November Sky

by Marleen Reichenberg

  It wasn’t jealousy that the picture aroused but a painful, almost unbearable yearning for Nick, for his tenderness, his laugh, his nearness. Without thinking, I grabbed the magazine and put it on the conveyor belt. With the groceries in the trunk, I sat in the car and tortured myself by studying the picture in detail. Nick looked incredibly good, and yet his face looked thinner, the wrinkles from his nostrils down to the corners of his mouth were deeper, and if you knew him as well as I did, you could spot a melancholy look in his eyes even when coupled with his charming smile. In two smaller pictures inside he also seemed thoughtful and aloof, not at all as if he’d just fallen in love. If Naila actually was trying for a relationship, she’d have to look somewhere else. Maybe she’d find the patience to bring him around, though. How’s it so nicely put? Little strokes fell mighty oaks. The mere thought that he might be with another woman at some point crushed me.

  Enraged at myself, I pulled it together. You left him, so it’s no business of yours how and with whom he spends his free time. Somebody behind me honked, and I jumped. I threw the rag on the seat beside me, buckled up, and turned on the ignition. The radio came on with the motor, and I gasped when a man’s voice pleaded “Return to Me” in a yearning tone. Was the whole world conspiring against me today?

  The impression grew stronger when I arrived at Chris’s and was putting the milk and butter in the fridge. My cell phone buzzed on the counter. I picked it up warily and was relieved to see it was Mira and not Nick, as I’d both hoped and feared. I said hello, wondering what she wanted. We hadn’t spoken for months. Was she calling to tell me that Nick was getting over me by consoling himself with somebody else?

  She came straight to the point, as always. “I’m calling at Nick’s behest. I hope you don’t believe the stories the press has been fabricating. At any rate, they’re not getting it from me. He’s far too busy to get involved with women.”

  Too busy with what? Suddenly, my fears were at the forefront again. I almost shouted into the phone.

  “Mira, what’s going on with him?”

  She recognized her mistake. “Don’t get excited; he hasn’t tried to hurt himself. But he’s different from what he was, much more serious because—”

  “Why are you calling me, Mira? What does he want? A divorce?”

  Mira took a deep breath. “He wants to meet you.”

  Never. No way. If a grainy photo could make me lose my cool like that, then his physical presence would really flatten me. I knew all too well how he affected me and my untrustworthy body. I’d be wrapped around his little finger again. And then I’d be right back where I started.

  Mira wasn’t through yet. “It’s not about reconciliation. His parents want to tell both of you something, and they want you to be there together.” She lowered her voice. “Angela and Jürgen are doing really poorly. I hardly recognize them. They asked me to implore you to come. It’s vital for them. And I can tell you this much: It has nothing to do with your separation.”

  I cursed my soft heart as I quickly capitulated, unwilling to refuse their request. “OK, but just this once. When and where?”

  I was in the car, feeling very nervous and cold. I’d parked and switched off the motor some time earlier, but hadn’t mustered the courage to move. I stared at the large windows of the brightly lit restaurant where, thanks to Mira’s mediation, I would meet my husband and in-laws. I’d agreed to it on the condition we’d meet on neutral territory, not in the house that was so redolent with common memories. They accepted. I could see that Nick had parked three rows ahead and was already inside.

  I pulled myself together, got out of the car, and reviewed how I’d behave that evening—I’d be friendly and noncommittal, making it clear that my presence tonight changed nothing regarding my separation from Nick; and, above all, I would not be snowed by Nick’s charm or powers of persuasion. Shivering, I hurried to the front door and entered the unostentatious dining area, where elegantly simple silver table settings, white china, and glasses shimmered in the candlelight. The place was almost full. The warmth, the tempting smell of food, and the lively medley of voices struck me.

  I saw Nick and his parents at a back table and was startled at how much my in-laws had changed. Angela, whose hair was always done perfectly, had casually piled it up, and there was a distinct, broad, gray stripe at her hairline. Although she wore a well-cut expensive suit and makeup, she looked as pale as death and at least ten years older. Jürgen looked even worse. His round little tummy had vanished completely, and he looked almost gaunt. His face was a mass of deep wrinkles. And although he smiled when he struggled to his feet as I arrived, the dark shadows under his eyes gave him a tired and despondent aspect. Nick leapt up and came toward me with eyes beaming.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Before I could stop him, he’d taken me in his arms. If I were to obey my unreliable gut feeling, I would have passed the whole evening there. I gave him a brief squeeze and pushed him back a little with a heavy heart. He, too, looked somewhat carried away. I immediately felt enormous sympathy for the whole Vanderstätt family. I intuited that the situation between Nick and me wasn’t the sole reason for the bad shape my in-laws were in.

  After I’d said hello to his parents and we’d all ordered—though food seemed rather beside the point—Jürgen cleared his throat.

  “You are surely wondering why we found it so important for you to be at this gathering, Laura.”

  My silent nod confirmed it, and I tried not to look too often at my husband, who sat opposite me. He eyed me with a heart-rending look of longing. When I did glance at him, all the wonderful moments of our brief marriage tumbled in my head like in a kaleidoscope. I recalled snuggling up to each other in bed, felt again the incredible, steady attraction between us, and the countless, beautiful moments we shared. The awful events faded completely away, even though they had distressed me so much that it ultimately led to our marriage breakdown.

  I pulled myself back from my memories to listen to Jürgen, who was discussing some very unpleasant medical examinations before stopping in midsentence. Angela’s face was drawn and she looked as if she was ready to burst into tears, but she pulled herself together and took her husband’s hand.

  She looked at me straight on. “To make a long story short, it’s been determined that Jürgen feels so badly, not because of a flu, but because he has an acute form of leukemia. He’s getting chemotherapy, and his prognosis for a remission is not bad. Even so, this does not mean a cure but a reduction of his symptoms. They don’t know how long a remission could last.”

  I wanted to ask something, but she waved me off. “But all this is only a preamble for what we want to tell you and Nick.”

  Now she looked at her son, almost anxiously. “Nick has given us much support lately in spite of his own problems: He came to the examinations with us and dealt with the doctors, and I’m unendingly thankful to him for it. And now he’s offered, as a blood relative, to donate bone marrow to Jürgen. A stem-cell transplant could bring about a complete cure.”

  She took a big swallow.

  I looked at Nick in alarm. How dangerous was the donation? Could it kill him? Was it a new ploy to kill himself? This time legally and out of altruistic motives? Nick knew me very well. He smiled his assurance, and this time I let him take my hand and squeeze it. As always, when he touched me a warm shudder ran down my spine.

  “Don’t worry,” said Nick. “The donor’s health is minimally at risk. I just want my father to be healthy again, and a relative as a donor is the best way to go because the tissues match.”

  Angela sighed. Was I mistaken, or had she turned paler? Then she seemed to steel herself and turned to look at Nick with pained regret.

  “Nick, I’m so sorry. Jürgen asked me time and again since you were a child to finally tell you the truth. But I’ve never been able to manage it. I wanted to suppress it. You are my chil
d and always will be. But now, given your selfless offer—” She sobbed, lowered her eyes, and said softly, “Your donation is as good or bad for Jürgen as anybody else’s from the donor bank. You are not related to us by blood. We adopted you when you were nine months old.”

  There was a deathly silence as two waiters placed our dinner on the table and were completely ignored by us. They gave us brief, unsure looks before disappearing without a word. Angela looked like she was about to fall off her chair. Jürgen had put his arm around her and looked at her lovingly and with concern. Nick looked as if he was in shock. He sat there, frozen like a statue, his uncomprehending gaze directed at Angela. Now I understood why his parents asked me to be there. They were hoping I’d help him cope with the news. Angela and Jürgen needed their spiritual reserves to fight my father-in-law’s illness. But Angela gathered up her strength, slowly stood up, and went over to Nick. She gently laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Please, darling, don’t be angry with me for not telling you before.” She glanced over at Jürgen, who nodded his assent. “We tried for so long to have a child the natural way. When I finally got pregnant after many years, it turned out that I could not bear a child. I had two miscarriages. And when we got you through Child Welfare, it was a dream come true. Nick, you are our son. We love you and have treated you like our biological child in every way.”

  Never had I loved Nick more than at that moment. When Angela touched him, he awoke from his petrified state. He looked at his mother. He was working it out inside. Finally, a feeble smile appeared.

  “I’m not angry with you. You’re wonderful parents. I could not have asked for better ones.” He took Angela’s hand before getting up. “But you’ll certainly understand that I’d like to be alone right now to digest this. Laura will take you home.”

  We protested but he acted as though he didn’t hear us and left for the exit with quick strides. An insistent voice pounded in my head, Go after him right now!

  Angela’s voice echoed my thoughts, and she said with an undertone of anxiety, “Laura, please don’t leave him alone. Jürgen and I will pick up the tab and take a taxi home. Get him to talk. Don’t let him shake you off, no matter what. Go now, or he’ll drive off!”

  Without a good-bye, I jumped up and ran to the exit. I grabbed my jacket off the cloakroom hook and slipped it on as I raced to the parking lot, shouting Nick’s name. Thick freezing rain whipped my face like little flying needles. I could barely see him as he slowly headed for his car, his head down and hands buried in his pockets. I ran after him. My heart beat like a jackhammer, and my insides were in a knot. What the hell would he do in this state of mind? I tried to put myself in his shoes, to imagine that the family I grew up in was not my real family.

  I knew it would affect me, yet I wasn’t a child anymore: I was an adult and knew the enormous love people could have when lovingly raising a child other than their own. I could also understand to some degree Angela’s hesitation to tell Nick the truth. I imagined it would be terrifically difficult to find the right time and the right words. But would Nick, the person affected, think the same way?

  Lost in thought and concentrating on watching Nick, I didn’t pay attention to the icy surface. I slipped and fell on my posterior with a shout of alarm. A snowsuit would have been more suitable for this weather than my thin silk sweater, pencil skirt, stockings, and elegant, heeled leather boots. I was freezing cold in spite of my down jacket. That was the price of my damn vanity that made me want to accentuate my slim figure.

  I sorted out my limbs, checked to see that they all moved, and determined that, apart from my stinging coccyx, apparently nothing was affected by the fall. Now I had to pull myself up very fast—Nick would get into his car and drive away. I was awkwardly craning my neck to look toward his car when I was startled by a large figure looming out of the driving sleet.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Nick asked. Hugely relieved that he hadn’t taken off, I shook my head and he held out his hands.

  “Come on, get up. If we stand around in this Siberian cold, we’ll be flat out in bed tomorrow with pneumonia.”

  I let him pull me up. As I knocked the ice and dirt off my rear end, he still looked shocked but had the beginnings of a smile on his face.

  “On a normal date, the question would arise—your place or mine? But we’re already married, and I think, given the evening’s events, no one would call this a date.” He rubbed his eyes in his exhaustion, and then looked at me beseechingly. “I know we’re separated, but would you consider coming home with me? I feel like I’ve gone through a meat grinder and need someone to talk to.”

  I followed him across the parking lot, carefully placing one foot before the other, and breathed freely when I didn’t fall on my sore butt again. Although I’d rehearsed all the possibilities before this meeting, what was happening now lay beyond the power of my imagination. I was relieved that Nick calmly and happily requested and accepted my company.

  After slipping and sliding over icy streets for half an hour, I was in the house I’d sworn to never enter again, wrapped in a blanket on the couch beside Nick. I’d deliberately not spoken during the car ride home so I wouldn’t distract him while he drove. After we arrived, he wordlessly fetched a blanket and asked whether I’d like something warm to drink. There were now two stout, steaming cups of tea in front of us. I warmed my hands on mine and desperately tried to find words to end the silence between us. But Nick broke the ice.

  “I’ve always wondered why I didn’t look like my father. And now I get Mom’s story about my baby pictures being burned in a cellar fire in our house in Spain. I remember the editors of our high school yearbook had the bright idea of including everybody’s first baby picture as well as a current one. Everybody gave pictures of newborns. I was the only one who was a nine-month-old and everyone teased me for being a giant baby.” He took a large gulp from his cup. “It’s funny to think that I got the name Vanderstätt on paper exactly the way you did when we got married. I’m not a member of this family. I wonder who I really am.”

  I delicately floated an idea that had been percolating in my head since Angela’s disclosure. “You’ll always be Nick Vanderstätt for me, and for Angela and Jürgen, too. But I believe that once you’re twenty-one, you can make inquiries about your biological parents. Child Welfare is obligated to give out the information.”

  To be on the safe side, I didn’t mention the other thought that had come to me. Perhaps by finding out something about his earliest childhood, he could track down the cause of his self-destructive attacks. He’d been amazingly calm until now, but I knew how quickly his dark moods waylaid him and I stayed on my guard.

  He took my hand. “I’d like you to come along if I do look for the woman who brought me into this world. If she’s still alive, I’d like to know why she didn’t want me.”

  I was overcome with sympathy at hearing the pain in his voice. At the same time, many things were now becoming clear. I’d heard that if a child under a year old—during that time when babies develop basic trust—is separated from his mother or goes through some trauma, it can leave deep scars in a child’s psyche. This could be the case for Nick. At the same time, I doubted that knowing the circumstances would be enough in itself to eradicate or even ease his wounds. I suspected that a long road lay before Nick. But we finally had a starting point.

  I responded to his squeeze and looked at him. “I’ll go with you. But first ask Angela and Jürgen if they have any more details.”

  Chapter 22

  We spent all night on the couch, talking off and on until fatigue finally overcame us. The next morning, noises from the first floor told us that his parents were awake, and we went downstairs, bleary eyed. Over breakfast, Nick asked them for more details about his adoption. Angela gave him the file folder beside her.

  She sent me a glance of gratitude. “These are the adoption papers. Your date of birth and
your parents’ names are in there. We were only told you were raised by your maternal grandmother because both your parents were dead. She was your last living relative, and when she died you were put in a children’s home and given up for adoption. They christened you Dominick, and we left it at that.”

  Nick handled the papers with a certain reverence, glanced through them, and smiled wanly. “I actually had the exotic name of Meier? That could make an investigation difficult.”

  It quickly got complicated. That same day, Nick and I went to the appropriate Child Welfare office. Angela had given us the name of the caseworker who initiated everything and handed over the child to them. A friendly lady in a soberly furnished office told us that unfortunately, the woman had retired four years earlier and had passed away since. Nick and I were bitterly disappointed, having put all our hopes in learning more about Nick’s first family from her.

  The official offered to look for Nick’s adoption file. Nick signed a request to examine it, and we waited in the corridor for further information. His mood alternated between extremes. Although he didn’t want his adoptive parents to see it, he was furious at them for keeping his adoption from him for so long, and he was sad he could not meet his biological parents.

  I hoped I had done the right thing by encouraging him to find out something about the first nine months of his life. Maybe that’s where the cause of all his problems lay, but would there be things he didn’t want to know?

  The helpful woman came back from the archives and regretfully shook her head. “I’m terribly sorry, Herr Vanderstätt, but all I can see in the files is where you and your grandmother last resided and that she died thirty years ago. You were adopted two months after her death. There are no more details. Here is your grandmother’s last address.”