Girl from Nowhere

by Tiffany Rosenhan

  “No, really. I’ll just choose one.”

  “From where?” Charlotte presses impatiently.

  “My closet.”

  “Sophia, the ticket says you have to dress up.”

  “I have some”—I pause—“dresses to choose from.”

  Charlotte contorts her face, looking over at Emma desperately. “I’m sure they’re nice, but Sophia …”

  I rub the pendant on my necklace between my thumb and index finger. It’s a faceted white onyx stone; years of rubbing it between my fingers have buffed the edges smooth. “Do you guys want to come over and see if anything works?”

  Emma snaps her book shut. In unison, they proclaim, “YES!”

  A timid knock announces their arrival. Although I hear Charlotte and Emma introducing themselves politely to my mother, I am occupied upstairs, extricating myself from a bundled mass of silk, velvet, tulle, and plastic wrapping.

  When I reach the landing, Emma and Charlotte are huddled together in the foyer, observing the rest of the house. My mother beams effervescently at them.

  “Hi,” I call down, “the dresses are up here.”

  With polite nods to my mother—did Emma just curtsy?—they ascend the staircase, and I lead them into my room.

  “Oh—”

  “My—”

  “Gosh—”

  “I know, there’s a lot to sift through,” I apologize, “but we should be able to find something—”

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Charlotte shrieks. She pulls an eau de Nil dress out of a bag and examines the sinamay fascinator clipped to it. “Peacock feathers?” she screeches.

  “I’m definitely not wearing feathers.” I point to a heap of dresses in the corner. “Or fur.”

  Charlotte whirls her head around like it isn’t connected to her body.

  Emma seems to be in a trance. “These aren’t dresses, Sophia,” she says in awe, “these are gowns.”

  “Gowns,” echoes Charlotte.

  “Why do you have so many?” Emma admires a soft champagne-pink gown with a twisted neckline.

  “When we had a ball or a gala or some diplomatic function my mother would order us gowns from Paris—”

  “Paris!?” Charlotte yelps.

  Glittering lights … Fluted champagne glasses … Violin music …

  “Once,” I say, holding up a sequined sapphire gown, “the UN rented out a wing of Versailles for their annual gala, so my mother ordered these. We went to L’Atelier Blanc de Frédéric Mennetrier in the 2nd arrondissement to have our hair done …”

  I don’t include that although I was only twelve, my mother instructed me to say I was sixteen and attending St. Anton Boarding School in Austria. It didn’t occur to me then how much harder it should have been to lie.

  “… After the gala, she shipped them to our storage unit in Maryland. I never saw any of them again.” I spread my arms out. “Until now.”

  Charlotte lifts an aquamarine silk gown from the footboard. “You would never find this for prom here. They don’t even sell stuff like this in Waterford.”

  “Why don’t you guys try them on?” I suggest.

  “No, we have to see how they fit you.”

  “They’re bespoke, Emma. They all fit me. You try them on. You can wear your favorite to prom in the spring,”

  Charlotte looks astonished. “But, Sophia, they must have cost a fortune.”

  “Seriously. Please? It will be way more entertaining watching you”—I hold up a taffeta blush gown with white feathers sewn across the bodice and a faux swan perched on the shoulder—“wear this.”

  “I don’t need convincing.” Squealing, Charlotte pulls out her phone from her back pocket, a speaker from her purse, and turns on blaring music.

  Charlotte insists on trying on every dress accompanied by coordinating headwear: diamanté bands, fur hats, feathered fascinators, even a hat with a tiny teacup in the center I wore to a garden wedding in Surrey when I was thirteen.

  “Which one are you going to wear?” Emma shouts above the music; she is zipping into an oxblood crepe de chine silk gown. “You haven’t even changed.”

  “That one.” I point to a muddy-brown gown lying in a heap in the corner.

  Emma scrunches her face in the mirror. “Is burgundy my color?”

  “Certainly!” My mother is standing in the doorway holding a silver tray. “Do you remember when you wore it, Sophia? Was it to the symphony in Vienna? Was that when you—”

  “Mom,” I interrupt, “can you help me find the red gown? The one with the, uh”—I point to my shoulders—“funky straps?”

  “Sure, honey.” She sets down the silver tray holding three steaming mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of pfeffernüsse. She finds the red gown and hands it to me, winking. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Oh, Charlotte!” Emma gasps, stepping out of the oxblood silk gown.

  Swaying from side to side, Charlotte is standing in front of the full-length mirror wearing an iridescent gown that gathers in pleats and darts at her waist and swishes voluminously over her feet; two twisted braids of fabric cross over each other and wrap over her shoulders. “I’ve found it,” she says wistfully.

  “Heck yeah, you have,” says Emma.

  I laugh at her Montana slang. Heck yeah?

  Charlotte swirls around en pointe. “Can you imagine me going to prom in this? Henry will die!”

  “You’re stunning,” I remark.

  Emma asks at the same time, “You’re going with Henry?”

  “Well, he hasn’t asked me yet, it’s months away, but I’m sure he will soon.”

  And the way Charlotte says this, looking away from Emma, I am certain it isn’t Henry who she wants to ask her, but Mason. By telling Emma, Charlotte probably hopes word will get to Mason, and he will feel jealous and ask her instead.

  Maybe I am starting to understand Waterford.

  As Emma zips into a scarlet gown with a full petticoat and a string of chiffon roses up the shoulder, Charlotte twirls around the room, jumps onto my window seat, and leaps off. “I can dance in this!” she squeals.

  “Those were my mother’s specifications, ‘Must be able to run while wearing.’ ”

  I toss a pair of satin Prada heels at Charlotte, who clasps them in her fingers, openmouthed. “Do you have anything less than four inches? I’m five ten!”

  I open the armoire and retrieve a box. “Try these.” I reach across a pile of lavender tulle to pass her a pair of cream suede heels with a thin ankle strap.

  Charlotte giddily buckles into them. “YOU AND I ARE THE EXACT SAME SIZE!” Charlotte falls onto her back, spread-eagled onto my bed; the pointed suede toes poke the air. “How can I thank you?” she sighs.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I answer, embarrassed.

  Charlotte rolls forward, struggling to sit upright with the voluminous fabric swirling around her thighs. “Seriously, this is so nice of you. Can I, like, buy you a Waterford key chain with your name—”

  “Sophia!” Emma gasps.

  How could I have been so careless?

  Emma is immobilized, holding a diamanté headpiece in one hand and my FN 5-7 in the other.

  We were at the presidential palace in Jakarta, staring across the vast tropical grounds, draped amber at sunset, when my father handed me my first 5-7. With privilege comes responsibility, Sophia, he said as we watched the gilded sun sink into the sea.

  Calmly, I walk over to Emma and gently ease the pistol out of her trembling hands.

  “My dad has hunting rifles locked away in the basement, but I wasn’t … expecting …”

  Charlotte turns off the speaker. “Are you okay, Sophia?”

  They often ask questions about my life before Waterford, usually with dreamy, wistful looks in their eyes. Occasionally they look at me as they are now—like I am fragile, mysterious. Dangerous.

  Can they be my friends if I can’t trust them with the truth? If they can’t trust me?

  “It�
��s not loaded.” I show them the empty chamber. “For so many years, living in certain locations, it was normal. Diplomats, any foreigner, really, from a wealthy country, can become a target; it’s both simple economics and complicated geopolitics.”

  Charlotte looks stricken. “Sophia, what do you mean a target?”

  “Depended on the year and place, really …” With one preparatory breath, I tell them about Katu, Peter, and Samuel. It’s easier now, having told Aksel. My panic doesn’t center on the memory; it centers on concern for Charlotte and Emma.

  How do I explain my life?

  As I finish, I place the gun on top of my armoire. “Things are different now. Here, I have to break those habits.”

  Charlotte and Emma glance at each other. I can’t tell whether they are going to run, cry, or—

  “I know whose side I want to be on in a fight.” Emma whistles under her breath.

  “Sophia …” Charlotte opens her mouth, then shuts it.

  “You can ask questions,” I say, “it’s okay.”

  “Are you in the witness protection program?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “What?”

  “Like when people testify against the mafia, the FBI creates new identities for them and—”

  “No,” I laugh, “I am Sophia.”

  “You don’t have to tell us anything else, but you can if you want,” Charlotte says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “And I’ll never tell a soul. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”

  Stick a needle in my eye? I laugh, “You, Charlotte, are weird.”

  Giggling, she turns the music back on, and things return to normal. Mostly.

  Eventually I’m alone in my room.

  I take down my FN 5-7 from the armoire, eject the mag, and unload the bullets. I count, then shove them back in, and replace the 5-7 beneath my pillow.

  I sit down on my bed. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I rest my chin on my kneecaps. How is it that only a month ago I was scared of staying in Waterford? Afraid of staying and never belonging? Afraid I would never be like my friends? Afraid I could never have friends?

  My mother knocks twice before pushing open the door. “Here.” She hands me her teacup and bends down to retrieve the ransacked silver tray.

  “Emma and Charlotte are quite nice, Sophia. I see why you like spending time with them.” Her eyes are moist. Subtle wrinkles crease like butterflies in the corners of her eyes; she is more beautiful than ever.

  Affectionately, she pats my knee and makes to leave the room. At the doorway, she pauses. “Did you choose one, darling?”

  A row of garment bags now hang neatly in the armoire after Charlotte and Emma helped put them away.

  However, I point to the far side of the room.

  On the tufted chair in the corner, beside the little Russian doll, Katarina, is the same dull dress that has been there all night.

  My mother narrows her eyes, walks toward it, and lifts it from the cushion.

  She removes the plastic, revealing a gown with a high V-neck, beaded straps, and a fitted waist that cascades into an enormously full skirt that swirls when I move.

  Without the plastic covering, the gown’s color is neither muddy nor dull, but rather a rich, shimmering, iridescent chocolate brown.

  Recognition washes over my mother’s face. “You’re certain, honey?”

  I smile. “Heck yeah.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Standing in my evening gown, with curled hair falling over my shoulders and feet bare on the wood floor, I know what to do.

  My life here in Waterford is weaving together like a Belgian tapestry.

  I grab hold of the tulle and chiffon fabric and squeeze into my familiar spot between the bench and the piano keys.

  The small brass lamp is turned on, illuminating the sheet music that my mother must have taped back together. With my toes, I trace each pedal. Stretching my fingers, I see the conductor saunter forward in his white tie and tails.

  My fingers grace the keys.

  My thumb presses first. The sound echoes. My hands quiver. My pointer finger touches next. The note rings in my ears.

  Closing my eyes, I stroke the shiny porcelain keys. Occasionally I glance at the paper, but I don’t need it. The music pours out of me like I am a storm cloud and it is rain.

  Soon, my fingers are racing toward the finish line, each trying to get there faster than the next. Despite their race, they work in unison—in exquisite harmony—welcoming me back.

  It isn’t until I finish the prelude that I hear feet shuffling behind me. I swivel to face them.

  My mother is holding a dishcloth in one hand and a glass pitcher in the other. My father stands in his bathrobe, motionless.

  I smile. And then we all start to laugh.

  I have to maneuver my legs from beneath the layers of tulle to stand, but it feels right to be wearing this fluffy chocolate chiffon gown. After all, it was what I wore the last time I played, on that drizzly spring day in Vienna.

  “You have your phone?” My father nods to the satin minaudière in my right hand.

  I kiss his cheek. “See you at midnight,” I promise.

  “You’re beautiful,” Aksel says as I gather my skirt in my hands to sit down in the Range Rover. I trace a seam of my gown and bite my lip to stop blushing.

  Once Aksel has started the ignition and reverses onto the street, he takes my hand, letting go only to shift gears.

  Dusk, transitioning swiftly into night, escorts us down the canyon to the city. Aksel looks handsome in his tuxedo, the muscles in his shoulders sculpted beneath his coat, his angular profile defined against the setting, rose-gold winter sun.

  From the street, I can see the interior of the theater, freshly renovated to resemble its original 1916 appearance: heavy velvet draping around the doors, crystal chandeliers, and gold leaf banisters. With everyone dressed in Edwardian clothes—a few women look like they raided Downton Abbey’s costume department—we fit right in. Aksel in a tuxedo, me in my dress. Charlotte was right: this is romantic.

  Inside, the seats are a plush crimson velvet. We sit in the fifth row, directly above the conductor. After a few minutes, the sconces dim; curtains ripple across the stage; the orchestra starts.

  By the time the ballet finishes, I feel transported. I forgot how magical it is—the music, the intricate movements, the athletic fragility of the dancers. It has been so long since I danced myself, and yet, I still feel it within me.

  The sconces flicker, casting a sultry glow over the theater. Beside me, Aksel’s jaw is clenched, like his mind is elsewhere.

  For the first time in weeks, the impression reappears, lacerating the intimacy of the moment—Aksel is still hiding something.

  “Aksel, what is it?”

  He observes me carefully. “Before I picked you up my grandfather called. We had a … disagreement.”

  He says this all very methodically, as if he’s been rehearsing the words in his mind during the entire ballet.

  “About the Academy?”

  Aksel drags a hand through his neatly combed hair. “More about what the Academy might represent.”

  Aksel glances around before resettling his vivid eyes on mine. “In Berlin, when I was told about my parents’ deaths—that their plane didn’t randomly fall out of the sky and burst into flames over the Gulf of Oman—I was told I might be able to do something about it eventually, if I chose to.”

  Neither of us has mentioned Berlin since we swam at the lake. Bracing myself against any triggers, I cement my eyes to his.

  “My grandfather has always tried to deter me from applying to the Academy; it used to be a joke between us, that I was in a ‘phase.’ ”

  Aksel grimaces, shifting in his seat. “But now it’s different. He’s been warning me against entering the military ever since”—he pauses; his forearm goes taut beside mine—“ever since he found out their plane was shot down by an American Special Operations Unit.”

  “Sp-speci
al Forces,” I sputter, “don’t assassinate American citizens. Even if it were true it would be deeply classified and …” I stop, realizing that its classification is precisely why Aksel would have been brought to Berlin. To the Bubble.

  Our life is fracturing. I feel it in the air between us.

  Beneath his tuxedo, Aksel’s entire body stiffens.

  “He is speculating,” I declare. “He can’t access classified material—”

  “He can, Sophia.” Aksel exhales. “He has access. My grandfather doesn’t live in Waterford, because he lives in DC. He’s a US senator.”

  Swallowing, I keep my voice steady, trying to process what this might mean.

  “So what are you going to do? Can I help?”

  Aksel angles his body toward mine. Withdrawing his hand, he rests it on the back of my chair. He stares at me beseechingly.

  “If you could choose, Sophia, between a life that’s predictable, and safe, and possibly happy,” he begins, his arm falling from the top of my seat to my lower back, his fingers grazing my waist, “and a life that you know almost nothing about, but that you can’t simply walk away from … which would you choose?”

  I purse my lips, pondering his cryptic question. “It depends on which choice gives me what I want more than anything.”

  “What if I’m not sure which option gets me what I want?”

  The theater is emptying. Soon, we are the last two people seated in our row. Aksel’s hand adheres around mine, like he is holding on to me, on to us.

  “What do you want more than anything?” I implore.

  Aksel tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Tingles ignite down my neck. My heart thuds beneath my corset.

  “That’s the only thing I know for sure,” Aksel says. “I want you.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “And I want a cheeseburger. One of those big Montana cheeseburgers.”

  We’ve been waiting too long at an elegant restaurant, and I’m starving—rather I am American-starving, which is another way of saying I want to eat.

  Aksel laughs, relieved. “Me too.”

  Seizing my hand, Aksel leads us outside. I barely have time to button my coat before we are back in his Range Rover.