Page 5

The door shuts behind him with a heavy thud. For a moment, Karmela and I stand there, the silence a third presence echoing between us. Even though I had come all this way to meet my grandmother, the thought of spending time alone with this stranger clad in black suddenly frightens me.

“These are for you,” Karmela says hesitantly, pointing to a pair of fleece slippers beside the door.

My mom also had a thing about slippers, or papuče, as she called them. I hated wearing them, preferring to walk around the house with bare feet. I now realize it may be a cultural thing rather than a nagging mom thing. I put them on without complaint, grateful to be out of my heels.

She motions to the staircase, telling me to follow. With measured huffs of breath, I heave my suitcase up the stairs behind her.

We walk down a long hall lined with religious paintings, angels, and solemn figures I assume are saints. “This is your room,” Karmela informs me, opening a door at the end.

The space has a hard, dreary feel, with more paint peeling off the walls and heavy wooden furniture. At the center is a four-poster bed draped with a lace canopy and a slender crucifix hanging above the headboard. There’s more religious decor scattered across the walls, including a portrait of the Virgin Mary above an antique vanity, her large doe eyes silently judging me. Across from the bed, a pair of doors framed with lace curtains appear to lead out to a balcony.

I suspect this is the master bedroom, perhaps where Karmela usually sleeps. “This is too big,” I tell her in Croatian. “I can go . . . small bedroom.” There must be more options, judging by the home’s size.

Karmela shakes her head vehemently. “Ne, ne, ne.” She says something else, but I only catch one word at the end: večera. Dinner.

“I’m sorry . . . Can you repeat that?” I ask. “My Croatian isn’t good.”

Karmela’s brows shoot up, slicing wrinkles across her forehead. “You don’t know our language?”

Our language. Naš jezik. I learned a few words here and there from my mom growing up, usually when she was upset about something—a mess I’d made or a stressful situation at her accounting job. But for the most part, she preferred English. That was what she spoke every day after all, at work, at the supermarket, with her friends. When I was older, I studied the language on my own. It felt important in some vague way, as if forging a connection to the dad I’d never met or uncovering a hidden part of myself, waiting to be discovered.

But no matter my progress or how hard I study, every time I struggle to understand a simple sentence or mispronounce a word, I taste this bitter truth: Our language will never truly be mine.

I open my mouth to respond, fumbling for the best explanation. How would she feel knowing that the daughter who abandoned her abandoned their language too? That my mom never taught me, at least not properly? Would that spur more resentment toward my mom? Toward me?

“I know a little,” I say finally. “But I need to practice more.”

Karmela blinks once, twice, unsure what to make of my answer. What to make of me. Finally, she clears her throat, her expression softening as she seems to recover from the surprise. She speaks again, this time loud and slow, as if I’m hard of hearing. “I am making dinner. In the kitchen. Come when you are ready.”

“Ah, okay, thank you.” The thought of a home-cooked meal tears my heart and stomach open. It’s been months since I had my mom’s cooking.

As she descends the stairs, I collapse onto the bed with a long sigh. It had taken two planes, an overnight stay in a hotel, and a ferry, but I’d finally made it. Despite my exhaustion, a thrill runs through me. I’m here.

I pull myself up again, scanning the details of the room. Opening the armoire, I find a luxurious silk nightgown. It all feels so strange, like I’ve wandered into the off-limits section of a museum. Except the forbidden history is all my own.

My attention shifts to the balcony. Craving fresh air, I unlatch the doors and step outside, my breath catching at the sight.

If I thought the lavender field was impressive as we drove up to the house, it’s even more magnificent from this angle. The long rows of bushes sway gently in the breeze, as if in greeting. A few smaller stone structures loom in the distance, where the blooms end. I can’t believe this will be my view for one whole month.

I leave the balcony door slightly ajar as I change into a fresh outfit. Before I leave, I remember the box of Ghirardelli chocolates I brought for Karmela as a gift—a courteous custom in Croatia, according to the internet, at least.

I linger in the hall, studying the paintings sprawled across it. As I examine a pair of smiling cherubs, a door behind me suddenly slams. I jump, gasping in surprise.

Was it the wind, or is someone in the room? A shiver crawls down my spine as I think of the shadow I saw in the second-story window when I arrived. It couldn’t have been Karmela, because she opened the front door right after. Surely, she would have introduced me to someone else living here.

As I calm myself, I notice something on the ground—a wad of linen, like a small rag. Similar ones are stuffed in the keyholes of all the other doors; this one must’ve fallen out. Crouching down, I squint through the keyhole of the shut room. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I watch for movement.

But then I realize the absurdity, not to mention rudeness, of what I’m doing and dart upright, continuing down the stairs.

When I reach the kitchen, I come to a halt. Inhale deeply. I recognize the rich, savory aroma instantly—punjene paprike. Stuffed peppers. One of my mom’s specialties. An ache unfurls within me. I thought I’d never have them again.

I eagerly step forward but falter at the sound of a menacing growl. The Dalmatian edges toward me, baring its teeth again. Karmela immediately admonishes the dog, giving me an apologetic look. “This is Rex. He is not usually like this. Rex, this is my granddaughter, Petra. Family.”

Rex doesn’t seem convinced. He watches me warily as he pads out of the room.

Turning toward Karmela, I hold up my gift. “This is for you,” I say in Croatian.

Karmela smiles hesitantly as she takes the box from me. “How . . . wonderful,” she says, examining the package. “Thank you,” she adds, tucking it into a nearby cabinet. “Now, sit.”