Kneeling on the thick carpet in front of the boxes, she found the one marked FILES, MISC 1970–1980, and opened the flaps.
This was going to be her starting place. Nina might be a whiz at investigative research, but Meredith knew where to look in the house. If there was one letter about Mom’s past, there might be others. Or maybe there were other documents, hidden in mislabeled files, or photographs thrown in with other memorabilia.
She found the file marked Bepa?eTpoBHa and pulled it out. Rereading the letter from Professor Adamovich, she walked over to the computer and sat down. The only link that came up directed her to the University of Alaska Web site.
She picked up the phone and called. It took several attempts, but finally she was routed to the Russian Studies Department and a woman with a heavy accent answered. “May I help you?”
“I hope so,” Meredith said. “I’m trying to find Professor Vasily Adamovich. ”
“Oh, my,” the woman said, “there is a name I have not heard in a long time. Dr. Adamovich retired about twelve years ago. He has had several most worthy successors, however, and I would be most happy to connect you to someone else. ”
“I really need Dr. Adamovich. I have some questions about one of his research studies. ”
“Oh, well, I guess I cannot help you, then. ”
“How can I get in touch with the professor directly?”
“I’m afraid I do not have an answer for you on that. ”
“Thank you,” Meredith said, disappointed. She hung up the phone and went to the study window. From here, she could see the corner of the winter garden. On this warm evening, the bench was empty, but as Meredith stood there, Mom crossed the yard, draped in a big blanket, its plaid tail dragging in the grass behind her. In the garden, she touched each of the copper columns, then sat down and pulled her knitting out of her bag.
From this angle, Meredith could see the way Mom’s chin was tucked into her body, the way her shoulders were rounded. Whatever strength it took for her mother to stand so straight and tall around her children, she had none of it out there. It looked like she was talking to herself or to the flowers or . . . to Dad. Had she always sat out there alone, talking, or was that new; yet another by-product of a lost love?
“She out there again?” Nina asked, coming into the office. Her hair was damp and she was wearing a big terry-cloth robe and a pair of sheepskin slippers.
“Of course. ” Meredith reached down for the letter and handed it to Nina. “I called the university. The professor is retired, and the woman I spoke to didn’t know much else. ”
Nina read the letter. “So, we know for sure that Mom has a connection to Leningrad, and the fairy tale takes place there and at least some of it is probably real. So, I’m going to ask the obvious question: Is she Vera?”
There was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “If Mom is Vera, she got pregnant at seventeen. So she had a miscarriage or . . . ”
“We have a sibling somewhere. ”
Meredith stared out the window at the woman who was always so alone. Could she really have other children, and probably grandchildren, out there somewhere? Could she have walked away from them and never gone back?
No. Not even Anya Whitson was that heartless.
Meredith had had two late-term miscarriages in the years after her girls were born. She’d had a terrible time dealing with the losses. She’d seen a counselor for a short time and talked to Jeff until it was obvious that it wounded him too much to keep listening. In the end, she’d had no one—no friend or family member—in whom she could confide. The few times she had mentioned it, people immediately wanted her to “see someone,” not understanding that all she’d really wanted to do was remember her boys.
The one person in whom she’d never confided was her mother.
Certainly no woman who’d been through the loss of a child, either in the womb or in the world, could see another woman’s similar suffering and say nothing. “I don’t believe that,” she said finally. “And Vera obviously sees color. ” As a kid, Meredith had looked up Mom’s birth defect in the encyclopedia. Achromatopsia, it was called, and one thing was certain: her mother had never seen a lavender sky. “Maybe Mom is Olga. ”
“Or maybe Vera is Mom’s mom. It’s unlikely, but since we don’t know how old she is, anything is possible. That would be just like Mom, to tell us her story in a way we don’t ever get to know her. How will we know?”
“Keep her talking. I’m going to go through this house from stem to stern. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it. ”
“Thanks, Mere,” Nina said. “It feels good to be together on this. ”
During dinner that night, Nina concentrated on acting normal. She drank her vodka and ate her meal and made her pretense at conversation, but all the while she was watching Mom closely, thinking, Who are you? It took an act of will not to voice the question out loud. As a journalist, she knew that timing was everything, and you never asked a question until you had a pretty damn good idea of the answer. She could tell that Meredith was fighting the same battle.
So when Mom stood up after the meal and said, “I am too tired for storytelling tonight,” Nina was almost relieved.
She helped her sister with the dishes (okay, Meredith did most of the work), then she kissed her good-bye and went into Dad’s study, where she got on the Internet. She ran searches on everything she could find about Leningrad in the twenties and thirties. She found a lot of information but no real answers.
Finally, at almost two in the morning, she pushed back from the computer in disgust. She had pages and pages of anecdotal information but no facts—other than what she’d known already. The story was taking place in Leningrad under Stalin.
She tapped her pen on the table and talked out loud, going through what she knew. Again. As she went through it all, she glanced at her notes.