Family Secrets Page 20

  She felt like someone who has traveled very far.

  “Here,” Tarja said, handing her a small glass of very rich, dark beer. “Drink this.”

  Diane obeyed. The beer was delicious. Her breath came back to her, her senses returned, and she was at last completely relaxed.

  Later she showered and dressed, then sat feasting on herring with sour cream, onions, and dill, poached salmon with a creamy mustard sauce, new potatoes, moist radishes gritty with salt, and dense sweet dark bread that she slathered with butter. Far beyond the confines of the forest the sun was setting, sinking the sheltered cabin into a cozy gloom. Diane and Tarja did not talk except to say, “Do you want more of this?” and “Yes, please”; they sat quietly watching the darkness come. Later they did the dishes in a companionable silence, then listened to an opera on Tarja’s portable stereo before going to bed.

  Her sleep was thick, creamy, dreamless. It was as if her bones had melted into milk. When she awoke, Diane lay very still beneath the Marimekko duvet, looking at the sunlight on the papery skin of the silver birches outside the window. Her pleasure was complete.

  Here in Finland Diane recognized the depth of the infidelity of which she was capable: not of experiencing ecstasy with another man but of finding it on her own, by herself. It was as if in the Finnish lake she’d set herself free, singed the claims of her children and her husband from her skin, from her heart. She wasn’t ashamed. She wasn’t sorry. She was triumphant. She was herself again, Diane, alone.

  She was ready to go to Russia.

  Tarja was a naturally quiet woman, not given to small talk. During the drive back to Helsinki, to the airport, and during the flight to Leningrad, Diane leaned her head against the cold windows and let her thoughts drift free. It was the first time in years that she’d had so much uninterrupted time.

  Perhaps it was being so far north that made her think of the winter before, when Chase had entered a figure-skating competition. Diane went to the town rink with some other mothers to watch the competition and the award ceremony. She noticed how she and her friends talked and laughed with a shrill vivacity they hadn’t exhibited since they were adolescents. When Chase skated out on the ice, a tiny brave figure alone in the bright lights, Diane’s heart caved in with love and terror. If he fell, if he embarrassed himself, she would die right there in the bleachers. He didn’t fall, and she didn’t die, but she knew her heart had been scarred, as if burned by the intensity of her apprehension.

  When, the previous spring, a popular second-grade girl named Melony didn’t invite Julia to her birthday party, Julia’s distress had inflamed Diane like a fever. She’d held her daughter, soothed her, reasoned with her; she’d taken her out for a hot fudge sundae and a Disney movie, and all the time her heart was black with hate.

  It wasn’t only sorrow and fear that mauled her heart; it was hope, and sometimes happiness so powerful it hurt. Diane knew what was important to her children, and it wasn’t that they have a mother who made pretty jewelry; it was a mother who made brownies and brought them to school for their birthdays. Diane made those brownies. She dyed eggs at Easter and hid them, along with straw baskets, balls and bats, water pistols. She made Christmas cookies with them and labored over homemade Halloween costumes. She volunteered to ride in buses when their classes went on field trips to the Museum of Science or Old Sturbridge Village. All the commotion of those trips, the giggles and shouts and popped bubble gum, the little girl sick in the aisle, the little boy who caught his finger in the metal seat frame—those marked her heart, too. Being around little children was like living inside a hailstorm.

  Now that her children were older, she still didn’t know, she thought no one knew, where the child ended and the mother began. Of course there had been times when she and Jim were first in love when she’d felt this same union with him; looking into his eyes as they lay in each other’s arms, she had thought: I am you, we are each other, we are one. That melting rapture returned between them occasionally, reminding her that when the children were off on their own, they would still have each other. But when would that be? Would a cord snap between them? Would she feel it break, hear the twang? When would she know that her actions didn’t influence her children’s lives? For even as she drove across the Finnish countryside and flew deep into the Soviet Union, she felt delinquent, guilty, as if she were stealing something—her mind, her emotions, her body—that really still belonged to her children.

  Tarja and Diane arrived in Leningrad at night, in time to be driven to the Astoria Hotel where Tarja had made reservations. Diane was exhilarated at being in Russia but exhausted by the traveling, and by her thoughts. She sank into a deep sleep on her rather lumpy bed.

  The next morning, after a breakfast of black bread and tea, they were met by their Intourist guide, a pleasant young woman who introduced herself as Khristina Ahkmatova. She led them to her gray Volga and pointed out landmarks of the city as she drove toward the Hermitage.

  “On your right you will see St. Issac’s Cathedral. St. Issac was the patron saint of Peter the Great. Across the square you will see Mariinsky Palace, home of City Soviet, what you would call our town hall.” The woman handled her car deftly and spoke English well. “Now you see before you the famous Bronze Horseman, that statue of Peter the Great given to him by Catherine the Second. The rearing horse symbolizes Russia, trampling the serpent that symbolizes the forces opposed to his reforms.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Diane said. Neither of the other women replied, so she sat in silence looking at the city, which gleamed even on this dreary day.

  They drove into Dvortsovaya Ploshchad. Diane had read that the Winter Palace was four blocks long and contained more than a thousand halls and rooms, but actually to be one tiny figure in the midst of such enormity was overwhelming. Like a child, she pressed her nose right against the car window for the best view. The buildings surrounded a parade ground wide enough to hold an army of thousands. In its center rose the Alexander Column, as phallic as the Washington Monument, if more slender, with an angel on top. The massive complex of buildings was both sedate and grandiose; the sheer size was a statement that overpowered the severe and rather monotonous classical facade.

  The line of people waiting to tour the Hermitage was equally overwhelming. Diane and Tarja stood patiently behind their guide in a line that looked endless but moved fairly quickly. Diane could catch snippets of French and German and what she thought was Finnish, but most of the people spoke in Russian and looked Russian.

  “We have over two and one half million objects on display in over fourteen miles of halls and galleries.” Without preamble, Khristina Ahkamatova began to lecture. “The museum is so vast and the displays so glorious that visitors have been known to faint.”

  Diane understood. During the long day as they walked through the Hermitage, so much exuberant beauty dumbfounded her. She gaped at samovars thick with gold and silver, encrusted with jewels, at the vast bronze-and-gold throne room where a twenty-seven-square-meter map of Russia sparkled with semiprecious stones, the cities and rivers marked by emeralds and rubies, at ornate mirrors, crystal chandeliers, painted ceilings, marble statues, gilt-trimmed malachite pillars. Turning, looking down, catching her breath, over and over again her eyes caught on the head scarves of the Russian women, who dressed somberly for the most part but covered their heads in material brilliant with color, swirling with intricate designs. A sense of recognition swept over her. A wonderful intoxication, a kind of lust, an excitement that always invaded her blood, making her restless, sleepless, irritable, moody—and that always preceded a period of real creative accomplishment—was beginning to assail her. She was both sorry and glad when it was time to go back to the hotel. She was exhausted. But they would return the next day.

  In the hotel dining room, over a first course of caviar and starka, Diane said, “This is exactly what I needed, Tarja. I’m this close to coming up with my new designs. This close.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, ind
icating the fraction of space between her mind and its breakthrough.

  The next morning the two women rose early. When they went down to the lobby to meet their guide, the desk clerk called Diane over.

  “Mrs. Randall? We have something for you. It just arrived.”

  He handed her an envelope. She ripped it open and read:

  julia in hospital.

  meningitis.

  come home.

  jim.

  “Oh, God!” Diane moaned. Her body rocked backward as if from a blow. “Tarja. My daughter’s sick. I must go home at once.” Turning back to the desk clerk, she said, “I need to leave at once.”

  “Oh, no,” he assured her. “You cannot leave for four days. You see what your ticket and your visa says.”

  “I know, I know, but my daughter is sick. Here, look at the telegram.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot help you.” The man turned away.

  “Diane,” Tarja said, “calm down. You must be calm. This is going to be difficult. They do not like spontaneity or change. I’ll make some phone calls. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Tarja. I’ll get the Service Bureau to book a long-distance call to the States for me.”

  The next few hours passed with a vivid intensity, each minute clicking by with the sharpness of a knife blade slicing its mark into Diane’s heart. Various Russian officials listened and mumbled and nodded at Diane, then informed her that changes could not be made; she would have to wait until the time her visa stated to leave. When Diane insisted that they make the necessary changes, or put her in touch with someone who could, the clerks would nod and disappear, eventually returning with another functionary. While she waited, she tried to reassure herself: Jim would be with Julia, and Jean would fly up; Julia loved her grandmother, and Susan would fly in, too. The telephone operator could not get a line through to Boston. Officials came and went, sometimes listening sympathetically, sometimes speaking with Tarja in barking syllables, always referring the problem to someone else. Khristina Ahkmatova arrived to take them to the museum. When they explained Diane’s problem and asked for help, she said merely, “I’m sorry. I am not qualified for that. I am only your guide. I am sorry.” Eventually she went away.

  Tarja advised Diane to wait at the desk. She went to their rooms and packed both bags, just in case.

  Diane sat by the desk and waited. She thought of Julia, and she cried. She’d refused to believe in some abstract system of justice that delivered punishment to mothers who went off on their own to indulge in completely selfish experiences. Jim certainly didn’t narrow his life by such superstitions. But sitting there as heavy hours went by, she felt guilt grow until it overshadowed her. Of course. Motherhood was a universal thing, an organic, mysterious, jealous power. Diane had spurned motherhood, choosing to indulge in a few moments of pure, free, individual ecstasy—and now she was paying the price.

  Tarja said, “Come eat lunch.”

  “I can’t eat. I’m not hungry. How can I eat when my daughter is deathly ill? I’m so far away. What is it with these people? Why can’t they help?”

  “Probably they’re checking on you. Their system doesn’t allow for easy changes. You must be patient.”

  “Perhaps I should take a taxi to the airport and see if I can get on a plane, any plane anywhere.”

  “That wouldn’t work. Their system doesn’t allow for that, either.”

  “ ‘Their system … their system.’ ”

  “Yes, it is convoluted. Everything must be checked and double-checked, and no one wants to take responsibility for an unofficial act. But you knew this before you came, Diane. I wrote you that it might be cumbersome.”

  “Yes. I know. I never dreamed this would happen.”

  So Diane waited, sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Astoria, blind to the beauty around her, focused on thinking only of her daughter.

  At about three o’clock in the afternoon, she was approached by a tall, slender, dark-haired, dark-eyed man in his early sixties. Unlike the hotel officials, he was expensively dressed in a well-tailored suit of dark gray wool. He looked Russian, but his English was perfect.

  “Hello, Diane Randall,” he said. “My name is Erich Malenkov. I understand you have a problem.”

  She leaped from her chair. “My daughter—This came this morning.” She held out the telegram. “I must leave at once.”

  “Yes.” Maddeningly, he sat down in a chair and gestured her to hers. “Could I see your passport and your hotel identity card?”

  She handed them to him in silence. He studied them carefully.

  “What is your husband’s name?”

  “Oh, really. Is this necessary? Time is passing by—”

  “Diane.” Tarja spoke her name, only that, as a warning.

  “If you will help me, I will help you.” Erich Malenkov’s smooth tone did not change.

  Diane sighed. “Jim Randall.”

  “Your parents’ names?”

  “Al White. Jean White.”

  “Your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Marshall.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Two brothers, one sister. And two children, ten and eight, and the eight-year-old is sick—” She found herself pleading, “She has meningitis. Please, can we cut through this red tape—”

  “Yes,” Erich Malenkov said, surprising her. He stood. “We can go now. Your bag is ready?”

  “Well, yes—” Diane was confused.

  “I’ll drive you both to the airport myself. We have reservations for you on a plane to Helsinki that leaves in three hours, and on to Boston via London from there. Perhaps in Helsinki you’ll be able to get a phone line to Boston more easily.”

  He led Diane and Tarja to his car—a long, shining black sedan.

  The scenery of the city, the river Neva, wound past her car window. She’d traveled so far to see this, to be here, and now every cell in her body ached to be gone from this place, to be back home.

  Leaving his car with a porter, Erich Malenkov escorted Diane and Tarja through the airport, down a corridor, to the waiting room of a plane boarding for Helsinki. When he held out her ticket to her, Diane nearly ripped it from his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so very much. I can never thank you enough.”

  He nodded. “I am glad to help.”

  On the plane, seated between Tarja and an enormous Russian whose shoulders shoved into her seat, Diane fastened her seat belt with shaking hands. She leaned back into her seat, closed her eyes, and prayed silently, as the plane shuddered, roared, and lifted off into the cloud-flecked sky.

  Not quite twenty-four hours later, she landed at Logan. She’d put a call through to Jim from Helsinki and again from London, and as she went down the narrow ramp from the plane, she saw that Jim was waiting for her at the gate. He looked as tired as she felt, and as frightened.

  Brushing past an embracing couple in front of her, she reached Jim. “How is she?”

  “Better. Not out of danger, but better.”

  Diane put her hand on his arm in a gesture that was both beseeching and steadying. Jim didn’t move to hug or kiss her but took her heavy carry-on bag from her hand and turned away. “The luggage ramp’s this way.”

  As they waited for her suitcase to come off the conveyer, then hurried to Brigham and Women’s Hospital, Jim described Julia’s illness and its symptoms in painful detail. Diane knew he was not trying to torture her, and yet he seemed angry with her, as if her having left had somehow sparked this terrible infection. For it was an infection of the spinal cord, a complication of the common cold that Julia had been recovering from—or so Diane had thought—when she left for Finland. Julia had complained of chills and a headache, and a rising fever made her increasingly apathetic and miserable. Jim had thought it was simply the flu. But when he took her to see their pediatrician, Dr. Walker had discovered that Julia’s neck was so stiff she could not bend it forward. Immediately he’d pu
t her in the hospital and run blood tests. When the tests came back, the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed—the meningitis was curable but required constant vigilance. She’d be in the hospital at least two weeks.

  After what seemed an eternity, they arrived at the hospital, parked in the enormous echoing underground lot, and raced through the wings and down the long hall to Julia’s room. And there she was, lying in bed, pale and unmoving, her eyes shining with that false brightness that results from fever and dehydration. Diane could see that in only six days Julia had lost weight. Her cheeks were sunken. IV tubes ran from a nearby stand down into her arm.

  “Oh, baby,” Diane cried, rushing to her daughter.

  “Mommy,” Julia said. “I’m scared.”

  Diane bent over her daughter, putting her cool cheek against Julia’s warm face, kissing her hair. She put her own fears aside. “You don’t have to be. Daddy says you’re fine, and the medicine is helping you. You’ll be better soon.”

  “And you’re here now.”

  “Yes. I’m here now.” Diane sat on the bed and held both of her daughter’s hands. “Oh, honey, you’ll be all right, I promise.”

  And she was. For the next eight days Diane sat by her daughter’s side in the hospital, reading aloud her favorite books, singing to her while she dozed, laughing at idiotic children’s TV shows with her, and then finally when Julia felt well enough to be restless the last few days, cutting out paper dolls and teaching her to embroider. When memories of her splendid dive into the crystalline Finnish waters flashed uninvited to her mind, Diane shoved them away with the same flush of guilt with which an adulterous married woman puts away thoughts of her lover. Not here, not now, it wasn’t appropriate, it wasn’t safe.

  The next spring Diane came out with her line of fine jewelry: brooches, earrings, necklaces cast in silver with a fused gold overlay, shaped in scrolling Byzantine forms that were almost letters, or lilies, or lions rampant, intertwined, each with a semiprecious stone centered in the middle. She’d invested heavily in national advertising; the company had come up with a picture of a sleek dark-haired executive woman wearing a navy blue suit, a white silk blouse, and an Arabesque brooch at her neck, as she talked to a boardroom of men. The line sold out.