Forty-five
When Linus releases us for the afternoon, I bolt for the door. “Willem,” Max calls.
“Willem,” Marina calls behind her.
I wave them off. I have to be fitted for my costume and then I have only a couple hours until Linus will meet me to go through my marks on the amphitheater stage. As for what Marina and Max have to say: if it’s compliments of my performance, so Jeroen-like even Petra was impressed, I don’t want to hear it. If it’s questions about why I’m playing it like this, when I played it so differently before, then I really don’t want to hear it.
“I have to go,” I tell them. “I’ll see you tonight.”
They look wounded, each in their own way. But I just walk away from them.
Back at the flat, I find W, Henk, and Broodje busy at work, pages of yellow pad on the coffee table. “That’s Femke in,” Broodje is saying. “Hey, it’s the star.”
Henk and W start to congratulate me. I just shake my head. “What’s all this?” I gesture to the project on the table.
“Your party,” W says.
“My party?”
“The one we’re throwing tonight,” Broodje says.
I sigh. I forgot all about that. “I don’t want a party.”
“What do you mean you don’t want a party?” Broodje asks. “You said it was okay.”
“Now it’s not. Cancel it.”
“Why? Aren’t you going on?”
“I’m going on.” I go into my room. “No party,” I call.
“Willy,” Broodje yells after me.
I slam the door, lie down on the bed. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but that’s not happening. I sit up and flip through one of Broodje’s copies of Voetbal International but that’s not happening either. I toss it back on my bookshelf. It lands next to a large manila envelope. The package of photos I unearthed from the attic last month.
I open the envelope, thumb through the pictures. I linger on the one of me and Yael and Bram from my eighteenth birthday. It’s like an ache, how much I miss them. How much I miss her. I’m so tired of missing things I don’t have.
I pick up the phone, not even calculating the time difference.
She answers straight away. And just like that time before, I’m at a loss for words. But not Yael. Not this time.
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“Did you get my email?”
“I haven’t checked it. Is something wrong?”
She sounds panicked. I should know better. Out-of-the-blue phone calls. They require reassurance. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Nothing like what?”
“Like before. I mean, nobody is sick, though someone did break an ankle.” I tell her about Jeroen, about my taking on his part.
“But shouldn’t this make you happy?” she asks.
I thought it would make me happy. It did make me so happy this morning. Hearing about Lulu’s letter made me happy this morning. But now that’s worn off and all I feel is her recrimination. How far the pendulum can swing in one day. You’d think I’d know that by now. “It appears not.”
She sighs. “But Daniel said you seemed so energized.”
“You spoke to Daniel? About me?”
“Several times. I asked his advice.”
“You asked Daniel for advice?” Somehow this is even more shocking than her asking him about me.
“I wondered if he thought I should ask you to come back here.” She pauses. “To live with me.”
“You want me to come back to India?”
“If you want to. You might act here. It seemed to go well for you. And we could find a bigger flat. Something big enough for both of us. But Daniel thought I should hold off. He thought you seemed to have found something.”
“I haven’t found anything. And you might’ve asked me.” It comes out so bitter.
She must hear it, too. But her voice stays soft. “I am asking you, Willem.”
And I realize she is. After all this time. Tears well up in my eyes. I’m grateful, in that small moment, for the thousands of kilometers that separate us.
“How soon could I come?” I ask.
There’s a pause. Then she gives the answer I need: “As soon as you want.”
The play. I’ll have to do it this weekend, and then Jeroen will come back or I can quit. “Monday?”
“Monday?” She sounds only a little bit surprised. “I’ll have to ask Mukesh what he can do.”
Monday. It’s in three days. But what is there to stay for? The flat is finished. Soon enough Daniel and Fabiola will be back with the baby, and there won’t be room for me.
“It’s not too soon?” I ask.
“It’s not too soon,” she says. “I’m just grateful it’s not too late.”
There’s a hitch in my throat and I can’t speak. But I don’t need to. Because Yael starts speaking. In torrents, apologizing for keeping me at arm’s length, telling me what Bram always said, that it wasn’t me, it was her, Saba, her childhood. All the things I already knew but just didn’t really understand until now.
“Ma, it’s okay.” I stop her.
“It’s not, though,” she says.
But it is. Because I understand all the ways of trying to escape, how sometimes you escape one prison only to find you’ve built yourself a different one.
It’s a funny thing, because I think that my mother and I may finally be speaking the same language. But somehow, now words don’t seem as necessary.