Oh Zoe. If being homesick means I miss you, then I guess I always have been.
The sun’s still low on the horizon when she’s done
As she nears the street, a truck pulls up, a German flag affixed to its antenna, Berliner Pilsner on its evergreen side. On the dashboard a vanity plate that says SASCHA, like that, in all caps, and with a C.
On her way to the train station, Amy stops at the post office, and just like that, she lets her sister go.
The next morning, in Paris, Amy goes to a café and orders un café crème s’il vous plaît. It makes her happy to say crème, because of how the r sounds and because she likes to think of the e’s backward accent mark, a little gymnast. The tiny roof over the i in plaît.
When it comes she puts as much sugar in it as it can possibly hold—an old habit she’s never bothered to break. Then she picks her cup up, gazes out across its snow-white cap as its perimeter comes undone from the ceramic in tiny almost imperceptible pops that turn it iridescent brownish gray. When she’s ready, Amy fits the cup back into its groove on its saucer, relishing the sound.
Then she slips in her headphones and gives Zoe a call.
Zoe says, Oh hey, Sister, as though it’s been fifteen minutes, instead of months, since they last spoke.
Hey, says Amy, clearing her throat, releasing her shoulders. What do you think Sasha would be doing now, if he were still alive?
There is a silence, and Amy regrets her question, thinking of course her sister doesn’t want to play If Sasha Were. But then Zoe says, Probably something crappy, I guess, like accounting or shrubbery or something.
Amy’s so surprised she snorts instead of laughing. Shrubbery? she says. Yeah, says Zoe, you know, like gardening or whatever. Shrubs.
The last portrait Amy takes of her sister is a picture of some hot-pink letters on the thick transparent railing of the Pont des Arts
Amy and Javi and Zoe are ambling from the Louvre to the Left Bank. Zoe’s health is reasonably good right now, although she is in pain and still has little seizures, along with strange, fiery, snakelike sensations that course through her veins. It is Sunday; it is summer. Glints and reflections scatter out along the Seine. Amy glances back and says, Wait, in English, and then she switches: J’ai juste une petite chose à faire.
Zoe and Javi draw to a pause as Amy removes her camera from its case. Cradling it in her left hand, she takes a deep breath, studies her subject, and then, very gently, she presses the shutter button down.
Acknowledgments
No part of this project would have been possible without the eternal loveliness and grace and wisdom of Maxine Swann.
I am more grateful than I can ever say to the friends who read drafts and provided support throughout this long process: Stanley Simon Bill, Allison Bradley, Ginger Buswell, Ali Christy, Ellen Elias-Bursac, Laura Ginsberg, Colin Jackson, Bill Jacobson, Nathan Jeffers, Melissa Kitson, Bill Martin, Ben Merriman, Carolyn Purnell, Elisabeth Ross.
Lisa Ubelaker Andrade’s brilliant insights have consistently enriched both this book and my life.
My patient, wildly talented partner, Boris Dralyuk, wrote the translation of Yevgeny Yevtushenko’s poem that inspires Amy to brave new worlds. He has consistently given me courage, perspective and the extraordinary happiness of a home.
Thanks to my family for their unconditional encouragement and to Miklos and Gyula Gosztonyi and Nora Insúa for theirs.
Thank you to my brother Jay for coming to visit me in the hospital, and for always showing me kindness.
The pictures of me and of me and my sister, Anne Marie, and some of the earliest photographs of Anne Marie alone were taken by my mother, Laurie Croft. The letters pictured near the beginning of the book (“Or where they might be going?”) are by the artist Jeffry Mitchell.
Corine Tachtiris has brainstormed with me about every endeavor I’ve ever undertaken, and I don’t know what I would have done without her over the many years.
Thanks to my mentors, especially Lars Engle at the University of Tulsa and Clare Cavanagh and Samuel Weber at Northwestern.
Thank you to the MacDowell Colony, for giving me the space, time and inspiration to flourish.
My agent, Katie Grimm, has been this book’s truest friend and most unflagging supporter. And my infinite thanks to my editor, Olivia Taylor Smith, for being intrepid and generous and helping Homesick to find its place in the world.
Thanks, too, to Eitán Futuro, Homesick’s muse.
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