Page 10

Taking Karmela’s lead, I skirt the edge of the crowd. But our path is abruptly blocked by an elderly woman breaking away from a nearby huddle.

“Good morning, Karmela,” the woman greets in Croatian.

“Oh, good morning,” Karmela mutters.

“Who is this young lady?” the other woman asks. “Bruno said he saw her arrive yesterday. Is she . . . your granddaughter?” She says the final word with emphasis, as if the concept is unbelievable.

Bruno must be the man who spoke to Luka on the pier. Before Karmela answers, several more elderly women gather around us, peering at me with intense curiosity that verges on hunger.

“Ah,” Karmela says, smoothing her dress and clearing her throat. “Yes. This is my granddaughter, Petra.”

Her words ripple through the group like a shock wave. Several mouths fall open. One woman fumbles backward, a hand clutching her chest.

It takes a few moments for the woman addressing Karmela to compose herself. “Does that mean . . . Is she Marija’s—?”

“Yes,” Karmela replies, her expression tight.

Judging by the way she said her name, this woman knew my mom. But she must not have known my mom was pregnant when she left Tolba.

I wave a feeble hand. “Hello.” The women stare back, apparently still too stunned by my existence to respond.

“But where is Marija, then?” The woman looks over my shoulder eagerly, as if my mom could be hiding just behind. Leaning in, she lowers her voice. “Did she finally come back?”

My heart plummets to the ground. Karmela must not have shared the news.

I shift my feet, waiting for her to answer. She bows her head, her face red and moist with sweat. “No, she didn’t,” she says finally.

Is that all she’s going to tell them?

The women hover, whispering, clearly still curious. The way they keep casting me fearful glances ties my stomach in knots. So, I blurt, “My mom passed away. There was . . . a car crash.” The Croatian words feel sharp, bruising me on their way out.

Another gasp rustles through the group. “My condolences,” the woman replies. Though her voice is solemn, I catch a glint in her eye as she glances toward the others. Like she’s just discovered something scandalous and can’t wait to share.

“Let’s go,” Karmela mutters, nudging me away. I expect her to head toward home, but instead she steers me toward the priest. Thankfully, he stands with only one other person, who quickly shuffles away at the sight of us.

“Petra, this is Father Antun,” she states. He shakes my hand, giving me a calm but wary smile.

“Pleased to meet you,” I fumble.

I wait patiently as they speak more in Croatian. Sweat pools at my lower back, and I inch toward a nearby palm tree for shade. As I lean against the drystone wall, a stern voice shoots out.

“Careful. We just repaired that section earlier this year.”

Luka again. He’s standing a few feet away, beneath another tree, smoking.

I glance behind me. “You mean the wall?”

“What else?” He puts out his cigarette, comes closer. As he approaches, his smoky scent wafts over me, summoning the memory of my mom. She loved nothing more than a cigarette and a cup of Turkish coffee in the morning. Breakfast, she called it. I smoked here and there too, mostly bumming drags off strangers after I’d had a few drinks. When my mom found out, smelling tobacco on my clothes, she’d flipped. Don’t you know it will kill you? she’d said. Her anger wasn’t fair. And yet, ever since her death, I’d been trying to kick the habit.

I chase away my sudden melancholy by examining the long stones, stacked one atop the other. They’re all different sizes, yet they fit together like puzzle pieces. It’s the same kind of wall that runs all across the town; I hadn’t realized they were hand built, though now it seems obvious. “What happened?” I ask.

“A storm. A tree came down right here.” He reaches forward, patting the patch of wall behind me. For a moment, I admire the broad stretch of his hand, imagine it lifting a heavy stone. I wonder what the texture of his palm is like, if it’s rough yet soothing like the rocks.

I clear my throat, banishing the thought. The wall looks sturdy enough; I doubt my leaning would have had any impact. “What are you, some kind of wall watchman?”

He shoots me a glare, folding his arms across his chest. It only heightens the comparison. He then glances toward the crowd. I do as well, noticing a few people staring at us, their expressions brooding. “I wait out of habit, I suppose. Sometimes Karmela needs help walking home.”

The statement deflates my annoyance. “Oh.” Karmela seems agile for her age, though I recall her wincing slightly on the stairs that morning.