Finding Home

by B. E. Baker

  “When?”

  “The first time you were twelve, and we thought you were too young. Middle school was a struggle for you. We told her we would pass along her desire to meet you, when you were older.” Mom wipes her eyes. “And then she reached out again when you were a senior in high school.”

  “I was fine then,” I say.

  “You had huge decisions to make,” Mom says. “You were already confused. We didn’t want to make that worse.”

  Juilliard. That was my huge decision. “You didn’t want me to go.”

  Mom shakes her head. “We wanted you to decide for yourself.”

  “You were relieved when it all fell apart,” I say. “I knew it then, but I still don’t understand why.”

  Mom finally meets my eyes. “Your biological father was a professor at Juilliard. He taught Henrietta there.”

  “You didn’t want me to find out,” I say.

  Mom turns away, looking out the window. “I wanted you to be happy—I wanted you to go if that was what you wanted, but I also didn’t want you hurt. I didn’t want to lose you, so yes, I was relieved when you didn’t go.”

  “So I stayed here. I still live at home, seven years after graduating high school, like a loser.”

  Mom touches my hand. “You’re happy, you’re healthy, and you’re safe. You’re not a loser.”

  I yank away, flames of fury clawing their way out. “You lied to me.”

  She opens her mouth, but I’m not done.

  “Henrietta hired a private investigator and found me herself. And last night, after hearing me play, she offered me a job as her pianist on tour. In Europe. I leave in three days.”

  Mom blinks furiously. “Three days? You can’t go, not that fast.”

  I stand up, my cereal soggy, my coffee untouched. “Actually, Mom, this time I can. This time I’m an adult, and I finally have all the information, and I’m flying to Europe.”

  “You don’t even know her,” Mom says.

  “Whose fault is that?”

  Mom’s quick inhalation pricks at my conscience, but it’s not enough to douse my anger. Not by a long shot.

  “I should probably start packing.” I jog up the stairs, but once I reach my room, I collapse on my bed and sob into my pillow.

  I thought telling my boss I needed to leave would be hard, but after talking to Mom, it’s a breeze.

  “So you’ll be back when?” Persephone pulls out her calendar.

  “The tour is over at the end of September,” I say. “I know that’s bad timing.”

  “You’ll miss summer highlights and trims, and back to school.” She taps the calendar. “But if you’re willing to pull extra days around the holidays, I’ll have a chair for you when you come back.”

  I hug her.

  “Will you be coming back?” She lifts her eyebrows. “Because I heard you play at the holiday party last year. They might not let you.”

  “You were really drunk.” I laugh. “I’m a pianist, not a rock star. The pianist’s job is to support the singer—not a hard task, honestly. Trust me, I’ll be back.”

  She smiles. “Alright, well, don’t be a stranger. Text me and let me know that nothing has changed from time to time.”

  I nod. “Thank you so much—I totally will.”

  After taking care of all my clients for the day, I spend two hours on the phone shifting the next month’s worth of appointments to my closest work friends, Belinda and Daniela. I’m surprised by how supportive and excited my clients are—I might even get a few back when I return. I have a full day tomorrow, but luckily I already had Sunday off. I wish Rob was in town, but at least I heard his news in person before he left. And it’s not as if I could do anything to help them between now and September.

  HOW ARE THESE TIMES FOR FLIGHTS? Henrietta texts, with several screenshots—Atlanta to Frankfurt.

  Frankfurt. Frankfurt! I’m going to Germany! I can hardly believe it.

  ALL FINE, I text back. DON’T CARE WHICH ONE.

  MY MANAGER WILL EMAIL YOU. LET HIM KNOW WHICH ONE YOU WANT, AND HE’LL BOOK IT. I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU. HAPPY YOU’RE COMING.

  I’m dreading going home, but Christine and Jennifer texted to tell me they’re coming over for dinner. Besides, I can’t hide from Mom and Dad forever. I run a few errands on the way home, but they only delay the inevitable. I park in my garage spot and close my eyes just inside the door. You can do this, Beth. Be strong.

  I open the door, prepared for Mom and Dad to have recruited the twins for a full court press—to keep me here.

  A banner stretches across the entire dining room. GOOD LUCK IN EUROPE, BETH!! The bouquet of flowers in the center of the table is surrounded with wrapped gifts.

  Mom’s eyes are uncertain when they find mine. “We’re all excited. We wanted to wish you well.”

  “And I’ve been texting Kate and Lauren to set something up for tomorrow,” Christine says. “And Rob is so sorry he can’t be here to see you off.”

  My eyes scan the room for Dad. As usual, he’s hiding behind Mom. But when I look in his direction, he tilts his head. “We’re proud of you, peach. You’re going to knock their pretentious little silk scarves right off.”

  The next two days pass in a blur. Jennifer and Christine insist on taking me shopping. Every meal is an opportunity to say goodbye to someone. Lunch with Belinda and Daniela. Dinner with Kate and Lauren and my other friends from high school. My family and friends act as if I’m dying, not traveling to Europe for a few months.

  Of course, no one else I know has ever gone on tour. They probably don’t know how to react. I spend most of the extra seconds I can scrape together reviewing the music Henrietta sent and brushing up on my very rusty German.

  Mom insists on driving me to the airport, even though my flight leaves at six a.m., which means I need to be there at four. “You know they speak a lot of things other than German over there.”

  My eyes are stinging and my head feels fuzzy, which might not be helping me retain the words I’m reviewing. “I know that. I mean, duh. But I think that if I can offer to speak in English and German, hopefully I’ll be able to muddle my way through Italy, France, and Spain without looking like such a tourist.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being American,” Mom says. “Don’t forget that. You shouldn’t spend all your time apologizing for who you are—a beautiful Georgia peach.”

  I don’t laugh. “I won’t forget, Mom.” I couldn’t if I wanted to—she literally got me a shirt with a peach on it, the word “Georgia” written across it. She put it in my suitcase this morning so I didn’t have a chance to leave it behind.

  Mom hugs me for so long when she drops me off that I worry I’ll miss my flight. But eventually she lets go, and I step back. I ignore the pangs of guilt about leaving everyone, and march to the counter to check my bags. Mom texts me four times before I reach the gate, but I arrive in time. I’m doing it. Once I’m waiting to board, I pull out the books Brekka gave me last month. Some author that Mary and Paisley and now Brekka all love. She writes romance, but that’s not really my thing.

  But a book about superhuman royals who fight to the death to secretly rule half the world? That I can get into. I finish the first book just as the flight attendants announce we’re landing in Amsterdam shortly. The second book gets me through the long layover and quick flight to Frankfurt. I’m debating whether to start the third when we prepare to land.

  My heart hammers in my chest when I deboard, and my palms begin to sweat when I collect my luggage. I’m about to see her again—Henrietta. I wonder whether I’ll be staying with her, or in a hotel. The tour starts in three days—I hope she’s happy with my playing. I’ve been over and over the songs for the new album, but she has hundreds of old songs. I’ll need a list so I can be ready for those, too.

  I scan the crowd of people beyond baggage claim—and can’t find her. Maybe she’s running late, no big deal. Or maybe she didn’t park, and I should meet her outside. I whip
out my phone and take it off airplane mode to let her know I’m here.

  But I have a series of texts from a number I don’t recognize.

  HENRIETTA HAD ME ORDER YOU A CAR SERVICE. IT SHOULD BE WAITING WHEN YOU ARRIVE.

  No explanation of who is texting me.

  CALL ME WHEN YOU ARRIVE SO IF SHE ASKS, I CAN CONFIRM YOU’VE ARRIVED.

  Still no name, no greeting.

  ARE YOU HERE YET?

  At least he’s texting in English. I text back. WHO IS THIS? THIS IS ELIZABETH GRAHAM, AND I HAVE LANDED IN FRANKFURT AND I HAVE MY BAGS.

  MY NAME IS UWE BECKER. I’M HENRIETTA’S MANAGER—I EMAILED YOU EARLIER.

  Not quite the welcome I imagined, but I can work with it. Henrietta’s probably already asleep, since it’s past midnight here. That’s reasonable. I scan the signs until I see my name. Or at least, I assume Berta Gram is me. I wave and the man’s eyes light up.

  Time to test my German. It’s harder to understand him than I expected, but I’m able to confirm that he is waiting for me, and he has instructions to take me to a local hotel—which I’m surprised to find is a Hampton.

  “We have these in America,” I tell the desk clerk in what I think is passable German.

  He nods brusquely.

  Ah, well, it’s late. I’m sure everyone will be much friendlier in the morning. And if the hotel’s restaurant is already closed and I’m starving, at least I have crackers from the plane and a smooshed granola bar. I lug my bags to my room and collapse on the bed. Between the early wakeup and the late night, I have no problem going to sleep, even though it’s barely eight p.m. back home.

  The growling of my stomach and the sunlight slanting across my face conspire to wake me. . . I look at my watch. It’s two in the morning back home. So that’s. . . I do the math. Eight a.m. My eyes are stinging and a dull ache throbs at the base of my skull, but I’m here. I’m really in Germany.

  I sit up and throw off the covers. By the time I’ve showered, my eyes are clear enough to face my phone and the dozen or so text messages waiting for me.

  DID YOU MAKE IT? Mom asks.

  ARE YOU IN GERMANY YET? Dad asks.

  WIE WAR IHR FLUG? Rob took German in high school too, and I love that he’s trying so hard.

  I reply to him first. IT WAS FINE. HOPE YOU AND BREKKA AND BABY GIRL ARE ALRIGHT. I can’t quite keep from fishing a little bit. Then I tell Mom and Dad in a joint text, HERE AND SAFE AND DOING FINE. FELL ASLEEP BEFORE. SORRY.

  A flurry of texts from Henrietta make me feel better about her lack of interest last night.

  ARE YOU HERE?

  DID YOU GET TO THE HOTEL?

  UWE MESSAGED YOU, RIGHT?

  CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP.

  The timestamps show that she was clearly not asleep when I arrived, but anything could have been occupying her time, so it’s not fair for me to be upset she didn’t pick me up herself. At least she didn’t have me hail my own cab. After all, I’m only a pianist. It’s not like I’m a truly critical component of her tour, and that has to be her focus right now.

  Maybe she wants to get breakfast. Instead of texting her back, I call. Seems simpler.

  “Beth?”

  “Good morning,” I say. “I’m in Frankfurt! I can hardly believe it.”

  “I’ve had better mornings.”

  “Uh, is everything okay?” I ask. “I can call later if you’re busy.”

  “Is fine,” she says. “But I have some hard news.”

  Hard news? Does she mean bad news? “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a long story, but we have to shift the German dates to the end of the tour. Fans are not pleased, but there’s a plumbing pipe that is not working.”

  “It’s busted or something?” I ask.

  “It floods the venue,” she says. “Is a nightmare.”

  “At least that gives me more time to review your old songs.” Thinking positive helps me through most things.

  “You aren’t prepared now?” Her tone is sharp.

  “No, I mean yes, I am prepared. I could play your new songs in my sleep, I promise. But you have so many songs from prior albums. I was hoping you might be able to narrow some of those down a bit, you know, a list of the forty or fifty you usually play at concerts.”

  “Yes, yes, Uwe should have sent a playlist. Set list? I am not sure of the right word. But, yes. That is easy solution.”

  “Oh, great,” I say. “But I really am so sorry about this delay. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Nothing,” she says. “I’m stuck trying to make furious fans happy about the schedule change and paying for everyone to sit around and do nothing for the next twelve days.”

  Great. I’ve been here twelve hours, and I’m already a drain. “You don’t need to pay for me,” I say. “I’ll check out some sights I’ve been dying to see.” Alone. While living off of the nine hundred dollars in my checking account.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  “Completely sure,” I say. “Don’t worry about me. Just let me know when you need me and where to be. I’ll make sure I get that set list from Uwe, and you can forget about me until it’s time to perform.” Surely I can practice on. . . do hostels have pianos?

  The second she hangs up, a knot forms in my stomach. This is a disaster. I should call Mom and Dad, but I know exactly what they’ll tell me—to come home. Breakfast. I need breakfast. Then I’ll feel better, and I’ll work out a plan. I can totally survive twelve days on nine hundred dollars. Plus, I have a credit card. I think I’ve got a limit of a couple thousand dollars, which should be more than enough to float me. I could kiss my VISA card right now.

  The strain in my shoulders relaxes. I shower and blow-dry my hair, and then I pull my flat iron out of my bag. I plug in the adapter I grabbed at the airport shop and turn on my flat iron. I apply my makeup while I wait for it to heat up. I’m brushing on a second coat of brand new mascara when I smell something strange.

  My flat iron is smoking.

  When I pick it up, the plates on the inside that flatten my hair collapse downward onto the counter. Oh my gosh, what has happened? My hands shake as I google flat irons in Germany. . . and realize that I’m a moron. I used an adapter when I needed a converter. My hair is a frizzy, puffy mess. I hated my hair until I went to school and learned how to tame it.

  For a moment, I hate Germany, and I hate this trip, and I hate Henrietta.

  Which is ridiculous, of course. It’s a minor setback. Once it has cooled slightly, I toss my melted flat iron into the trash and pull my hair into a ponytail. On the third time around my hair, the ponytail holder snaps, and in spite of ten minutes of rummaging around, I can’t find another one. No problem. I’ll find somewhere to buy hair ties and a new flat iron too—right after I find a place to eat. The smell of coffee and croissants and sausage hits me as soon as the elevator doors open. My stomach rumbles as I take a seat, a little uncomfortable about being all alone. My German is nearly perfect when I order a full breakfast: sausage, eggs, toast, and coffee.

  It tastes even better than it smells, and I bolt it. Finally things are looking up—until the waiter returns with an uncomfortable look on his face. “Your card has been declined,” he says.

  I frown. “That can’t be right,” I say. “Can you try it again?”

  He lowers his voice. “I’ve already tried it three times.”

  Three times? “Can I pay in US dollars?” I ask sheepishly.

  He shakes his head. “But the front desk can exchange them for you for a small fee.”

  I call Visa while I’m waiting in line to talk to the front desk. “How may I help you?” the representative asks.

  “I’m in Germany for the first time,” I say.

  “Wonderful,” the woman says. “I hope you’re having a great trip.”

  “Actually, you guys declined my card.”

  “Ah, let me see what I can do about that,” she says.

  I provide her with all my information and w
ait while she clicks and clicks. “Ah, yes, we’ve detected some fraudulent activity. You didn’t try to purchase a new tailgate smoker in Austin, Texas last night, did you?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “I’m not even in Texas.”

  “Online purchases can be made from anywhere,” she says.

  I sigh. “You’re correct. I did not make that purchase in person or online. So clearly I need you to decline that attempt and then turn my card back on.”

  “I’m very sorry,” she says. “We can’t do that, but we will gladly send you a replacement card. It will arrive in eight to ten business days.”

  “I’m in Germany,” I say.

  “Well, we can send it to your hotel there. What’s the address?”

  I have no idea. I’m guessing I can’t afford to stay at this place, especially now that I have no way to pay them. “Uh. I’ll call you back.”

  I hang up, and by the time I reach the clerk, big, embarrassing tears are rolling down my face. I shake my head when she asks if I’m alright. I plonk the two hundred and forty-seven dollars from my wallet on the counter and wait for her to change it into two hundred euros. My breakfast costs nearly twenty euros, and I can’t seem to stop crying as I shell them over.

  When my phone rings, I almost ignore it. I glance at the screen, prepared to shut it off. After all, who would be calling me other than Henrietta, and I can’t very well talk to her while I’m bawling. But it’s not Henrietta.

  It’s Paisley. Sweet, kind, always happy Paisley, who came to dozens of my recitals over the years with Rob. She always bounds up to me with a smile on her face and hugs me. She has gone rollerblading with me in the park. She’s like a bonus big sister for someone who doesn’t really even need one.

  And it hits me like a lightning strike: she’s a European princess. I inhale deeply to try and stem the sobbing and hit talk. “Paisley?”

  “Are you in Germany right now?” she asks.

  “I am,” I say.

  “How delightful.”

  “It’s not delightful! It’s awful.” I completely fall apart, hiccups and all, just like when I was a newborn, apparently. No more capable at twenty-five than when I wore diapers.