She realized she was miscarrying a second time when they were seated in a front booth at Carolina Pines Jr.’s, eating a celebratory breakfast in honor of Thomas’s forty-third birthday. As Thomas sped them in their car down Sunset to the doctor’s, Rose wincing with every cramp and turn, she thought, How could Mutti have withstood this? How did she ever keep going?
They ceased talking about it. They never did stop trying. A year later, as Rose neared her own forty-third birthday, her period was late. She didn’t tell Thomas. Wait, she cautioned herself, simply wait. But there was little private joy. When eight weeks later, her period arrived, Rose felt more resignation than sorrow. She had known that her body was broken for decades, even if she couldn’t have articulated it before. There was relief in acknowledging what she was, if only to herself. She could remember sensing it when she lived alone in London after the war. Ghosts can’t give birth, she thought.
Ludicrous, Thomas would say. You are here, living. You are simply afraid.
But she never did give him the chance to respond.
15
Los Angeles, 2008
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Sarah whispered to Lizzie.
“Of course,” Lizzie said, lowering her voice to match her sister’s.
“He fell asleep in the car on the way over,” Sarah said as she wheeled the stroller into Lizzie’s apartment. “By some miracle, I was able to transfer him. If you’re lucky, he’ll sleep for a couple of hours.” Oscar was ten months old, a grave-faced child with a scattered patchwork of pale downy hair. For the first few months of his life, Lizzie privately thought he looked like a tiny old Southern senator in baby garb. But now his body was filling out, and when he laughed, often unexpectedly, she felt like she caught a glimpse of the boy he was becoming.
“There are more diapers and wipes than you’ll ever need,” Sarah said, unclipping the bag from the stroller. “A bib, a couple of binkies, his bottle. I stuck in two changes of clothes, just in case. He has a slight runny nose; he seemed fine, but he might drink more milk because of it. Just heat up half at a time; my supply is getting low.”
“Got it,” Lizzie said with what she hoped was a confident expression. She had taken care of Oscar before, but never for this long. “It’s going to be fine.”
“I know; thank you so much. And it’s good training for you, right? If you’re unsure of anything, just call. If I have to step out of the event, it’s not a big deal. Angela’s got a few procedures today, so she’ll be harder to reach.”
“I’ve got it. You’re coming back in a few hours, right? He’s not staying for the month.”
“You never know,” Sarah said. “If I get a taste of freedom, I might run off.” She leaned down, kissed her son’s sleeping head. “I would never do that, monkey,” she murmured. She threw her arms around her sister. “Thank you. I’m so so glad you’re here.” And soon the door clicked behind her.
Lizzie had moved back to L.A. nearly six months earlier. In many ways, it felt longer. After she and Max had ended things, she went back to New York, tried to throw herself into work. But as she elbowed her way down the packed subway steps in the morning, she would find herself picturing the canyon behind her father’s house, the steep drops and sun-bleached terrain, and the clusters of poppies in February. When, amazingly enough, they won the Clarke appeal, Marc took her and the other associates out to a boozy, celebratory meal. Lizzie tipped back oysters and glasses of Prosecco, pleased that their strategy had done the job, but she was thinking: Now what?
Her mother’s birthday passed. Then it was her father’s. That summer, Sarah got pregnant. November marked the first anniversary of her father’s death, and Lizzie, felled by a mean virus, was glad for an excuse not to leave her apartment for days. Her life felt full of ghosts, her dreams often sharper and more vivid than her waking life. And then Oscar was born and she flew out to meet him, and holding that tiny, wheezing alien being tight against her chest, she thought, What are you waiting for?
Miraculously, she quickly landed a job in L.A.: directing a family foundation, of all things. A former client was on the board, and he called her when he heard she was on the hunt for work. I don’t know anything about running a foundation, she was about to say. But even as she thought it, she was typing the name of the foundation into Google with nervous excitement, and she heard a voice in her head—an undeniable mixture of Claudia’s and Rose’s—that made her sit up. Don’t run away, this voice ordered her. You are stronger than you know.
Now Lizzie turned to her sleeping nephew, wearing striped shorts that ballooned over his knees. Though he was snugly buckled into his stroller, his head lolled askew. Delicately she tried to straighten it. His head was warm, moist. Snot was encrusted around a nostril. He smelled yeasty sweet. Within a second, his head had toppled back down to the same awkward angle. “Okay, okay,” she said. “If that’s what you want.”
She headed into the second bedroom that she was using as a study, still lined with boxes. She hadn’t been inclined to take the apartment until she walked into that second bedroom. It was tiny but overlooked the courtyard and was suffused with sunlight. As she stood, looking down in the courtyard, the Realtor impatient behind her, an unexpected feeling came over Lizzie: I could be happy here. The master bedroom was dark, some of the cornflower-blue tiles in the shower were cracked; the common hallway carried a faint mildew smell. It was well within her newly diminished budget, though, and the balcony was big enough to fit a two-person table, and she loved that second bedroom. But it was probably the way it reminded her of Rose’s home—the balcony, the stucco, the utilitarian feel—that convinced her most of all.
They hadn’t spoken in more than a year. Rose had called Lizzie a few times after that day, but Lizzie, embarrassed, ashamed, hadn’t returned her messages. She thought of her all the time, when she was driving down Wilshire and passing the La Brea Tar Pits, when she caught a mention of Roger Corman on the radio. There was a new tearjerker of a Holocaust film about the daughter of a Danish fisherman who tried to ferry Jews across the narrow strait to Sweden during the war. It was hugely popular, despite critical grumbling, and Lizzie knew that Rose would have much to say about it, little good. She wanted to reach out to her, but the more time went by, the harder it had become. What could she possibly say?
Lizzie went to her laptop and returned a quick e-mail to a board member. When she went back into the living room a few minutes later, Oscar was staring at her from his perch in the stroller. “Oh, you’re up,” she said. “Hello.”
He considered her gravely. Then he began to howl.
“No, no,” she said, hurrying to unbuckle him. “No, no, baby.” He was screeching and he was squirming—she couldn’t believe how much he could squirm. What could possibly have gone wrong so quickly? How did he already know that Sarah was gone? Finally she got him out, plopped him onto the floor. “Maybe you just need a minute.”