Page 27

I stop by my room for the journal. I read the last entry again, and just like they do the night before, my hands begin to tremble. I close the book and take a deep breath, then leave the room and head downstairs.

The air is slightly warmer today than it is the past several days. From what the locals tell me, it will cool down again, but it’s nice to have a bit of sunshine. I don’t think I could endure a cloudy sky today.

The snow is melting from the heat, and the powder that coats the buildings is now falling off and creating piles of slush that turn dirty gray from the cars and people moving over it. It makes the scenery of Old Town somewhat less picturesque.

At the same time, though, I feel it looks even more beautiful. It looks lived-in. It looks real. It's not a picture from a storybook. It's a real place where real people live real lives. Sometimes, things get dirty in real life, and we have to clean up. Sometimes we don't do a perfect job, and that's okay. That's life.

Claudia is waiting for me at the café. She wears a civilian outfit today, a pair of jeans and a fur coat that is fitted perfectly. On top, she wears a beanie with a little puffball on top. I’m sure there’s a technical term for that little puffball, but I forget what it is.

She looks radiant. Tears come to my eyes as I remember Annie wearing almost that exact same outfit during the Boston winters when we were in school. Claudia is a few years older than we were then, but there’s no doubt she looks like her mother.

And I know without a doubt now that Claudia is Annie’s daughter. The last entry of Laura’s journal proves that.

She gives me a bemused smile and says, “If you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to make me blush.”

I beam at her and say, “You look beautiful.”

She laughs. And she does blush. “Thank you. You look beautiful too.”

I chuckle. “I suppose I look all right. But come, let’s get some food. If you like the strudels here, you’ll love the spinach and prosciutto crepes.”

“I’m not much of a fan of spinach,” she says, “but for your sake, Mary, I’ll try.”

“Your mother wasn’t a fan of spinach either,” I tell her.

She looks at me quizzically. “My mother?”

“Yes. I’ll explain everything, but first, we must order our food. I would prefer to do this on a full stomach.”

She keeps the quizzical look, but a slight smile joins it. “All right. If you insist.”

We sit down and order our food. While we wait, I ask, “So will you remain in Geneva, or will you be off to parts unknown?”

“I spend most of my time here,” she replies, “but they ship me out occasionally.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? I thought Interpol was based in France.”

“It is, but we have offices all over Europe. We’d love for the rest of the world to join us, but you Americans simply can’t stand to admit that Europe can do anything right, so I think that will be a hard fight.”

I laugh at that. "Well, that's good that you'll be here. I would like to see you from time to time if that's all right."

Our food arrives, and Claudia takes a bite of the crepe. Her lips tremble a little, but she forces the bite down. She smiles ruefully and says, “Well, I’ve tried it. But I still hate spinach.”

I laugh heartily and call the server over. She orders steak and eggs, and hands me the rest of her crepe. "So, is this the part where you tell me how you knew my mother?" she asks.

I take a deep breath and look down at my plate. My stomach is fluttering, but I don’t think eating more will help with that. And besides, I came here to finally confront my past and hopefully find an answer to the most important question I’ve ever asked.

“Yes,” I reply. “She was my sister.”

I’m not sure what reaction I expect: shock, anger, disbelief, maybe awkwardness. I definitely don’t expect her to nod and say, “I figured so.”

I blink. “You… how?”

Her smile widens a little. “You seemed to recognize me when I first arrived at the museum. I knew we’d never met, so I figured that I must remind you of someone. I’ve been told by others that I look exactly like my mother did. My mother talked often about you when I was growing up. Your mannerisms and way of speaking match the description my mother gave me, and… Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

I dab at the tears falling from my face with my napkin. “It’s all right. I just… Really? She talked about me?”

Her smile returns, wistful this time. “She did. Often. I implored her to reach out to you, but she kept making excuses that she was too late, that too much time had passed, that you probably didn’t want to hear from her, and so forth. I’m truly sorry that she never took my advice.”

“So… she is dead then.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

I sniffle and dab more tears away. I wait for the resentment and anger to come, knowing that Annie willfully ignored me for thirty years, but it doesn't come. I'm just so relieved to know, finally, after so long, that my sister wasn't murdered. She did live. And she started a family. She found a husband and raised a daughter. She found a place she loved, a place she could stay for her entire life and be content and happy. That’s all I ever wanted for her.

I take a deep breath and release it slowly to steady myself. “So you just put two and two together when you saw me?”

“More or less, but I also confirmed it when I looked you up. I knew my mother as Laura Becker, but I also knew that her name was once Annie Wilcox and that she had grown up in the United States. I was a little surprised to hear your accent. Mom never mentioned that she lived in Britain, but when I read about you, I discovered that you both spent the first half of your childhoods there.”

I sniffle again and give up on stopping the tears. “Yes. I’m afraid there are a few decidedly unpleasant memories from our time in Britain, so I’m not surprised that Annie never told you.”

She reaches for my hand and squeezes softly. I can’t express how much that little act of kindness does for me. My heart sores, and I actually laugh a little. I’m holding my niece’s hand. I know I’ve only just met her, but she is family. Better, she is a reflection of Annie as she would have been had she been fortunate enough to have loving parents instead of a monster of a mother and a father whose flame was rapidly quenched by that mother’s shadow.

“So how did you learn for sure that I was your niece? Or did you just figure it out right away as well?”

“I found your mother’s journal.”

Claudia frowns. “Her journal? Where?”

“Well, actually Sophie found it. It was in one of the museum’s storage rooms.”

“Huh. I never knew that mother visited the museum. You’re sure it’s her journal? I have her journal at home. She filled sixteen notebooks.”

"Seventeen." I pull the journal from my bag and set it on the table. Claudia takes it, and her eyes widen when she opens it. "Wow. This is my mother’s handwriting. I can’t believe… Yes, that’s her name, and here it mentions my father.” She tilts her head. “Come to think of it, she did mention that she’d lost a notebook once when she was caught snooping around a museum. I suppose Elena placed it in the lost and found and forgot about it.”

“That may be,” I reply. “I meant to return it to her, but when I discovered who its author was, I couldn’t.”

“Of course not. And it mentions you in here? I don’t see it in these first few entries.”

My smile fades a little. “No. Save for a typo on Christmas, I am not brought up until the very last entry.”

She turns to the back of the book and reads silently. I don’t need to follow along. I’ve already committed the words to memory.

July 10 th ,

I have avoided this subject since starting this journal. Actually, I’ve avoided it since I left Boston, but now, looking down at Claudia’s tiny form, I can’t help but wish that Mary was here to share this joy with me.

I wonder what she’s doing now? Did she finish her psychology degree? Is she now telling people how to be sensible and content?

I miss her. I didn’t think I would, but I do. I miss her so much. I thought when I left that I hated her. I focused on the arguments we had, and the way she used to talk like she thought herself better than me. I think, really, that I hated myself. I hated Mom and Dad too, more so Mom, but mostly I hated myself. I hated that I was turning into Mom, except that Mom, at least, stuck around for her family when she didn’t want to.

She painted a much fonder picture of our mother than I remember, but that’s all right. It’s good that she learned to see the best in others. I still struggle with that.

I wish I had told her where I was going. I don’t think I could have convinced her to come with me, but we could have kept in contact. I could have told her about all of my adventures. She would have flooded me with advice and scoldings and warnings, and every note would have ended with a reason why I should come home, but I could have handled that.

I hope that wherever she is, she thinks fondly of me from time to time. I hope she doesn’t hate me for leaving, or if she does, that she at least remembers that she once loved me, and I loved her. We fought a lot, especially at the end, but I never hated her. I know that now.

I don’t hate myself either. I’ve learned to grow past the trauma of my youth and focus on building a future I can be content with and even proud of. I laughed as I wrote that. Mary would be so proud of the way I phrased that.

I have a lot more on my mind, but Claudia’s waking up now. I’m going to feed her and then try and get some sleep myself if I can. Carl misses me in bed with him, and honestly, I miss being in bed with him.

So, until tomorrow,

Annie.

Claudia’s eyes are also brimming with tears by the time she finishes reading that. “Wow. That’s so lovely.”

I chuckle. “Yes, I suppose it is. Like a daffodil breaking through the snow to signal the coming of spring.”

Her eyes widen. “That’s beautiful, Mary. If you ever get tired of being a detective, you should consider writing.”

I laugh. “Well, perhaps someday I’ll record some of my own adventures. As for the detective work, I think I might be nearing the end of that.”

She smiles in understanding. “You’ve solved the most important mystery now.”

“Yes. It appears so.”

She falls silent for a moment, then stands abruptly. “Take that to go,” she says, pointing at my crepe. “I have something to show you.”

I raise an eyebrow and call the server over. Three minutes later, I am in Claudia’s car driving to her home in Eaux-Vives, a residential neighborhood close to old Town. I am curious to see what Claudia has to show me, but as I look out the window at the sunlight reflecting off of the lake, I know that whatever it is, I will remain content. I can finally lay Annie to rest, and with her the pain and grief and worry that has plagued me for thirty years.

Now, we both can be at peace.