“Yes.” Michael picked up his things. “Finally. I will call you tomorrow, mana mila. Later on, so you can sleep as long as you would like.”
“Okay.” She felt unexpectedly panicked, seeing him prepare to leave. He had not been out of her sight since she’d found him some weeks ago. “Goodnight,” she said to his parents. “We’ll catch up in a few days’ time.”
-
The cab dropped her at her front doorstep in Brooklyn shortly before 2 a.m. She had no idea what time zone her body thought it was in. She gave the cabbie an extra twenty dollars to carry her things up to the second level of the house she rented.
Sophie surveyed her tiny home, which had survived another one of her long absences. She’d get her mail started back up the next day. Pick up some groceries. For now, she found a package of stale crackers in the cupboard, crammed a few into her mouth, and shuffled down the hallway to her bedroom.
Wearily, she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Then she dug around in the bottom of her carryon bag and found a t-shirt of Michael’s that she’d pilfered. She stripped, pulled on the shirt, and sat down on the edge of her bed.
As she always did before she went to sleep at night, she grabbed her iPhone and plugged it into the wall adaptor. She hesitated, bouncing the phone in her hand. She remembered how many times she’d sat there last year, listening to Michael’s voicemail message over and over just so she could hear his voice. Never knowing if she’d ever hear the real thing again.
Michael is home. He’s safe. It’s okay now.
He’d lost his cell phone during the Soviet bombing that broke up his resistance cell, he’d told her. For some odd reason, it hurt to think of his phone out there, buried in the snow somewhere in the Orlisian woods. Maybe someone would find it one day, and wonder whose it was.
She flipped her phone open and dialed his number. It rang once and then went straight to a recorded message.
“We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again.”
They had finally cut the service off. Thoughtfully, Sophie set her iPhone down to charge overnight.
She fell into bed, pulling the shirt up to her face. Soap, a bit of sweat, his deodorant, a faint hint of male muskiness. The smell of Michael, touching her skin. It didn’t make up for his absence, but it would hold her until she could see him again.
-
February 27, 2014
Sophie felt like a teenager waiting for her prom date to pick her up.
The last few days had been strange. On one hand, it was a relief to be home, to grab those “normal” moments again. She’d visited all her favorite haunts. The coffee shop around the corner. The kosher bakery two blocks east. The fruit store where the owners knew her by name.
On the other hand, she was climbing the walls without Michael. She’d thought after so many years on opposite sides of the country that being apart for a handful of days would be a snap. Apparently that theory didn’t hold water after the seal was broken.
Which is how Sophie came to be folding clothes while she waited for Michael to pick her up. Freshly laundered clothes were a luxury in the field, and she always looked forward to them when she came home. Plus, she found laundry soothing for her twitchy nerves.
They were having dinner at Maxwell and Signe’s house that night. With characteristic lack of tact, he’d told her that his family dressed for dinner and she should not dress like a dockworker. As if I would.
She pawed through her meager closet, looking for something nice. Admittedly, she lived in jeans and couldn’t afford a lot of fancy clothing on a nonprofit salary. Most of her special clothes came from consignment shops and outlet sales. She settled on a simple black dress, a soft blue cardigan, and flats. With come-fuck-me underwear and thigh-high tights.