Page 32 of The Lies We Leave Behind

32

I sat at the kitchen table, my hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea Paulina had made me, my stomach queasy from the anticipation of what she would come to tell me after speaking with my mother.

The door swung open and I jumped, spilling tea on my fingers and the table. But I barely noticed, my eyes glued to Paulina’s.

“She will see you,” she said, the crease between her brows deep with concern.

“Was she...surprised?” I asked. “That I’m alive? That I’m here?”

“If she was, she didn’t show it.”

I nodded. My mother had always been a master at keeping emotion from her face. There were times I’d found it impressive, like when I knew she was disgusted by someone, or angry. The way she smoothed away any expression, her features taking on a serene, if not scarily calm demeanor, was remarkable. I imagined the shock of my appearance was taken in with barely the blink of a pale blue eye.

I wiped the spilled tea with a napkin and got to my feet.

“She’s in her room?” I asked.

“She never leaves it.”

As I passed her, Paulina squeezed my hand.

“Don’t let her appearance fool you,” she said. “She is unchanged, fr?ulein. And possibly worse.”

The banister was smooth beneath my palm and I remembered my hand, much smaller, running over its gleaming wood in what seemed a lifetime ago.

I trod lightly, each step closer filling me more and more with dread. What had I been thinking coming here? And would it be worth it?

But an image of Catrin the day I left filled my mind and I knew there was only one answer.

Yes.

At the top of the stairs I stopped, staring up at the patched hole in the ceiling as I steeled myself for whatever was about to happen next.

Down the long hall I’d avoided as much as possible when I was a child, I stared at the paintings hanging on the walls, the expensive rug beneath my feet, and the vases and lamps and sculptures collected from my parents’ travels around the world.

At the threshold of my mother’s bedroom, I stopped. The door was open, the room beyond dark. The heavy curtains that were usually tied back during the day, offering the same sprawling view of the city that one got from the main sitting room, were closed, the only light coming from a small gap that barely illuminated the space.

For a moment I thought she must be in the adjoining bathroom, her body barely registering beneath the blankets covering her. And once I saw she was there, I couldn’t tell if she was awake or asleep, looking at me, or eyes closed.

I took a step closer, taking in what I could of the room in the dim light. None of it seemed to have changed in my absence. There were the same elegant his-and-hers bureaus, the table and armchairs in the corner, the chaise lounge, and her collection of magazines filled with fashion advice.

The only thing different was the smell. The faint hint of his cologne mixing with her fragrance had long since faded, a sour, sickly smell replacing it.

The scent of a dying woman. The perfume of decay.

I felt more than saw the shift of her body in the bed and froze, feeling her eyes taking in what she could see of me in the dark. Assessing me as she always had. Scrutinizing with her critical eyes.

And then a voice from my past, weakened but unchanged, the high-pitched timbre curling around my birth name and sending a shiver of fear down my spine.

“Welcome home, Gisela.”