Winter Garden

Nina heard the word thinks and it made her look up. For a moment they all looked at each other.

Mom was the first to glance away. “He thought this. Do not rush me to the doctor’s, Meredith,” she said. “I know he is not here. ”

Meredith nodded but said nothing.

Nina filled in the awkward silence. “My favorite time of day is sunset. Preferably in Botswana. In the dry season. I love answers. And I think there’s a reason Mom hardly ever looks at us. ”

“It is meaning you want?” Mom said. “You will be disappointed. Now eat. I hate this dish when it is cold. ”

Nina recognized her mother’s tone. It meant that the frivolity of their little tradition had come to an end. The rest of the meal proceeded in silence; the only sounds were spoons scraping on fine china and wineglasses being set down on the wooden table, and when dinner was over, Meredith rose to her feet and went to the sink. Mom walked gracefully away.

“I’m going to hear more of the story tonight,” Nina said to Meredith, who was drying the silverware.

Her sister didn’t turn around, neither did she answer.

“You could—”

“I need to go through Dad’s study,” Meredith said. “I need some of his files at the office. ”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve been putting it off. ”

There were places in every home that belonged to a single individual. No matter how many family members might use a space, or come and go through it, there was one in the group to whom it truly belonged. In Meredith’s home, the porch was hers. Jeff and the girls used it on occasion, but rarely: summertime parties and such. Meredith loved that porch and sat in the wicker rocker throughout the year.

In Belye Nochi, almost every room belonged to her mom. Her damaged eyesight was reflected in all the decorations and furniture, from the kitchen with its pale walls and white tile counters to its antique wooden table and chairs. Where there was color in this house, it came in splashes—the nesting dolls in the windowsill, the gilded icons in the Holy Corner, the painting of the troika.

Of all the rooms in Belye Nochi, only one could truly be called her father’s, and it was this room, his study.

Meredith stood in the doorway. She didn’t have to close her eyes to imagine him at this desk, laughing, talking to the two little girls at play on the floor at his feet.

The echo of his voice was strong in here. She could almost smell the sweet tang of his pipe smoke.

Don’t tell your mom, now, you know she hates it when I smoke.

She went to the center of the room and knelt on the thick forest-green carpet. A pair of blackwatch-plaid club chairs stood cocked toward each other, facing the giant mahogany desk that dominated the room. The walls were a rich cobalt blue with black trim, and everywhere she looked was a family photograph, framed in forest-green leather.

She sat back on her heels, overcome for a moment at the idea of what she was to do in here. Only his clothes would be more difficult to go through.

But it had to be done and she was the one to do it. She and Mom would both need documents from this room in the coming months and years. Insurance information, bill records, tax records, and banking information, just to name a few.

So Meredith took a deep breath and opened his file drawer. For the next hour, as night fell outside, she carefully picked through the paper trail of her parents’ lives, sorting everything into three piles: Keep, Maybe, and Burn.

She was grateful for the concentration it took to do the sorting. Only rarely did she find her mind wandering into the swamp of her own broken marriage.

Like now, as she stared down at a picture that had somehow fallen into the property tax file. In the photograph, Dad, Nina, Jeff, Jillian, and Maddy were playing catch in the front yard. The girls were small—barely taller than the mailbox—and dressed in matching pink snowsuits. Christmas lights and evergreen boughs decorated the fences, and everyone was laughing.

But where was she? She’d probably been in the dining room, setting the table with Martha Stewart–level obsessiveness, or wrapping gifts or rearranging the decorations.

She hadn’t been where it mattered, making memories with her husband and children. Maybe she’d thought time was more elastic, or love more forgiving. She set the picture on the file and opened another drawer. As she reached inside she heard footsteps, the thump of the front door, and the sound of Nina’s voice in the living room.

Of course. Night had fallen and driven Nina back into the house, where her sister would undoubtedly exchange one obsession—her camera—for another. The fairy tale.

Meredith grabbed a file and pulled it out, seeing that the label had been partially ripped. The part she could make out read: Bepa?eTpoBHa. She was pretty sure that the letters were Russian.

Inside, she found a single letter, postmarked twenty years ago from Anchorage, Alaska, and addressed to Mrs. Evan Whitson.

Dear Mrs. Whitson,