The Guardian (15 page)

It’s the longest forty-eight hours of my life. Every second is another tiny death, and I can’t help but wonder how soon before I’ll be more dead than alive? I can still run away—leave Gabriel and his kisses behind.

But run toward what? More darkness?

And what of the fact I’m supposed to stay—that I’ve got an important enough destiny that a divine being has been sent—assigned—to me as a protector?
Are my running days over?

Wednesday afternoon I force my heavy legs up the front steps, turning immediately back so Gabriel can’t follow. He stops at the base of the porch and stares at my shoes. There are so many things on the tip of my tongue—anger, fear, heartache, and the temptation to beg for reassurances. I bite my lip against my weakness, summoning the protective isolation of the old Alex.

Gabriel glances at me, the merest of flickers, thick with shame. My eyes begin to sting as he looks down contemplating cracks in the pavement. Swallowing against the emotions lodged in my throat, I mumble, “See you after the break.”

Turning, I feel his eyes on me as he says, “Of course.” I don’t dare look back for fear I’ll crumple under the weight of his scrutiny.

As I shut the door, I’m overcome by a new sensation. The fire, the burning in my veins, as I contemplate four days without him and how estrangement’s far better than absence. That’s the worst hurt, knowing even though I’m mad at him I’ll miss him like crazy, and it’ll be four days until I can breathe again.

Later in my room, I replay the brief conversation, the only confrontation in the aftermath of our
terrible
kiss, trying to figure out where to go from here…

In the hall outside of Government, Gabriel pulls me into the little alcove saying, “We should talk about yesterday.”

My instinct is to shut my eyes in denial, but I manage a nod of agreement. Willing myself to be detached, I force myself to make eye contact as I reply in a sensible voice that couldn’t be farther from the truth, “I understand. I’m your assignment.”

A humorless chuckle escapes his lips as he stares down at his shoes. “That’s such an oversimplification; I’ve got no idea where to start.” For a second he’s lost in thought, and then his face sets in hard lines. He regards me with a rueful expression that mars his perfect features. “But basically you’re right, Alex.”

I’ve been expecting his denial, maybe even—dare I even think it?—a declaration of feelings however
imprudent, but not this. Something inside me closes tight as I admonish, “Well, make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Of course.”

Taking my bag from his shoulder, I leave Gabriel standing in my wake as I resign myself to having a pretend boyfriend.

As the dinner hour approaches, another worry fights for prominence in my already saturated mind. Kate’s mother. I don’t have a lot of experience with mothers, barely remembering my own, and the foster moms I’ve known weren’t what I’d consider motherly, at least not my definition of the word. They were all polite—shallow smiles and fake interest—with weak halos. At least the ones that weren’t outright dark. Kate’s the one exception, truly good. But she’s more like a friend than a foster mom.
Is she my friend?

Kate’s in the kitchen preparing dinner while she waits for Steven and her mother to arrive from the airport. Standing in the doorway, I watch her root around in the fridge for vegetables to make a salad. Her champagne halo bubbles brightly around her, and she smiles to herself, humming. For a second I think about the child she lost, how she’d be an excellent mom, even for a difficult teenager. She catches my eyes, her large brown ones conveying contentment, joy, with just a touch of nervous apprehension. Gesturing toward the salad bowl, she gently says, “I could use a hand.”

Kate cuts vegetables while I tear lettuce, working alongside her in silence. Every car passing on the street causes us to look up expectantly. After the third time, Kate chuckles self-consciously. By way of apology, she shrugs. “I’m nervous.”

I wonder at that. My concept of mothers is someone homey, a safe haven with infinite hugs smelling of freshly baked cookies. “How long has it been since you saw your mom, Kate?”

“Last Christmas,” she smiles at me but it’s one of her wet smiles. There’s much going on behind her chocolate eyes I don’t understand. “She’s very eager to meet you.”

The idea of this old lady upsetting the precarious balance of my new life causes my stomach to cramp. Without thinking, I blurt out, “Is she very old?”

For a second, Kate’s eyes widen in shock. With a blink she recovers, and trying to suppress a smile, she regards the cucumber she’s chopping. “Actually, she’s very spry for a woman of seventy. Do you know what spry means?”

The way she asks isn’t condescending, so I nod. “She acts younger than her age.”

“That is an excellent way to explain it. My mother acts younger than her age.”

“What’s she like?”

“Judith is beautiful, compassionate, stubborn, opinionated and tough as nails.” Kate stares at the darkened window lost in her thoughts. “She pushed me harder than anyone and loved me unconditionally the entire time. I would not be half the person I am today if it wasn’t for her.”

I try to reconcile Kate’s description of opposites, two sides of the same coin. “She sounds incredible.”
And intimidating.

“Did I ever tell you she was born in Slovenia but grew up in Wales?” I shake my head, encouraging her to continue. “Her parents sent her and her cousins to England before her town of Izola was handed over to Germany in 1943. She was just a baby.

“To keep their children safe from Mussolini’s alliance with the Nazis, the town of Izola arranged to send them to their sister parish in London. But when Britain entered the war and the Germans started bombing, the children of Izola were relocated to Brynmawr, Wales. And that is where my mother grew up.”

“When did she immigrate to America?”

“She was just seventeen—barely a woman—but already a bride. Her husband was also a refugee from Izola, who dreamed of starting a new life in America. So they sold everything to book a one-way passage on the Queen Mary for their honeymoon.”

Only two years older than me, married, sailing to a strange new country with little more than the clothes on her back and the man she loved at her side… How brave and trusting she must’ve been to follow her heart like that. What would she think of someone like me—someone whose first inclination is to run away from her fears?

“Wow. What an amazing story.”

Kate’s eyebrows lift in agreement. She makes a small noise that is part grunt, part chuckle but all sympathy. “There’s so much more. Her husband, Milan, died of influenza on the passage over. She couldn’t afford to go back to Wales, and without Milan, she had no prospects for income over here.”

Like an epic story, I’m totally sucked in and I wish I‘d seen pictures of Judith Kransky so I could better picture the young widow-heroine. Breathless for Kate to continue, I gasp, “What happened?”

“Fortunately, an American couple—old money, good breeding, no kids of their own—heard about the poor widowed newlywed. Apparently, it was all the talk in first-class dining. And while several prominent families offered her employment as a nanny or a maid, this couple offered her the chance at an education, to make something of herself. They were Potter and Amelia Palmer, my grandparents.”

“Not biological grandparents, though.” I’m so caught up in the story, I interject without thinking then worry I’ve said something hurtful. “I’m sorry.”

All grace, Kate gives her head a soft shake. Her eyes are full of happy memories. “Don’t be, it’s true. And despite everything, they loved me.” She drifts to the stove to stir a shiny metal pot. As she opens the lid, the heady scent of garlic and sausage fills the kitchen. Kate’s special gumbo.

“I only got a few years with my grandparents, but in them we made a lifetime of memories.”

“How old were you when they passed away?”

At first I think she doesn’t hear me. Continuing to stir for a moment, she brings the wooden spoon to her lips, sampling. Then she dips in a second spoon and offers me a taste. “Does it need more onion?”

Her gumbo’s delicious, hot and spicy, perfect as it is and I tell her so. I consider asking again about the death of her grandparents, but I’m uncertain as to whether she didn’t hear the first time or if she’s choosing not to answer. Not wanting to push I pretend to examine the magnets on the refrigerator.

Kate crosses to the sink and begins to load the dishwasher while I stare blankly ahead, wondering what to do next. When she finally answers, I’ve nearly forgotten my question hanging awkwardly between us.

“My mother went to college, then grad school to become a therapist. She specialized in trauma recovery and she is very gifted in her field. She’s worked with local and state police, the FBI, the CIA and even advised the United Nations. When she was with the CIA she met an agent by the name of Jimmie Kransky, my father. Since his job required him to travel a lot, my mom went with him, freelancing and volunteering all over the world. She worked with survivors of natural disasters—earthquakes, tsunamis, and such—in Asia, political refugees in Africa, victims of brutality and rape in the Middle East and the runaways of Eastern Europe.

“That’s how she found me.” The stark truthfulness in her tone causes me to freeze. Until this moment, I had no clue that Kate’s mom wasn’t biological. “After World War II, Eastern Europe was broke—people had no money and even less hope. Parents who could no longer care for their children or didn’t want them, left them to the institutions. Sterile, hospital-like facilities that were always overcrowded and understaffed, housing thousands of discarded children with gaunt faces and huge, haunted eyes. Children too apathetic to play or laugh, or even cry. Too lost to feel sad for themselves or others…too lost to feel anything at all.”

Kate pauses, brushing at her cheeks in terse swipes. She’s crying, but she doesn’t look at me. So I wait, helpless and shocked by her disclosure.

“I don’t know a thing about my real parents, whether they are alive or dead, or if they loved me. All I remember about childhood is the institution in Izola and then escaping into Italy. Living on the streets of Trieste. When Judith found me, I was sleeping in alleyways and stealing food to stay alive. I was eleven.

“Just eleven years old and filled with hate, especially for her, the meddling American tourist who kept hounding me. She followed me all over the city. For weeks, no matter where I went, she tracked me down. She was so stubborn. All she wanted was to give me things—clothes, food, money—and I didn’t wanted any of it. I ran away from her—I cussed her out—I even threatened her, but it didn’t seem to faze the pig-headed American woman. ”

Turning Kate looks at me, tears rolling unnoticed down her face. “One day she didn’t come. I braced myself and waited, but she never showed. So I went looking for her. She had given me her address, so I went to the house and knocked on the door, no idea what I would say when she opened the door—I just wanted her to answer. I thought she’d given up on me, after all her lectures and chasing, I thought she’d written me off—and I was so angry. Angry at her for abandoning me. That’s when I knew.”

My own emotions spill over as she stares at me. “Knew what?”

“That I loved her.”

Something happens in that moment. Something my conscious mind resists with all its might. Clamping my eyes shut, I whisper, “Where was she?”

“In Izola. Her private investigator had located the institution where I’d come from and arranged a private adoption. While I was searching for her, she was in Izola signing the final paperwork. She and Jimmie came back to find me curled on their doorstep, raging with grief, like something wild. When I wouldn’t go inside, Judith didn’t say a word, just spent the night on the stoop with me. The next morning she told me she loved me. And miraculously I was able to say it back.

“A week later, Jimmie and Judith took me home to Sarasota to meet the Palmers. I had three wonderful years with them before my grandpop passed away. My grandmom followed him six weeks later. They never intended to outlive one another. They were in love until the end, and they loved us. That was everything.”

If the thought of Kate’s mother had been intimidating before, Judith Kransky was now a Titan. Silently I move around the table, placing plates and cutlery in front of each place with precision. Reflecting on everything I have learned, I feel Kate’s perceptive eyes watching me. When the front door opens and Steven’s deep voice precedes him carried on a blast of frigid air, I’m torn between relief and terror. “We’re here.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Kate goes toward the voice in the entryway but I stay rooted in the dining room. I listen to them, hearing the gladness in their greeting punctuated by what I can only assume is hugging. Fervently, I pray Mrs. Kransky isn’t a hugger; or if she is, that she’s not into hugging people she only just met. Mostly, I hope she won’t expect me to hug back.

As the Fosters and the Titan near the dining room, I edge into the farthest corner. I can’t help myself. Rearranging my features into an unconvincing smile, I grip the back of the nearest chair so hard my white knuckles go numb. Steven enters first, and I notice the apprehension in his eyes just below the surface of what’s meant to be reassurance. He steps aside to let the women enter, arm and arm, both shining eyes and wide smiles. I regard Kate’s unrestrained joy, then unable to avoid the encounter any longer, slide my eyes over to Judith Kransky.