She decided to go to Belye Nochi and make sure Nina was taking good care of Mom. There was still plenty of packing to be done.
An hour later, dressed in an old pair of jeans and a navy-blue sweatshirt, she showed up at Mom’s house, calling out, “Hello,” as she came into the kitchen.
Nina was at the kitchen table, wearing the same clothes she’d been in yesterday, with her short black hair spiked out in all directions. There were several books open on the table and pieces of paper lay scattered about, with Nina’s bold scrawl covering most of the sheets.
“You look like the Unabomber,” Meredith said.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Have you slept at all?”
“Some.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I know you don’t care, but it’s the fairy tale. I can’t get it out of my head.” Nina looked up. “She mentioned the Fontanka Bridge last night. It was always the Enchanted Bridge before, wasn’t it? Does that seem odd to you?”
“The fairy tale,” Meredith said. “I should have known.”
“Listen to this: ‘The Fontanka is a branch of the River Neva, which flows through the city of Leningrad.’ ”
Meredith poured herself a cup of coffee. “She’s Russian. The story takes place in Russia. Stop the presses.”
“You should have been there, Mere. It was amazing. Last night was all new.”
No, it wasn’t. “Maybe you were just too young to remember. I am not getting sucked into this.”
“How can you not be interested? We’ve never heard the end of it.”
Meredith turned around slowly, looking at her sister. “I’m tired, Neens. I don’t know if you know how that feels, really. You’re always so in love with everything you do. But I’ve spent most of my life on this piece of property, and I’ve tried to get to know Mom. She won’t let it happen. That’s the answer, the end. She’ll lure you in, make you think there’s something more—you’ll see sadness in her eyes sometimes or a soft ening in her mouth, and you’ll seize on it and believe in it because you want to so much. But it’s all a lie. She just doesn’t . . . love us. And frankly, I’ve got problems of my own right now, so I’ll have to say a polite no, thank you, on your fairy-tale quest.”
“What problems?”
Meredith looked down at her coffee. She’d forgotten for a split second that it was Nina to whom she was speaking. Nina, with her journalist’s knack for getting to the heart of a thing instantly and her fearlessness in asking questions. “Nothing. It was just an expression.”
“You’re lying.”
Meredith gave a tired smile and went to the table, sitting down across from her sister. “I don’t want to fight with you, Neens.”
“So talk to me.”
“You’d be the last person who would understand, and I’m not being a bitch. It’s just the truth.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Danny Flynn. You’ve been with him for more than four years, but none of us ever even heard of him. I know about the places you’ve been and the photographs you’ve taken, even the beaches you like, but I don’t know anything about the man you love.”
“Who said I loved him?”
“Exactly. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in love. It’s stories that matter to you. Like this thing with Mom. Of course you’re hooked.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, indicating the books spread out on the table. “Just don’t expect all of this to mean anything, because it doesn’t. She won’t let it, and please, please quit trying to make me care. I can’t. Not like that, about her. Not again. Okay?”
Nina stared at her; the pity in her eyes was almost unbearable. “Okay.”
Meredith nodded and got to her feet. “Good. Now I’m going to run to the grocery store and then I’ll come back and do some more packing.”
“You need to keep busy,” Nina said.
Meredith ignored the knowing tone in her sister’s voice. “It doesn’t look like I’m the only one. I’ll see you in a few hours. Make sure Mom eats a good meal.” Smiling tightly, she headed for her car.
Nina spent the rest of the day alternately taking pictures of the orchard and surfing the Internet. Unfortunately, the dial-up connection at Belye Nochi was impossibly slow, so it took forever to look things up. Not that there was much to find. What she’d learned was that Russia had a rich fairy-tale tradition that was different in many ways from the Grimms’ type of stories that were more familiar to Americans. There were literally dozens of peasant girl and prince stories, and often they ended unhappily to teach a lesson.
None of it illuminated the story Nina was being told.
Finally, as night fell outside, Meredith opened the study door and said, “Dinner’s ready.”
Nina winced. She’d meant to quit earlier and help with dinner. But as usual, once she started researching something, time fell away from her. “Thanks,” she said, and closed down the computer. Then she went into the kitchen, where she found Mom seated at the table. There were three place settings.
Nina looked at her sister. “You’re staying for dinner again? Should we call Jeff down and invite him?”
“He’s working late,” Meredith said, taking a casserole out of the oven.
“Again?”
“You know news. The stories happen at all hours.”
Nina got the decanter of vodka and three shot glasses and brought them to the table. She sat down next to Mom, poured.
Her hands in puffy, insulated gloves, Meredith carried the hot casserole dish to the table and set it down on a pair of trivets.
“Chanakhi,” Nina said, leaning close, breathing in the savory aroma of the lamb and vegetable casserole. It had come out of Mom’s freezer, so it would taste exquisite, even reheated. The vegetables would be perfectly tender, their flavors merged into a silken tangle of tomatoes, sweet peppers, string beans, and Walla Walla sweet onions; all of it swimming in a rich garlic-and-lemon-tinged lamb broth with big chunks of succulent meat. It was one of Nina’s favorites. “Great choice, Meredith.”
Meredith pulled up a chair and sat down between them.
Nina handed her a straight shot of vodka.
“Again?” Meredith said, frowning. “Wasn’t last night enough?”
“It’s a new tradition.”
“It smells like pine needles,” Meredith said, wrinkling her nose as she smelled it.
“The taste is quite different,” Mom said.
Nina laughed at that and raised her shot glass. They dutifully clinked the glasses together and drank. Then Nina reached for the serving spoon. “I’ll dish up. Meredith, why don’t you start?”
“The three things again?”
“You can do as many as you want. We’ll follow your lead.”
Mom said nothing, just shook her head.
“Fine,” Meredith said as Nina ladled the casserole into her sister’s white china bowl. “My favorite time of day is dawn. I love sitting on my porch in the summer, and Jeff . . . thinks I run too much.”
While Nina was figuring out her response to that, Mom surprised her by saying, “My favorite time of day is night. Belye nochi. I love cooking. And your father thinks I should learn to play the piano.”
Nina heard the word thinks and it made her look up. For a moment they all looked at each other.
Mom was the first to glance away. “He thought this. Do not rush me to the doctor’s, Meredith,” she said. “I know he is not here.”
Meredith nodded but said nothing.
Nina filled in the awkward silence. “My favorite time of day is sunset. Preferably in Botswana. In the dry season. I love answers. And I think there’s a reason Mom hardly ever looks at us.”
“It is meaning you want?” Mom said. “You will be disappointed. Now eat. I hate this dish when it is cold.”
Nina recognized her mother’s tone. It meant that the frivolity of their little tradition had come to an end. The rest of the meal proceeded in silence; the only sounds were spoons scraping on fine china and wineglasses being set down on the wooden table, and when dinner was over, Meredith rose to her feet and went to the sink. Mom walked gracefully away.
“I’m going to hear more of the story tonight,” Nina said to Meredith, who was drying the silverware.
Her sister didn’t turn around, neither did she answer.
“You could—”
“I need to go through Dad’s study,” Meredith said. “I need some of his files at the office.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve been putting it off.”
There were places in every home that belonged to a single individual. No matter how many family members might use a space, or come and go through it, there was one in the group to whom it truly belonged. In Meredith’s home, the porch was hers. Jeff and the girls used it on occasion, but rarely: summertime parties and such. Meredith loved that porch and sat in the wicker rocker throughout the year.
In Belye Nochi, almost every room belonged to her mom. Her damaged eyesight was reflected in all the decorations and furniture, from the kitchen with its pale walls and white tile counters to its antique wooden table and chairs. Where there was color in this house, it came in splashes—the nesting dolls in the windowsill, the gilded icons in the Holy Corner, the painting of the troika.
Of all the rooms in Belye Nochi, only one could truly be called her father’s, and it was this room, his study.
Meredith stood in the doorway. She didn’t have to close her eyes to imagine him at this desk, laughing, talking to the two little girls at play on the floor at his feet.
The echo of his voice was strong in here. She could almost smell the sweet tang of his pipe smoke.
Don’t tell your mom, now, you know she hates it when I smoke.
She went to the center of the room and knelt on the thick forest-green carpet. A pair of blackwatch-plaid club chairs stood cocked toward each other, facing the giant mahogany desk that dominated the room. The walls were a rich cobalt blue with black trim, and everywhere she looked was a family photograph, framed in forest-green leather.
She sat back on her heels, overcome for a moment at the idea of what she was to do in here. Only his clothes would be more difficult to go through.
But it had to be done and she was the one to do it. She and Mom would both need documents from this room in the coming months and years. Insurance information, bill records, tax records, and banking information, just to name a few.
So Meredith took a deep breath and opened his file drawer. For the next hour, as night fell outside, she carefully picked through the paper trail of her parents’ lives, sorting everything into three piles: Keep, Maybe, and Burn.
She was grateful for the concentration it took to do the sorting. Only rarely did she find her mind wandering into the swamp of her own broken marriage.
Like now, as she stared down at a picture that had somehow fallen into the property tax file. In the photograph, Dad, Nina, Jeff, Jillian, and Maddy were playing catch in the front yard. The girls were small—barely taller than the mailbox—and dressed in matching pink snowsuits. Christmas lights and evergreen boughs decorated the fences, and everyone was laughing.
