if you had stayed and died, none of us would be here today." Lesya said, holding my hand. "Maybe it wasn’t a curse on you that you left. Maybe it was a blessing, like someone was looking out for you because you had something special to do in this lifetime."

A blessing? Certainly my family had been blessed, but how much of that was because of me?

"Mama, I do believe that we are put on this earth to do something special," Katya said, still stroking my hair. "We all have a destiny, something that our souls need to do. Maybe yours was to be a mother and grandmother to us. You have been a wonderful matriarch, holding this family together, especially after Tato died. I never knew your sister, but I don’t think anyone else could have done that."