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  "Is he in his office?" I ask, trying to force myself back and away from the memories of that time in Paris.

  "Yes, as always, he's been waiting for you." She twists her hands again. "He has so much on his mind and now with you going to New York—well, he promised me he would slow down and enjoy his retirement."

  "Is that what he told you, Maggie?" I try to find humor in the word retirement being used in any connection to my grandfather. "I think it's quite the opposite. You know how everything is finally coming together for him. Everything he's worked his whole life for."

  The summer was filled with celebrations and dinners recognizing his retirement from Columbia University, the incredible scientific contributions he had made, and the move to MIT. We organized the files, plaques, awards, and boxes of books, many authored by him, that now lined the shelves of his Gloucester library. This was becoming his permanent home. As the time approached for my departure, I worried about how the transition would affect him. I knew he was on the verge of changing everything we take for granted about our world.

  "Maggie, please don't worry so much about him."

  "It's not just your grandfather, I'm worried about you, too."

  I know that there is something in her words. Something else that she is not saying.

  "I'm fine, silly. Never been better." I try to lighten the moment.

  As I walk down the wide hallway, lined with my grandparent's art collection, I can still feel her eyes on me.

  * * *

  9

  * * *

  I PASS THE GREAT room, part of the recent addition I had designed, and marvel at the magnificent views of both the garden and ocean. The uniqueness of this opportunity—doing something for him—was a role reversal not lost on me. Conceived with love, I had chosen to create an axis past the living spaces that led to the library, symbolically reflecting the idea that there is a progression, a journey through his work and ideas. This was a space I hoped he would occupy for many years, a small jewel meant to be an envelope for his mind and heart.

  The architectural equivalent of my arms wrapping around him.

  I grab the cold doorknob pitted from the sea air and I'm surprised. I'm unaccustomed to finding the door closed. The combination of this strange occurrence and the appearance of the black vans has unnerved me enough that I practically do not recognize my own voice.

  "Papa?" I open the door.

  The late afternoon sun casts a golden glow of light on everything. My grandfather walks toward me, and I practically fall over as I lunge for him.

  "Hello, my darling."

  He takes his glasses off and looks me over as he takes in the sand, the wet hair, and other signs of my late swim. Unlike Maggie he makes no comment. And then I realize that we are not alone. I understand the strange change in energy that I had felt earlier in the house.

  "Philip, you're here?" I am genuinely surprised to see him.

  Brilliant and undeniably attractive, we had met in a summer painting studio at Oxford, the summer my parents died. For four years, we were inseparable. I watched in amusement as he managed an endless flirtation with what seemed like every female at Oxford—most of whom were astounded at my own lack of interest in anything more than a platonic relationship with him. Philip traveled with me to Switzerland often, meeting my grandfather at various scientific symposia, quizzing him on his work with the Supercollider, and spending hours talking into the night about physics and art. Philip had always been quite clear about his hopes for a serious relationship with me. Something I knew my grandfather endorsed.

  But then everything changed when my parents were murdered. His British family had practically adopted me and they were a critical force for easing the difficult transition of managing my academics while dealing with the events in Paris. Our relationship was a perfect meeting of the minds—even though I knew he wanted more. Now we were about to fulfill the promise of going to architecture school together in New York.

  Philip pushes himself up and out of the deep arm chair he has been sitting in. His confidence permeates the small room and he smiles that crooked grin I know so well as he slowly moves toward me.

  "Gabriella."

  The sound of his voice, the way he says my name brings back a thousand memories. He comes up to stand very close and reaches out, touching his fingertips to my face as he slowly kisses my cheek. I realize how I look: a combination of surprise, frustration, salt water, and sand. I wrap the towel tighter around my body to cover up the childhood bathing suit that I know is too small.

  "What are you doing here?" I don't mean for the words to sound so angry.

  It was a ridiculous question. Philip and my grandfather enjoyed an unusual yet profound connection begun years earlier. They were kindred souls, the generations that separated them in time collapsing into irrelevance.

  "Gabriella, be nice." My grandfather's voice penetrates the moment and shatters the lock Philip has on my eyes. "He came to surprise you. Now that you'll be attending Columbia together, Philip has agreed to keep an eye on you for me."

  I look down at his hand on my arm. I feel the possessiveness in his touch and abruptly pull it away. He knows that this gesture will anger me but he does it anyway. I want to stay separate, strong.

  "Thank you, that's very— nice." The heat from the imprint of his fingers stays on my skin. "But I can take care of myself. Just fine."

  "Of course you can. Yes, yes, my dear." He looks first at me then Philip, marveling at the realization of what we had hoped for so many years. He seems to be sizing me up, as if he wants to capture something, to hold a memory in his mind.

  "Can we spend some time together before I leave for New York? Alone?" I look over at Philip wanting my words to hurt him just a little. "What's going on here today anyway? Why a new security system? Is there something you're not telling me?"

  My grandfather waves his hand around in front of him. "It's nothing to worry about, there have been some new incidents, so we were told to install this. Completely unnecessary, we are safe here, Gabriella." He points to the room. "After all, I did have a wonderful architect."

  "What do you mean, new incidents?"

  "Gabriella, please." He tries to calm me.

  "No, tell me what you're talking about."

  "It's under control. There's been some chatter on the internet picked up in the last few months, but it is being monitored very carefully. They seem to be, well, reorganizing. In response to all the press I suppose. The international excitement about our work at the Supercollider and all that." He looks right at me, as if he is deciding whether he has said too much.

  I wait to steady my voice before I ask the question. "Are they the same ones, from Paris?"

  The three of us stand in the small room together, the two men looking at me as I look down at the floor and hold my breath. I wait for his answer.

  "Yes."

  We rarely spoke about the extreme right-wing religious cult who had killed my parents. Elusive and mysteriously funded, they represented a powerful group of religious fanatics who did not want anyone disturbing the status quo. They called themselves the Divine Order. If science was about to introduce the possibility of the existence of other dimensions, then the Divine Order was sworn to destroy those leading the way.

  "Gabriella, your grandfather is too important to be left exposed. This is all just a precaution."

  I notice a brief look between them. I want to believe their reassurances.

  "I'm sorry, Philip. I don't know what's the matter with me. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that before. I am really so glad to see you."

  "I know you are. Besides—I'm used to it."

  "Look, all I'm saying is that I don't know what either of you are up to, but you don't need to protect me. If there's anything going on, anything different that I need to know about, you need to tell me."

  I wanted to tell them both that I could feel it, that something wasn't right, but I had promised myself that I would not acknowledge the intui
tion. The feelings, the premonitions, the memories—they were all back. Stronger than ever before.

  "I'll see you in a few days, Gabriella." Philip takes my hands in his. "At Columbia. And don't tell me you didn't miss me—because I know you did."

  My grandfather laughs and says, "You know her, Philip, there's so much in that head and heart of hers. But she would never tell."

  "Yes, I did miss you, Philip." I reach out for him and hug him tightly, truly happy that he will be with me in New York. Surprising even myself.

  * * *

  10

  * * *

  I LOOK AROUND THE octagonal space of my grandfather's study. The design framed a view of the ocean in the east and the golden grasses of the marsh to the west, an almost three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the landscape. A perfect space to follow the tracking of the sun from early morning to its disappearance at the end of the day behind the dunes. Marking time.

  "Well, here we are, finally, alone together."

  "I wanted to have everything unpacked before I left, Papa."

  "Never mind." He carefully steps over moving boxes that still cover the floor and pushes a button that fills the room with the soft melody of piano and violin. As I stood on the threshold of my own new adventure, I recognized the irony of his New York life ending as mine was beginning.

  "I see this made it here safely." I point to the desk that had been given to him by Einstein. His most prized possession, it stood proudly in the center of the room.

  "Witness to so much invention, a container of memory and possibility." He pats the desk.

  "Memory and possibility, you always say that. Do you mean the past and the future?"

  "You might say that."

  "Being here with you in the present means everything to me. I feel so disconnected from the rest of the world, all the noise. I love it when it's just the two of us—and all the books of course." I feel sad to leave.

  He turns to the shelves and raises his hand, pushing away the air. "Too many."

  I look over at the shelves that hold my grandmother's things: books about art, poetry, and the mysterious tradition of Kabbalah, volumes that remained untouched on the shelves since she had died. It had been many years since the painful realization that the typical family I longed to be a part of was an impossibility. I knew there was a secret in my family, and it was the reason we had been divided.

  I reach up to pull down a small volume. "May I?"

  "Of course." He sighs as he looks out the window at the sea and sinks slowly into his chair. "All of this will be yours."

  I try not to meet his eyes. I don't want to see the pain I hear in his words as I open up the page and see her handwriting.

  Only art education can improve quality of life, understanding, and knowledge.

  I read the words slowly to myself then out loud and look up at him.

  "Art? Did she really believe that? What about science?" I reach out for him. "Smashing particles right?"

  "We've been doing that since the 1950s, sweetheart. It's all theory, although it is now being tested by the Large Hadron Collider, the Supercollider as they call it." He smiles at me.

  "I know."

  "But your grandmother wanted more. She believed that art went farther—beyond merely practical needs or investigations of the mind."

  "Like what?"

  "The spiritual, the soul. Just like your work, Gabriella. Combining imagination and structure, I can see it in you, even now."

  Hovering above the conversation was the inference, the suggestion of the connection between the different parts of my family. Those working in the field of science and others who explored the secrets of the mystical tradition we had inherited.

  "Do you mean my parents? Art and science?"

  "They chose to live in the ancient city of Zefat, to devote their lives to the study of mysticism. I have chosen science. But you, Gabriella, you are a combination of both these worlds."

  I had been told this a thousand times and I was still trying to understand what it meant.

  "I just want to make something. Anything."

  I look away from him, the way his eyes burn into mine. The subject of my parents and what had happened was too painful to discuss.

  I hold my grandmother's worn journal in my hands; the fraying edge presses against the inside of my arm. I can picture her recording her thoughts, the seeds of an idea for a future painting or poem. So many left unfinished, unrealized. I feel the obligation to continue her legacy, to make something of myself, to hear what she was whispering into my heart. I knew that she was all around me. I could feel her everywhere.

  "You will not only make something, Gabriella, you will make a difference. You already have," my grandfather says the words quietly.

  "How?"

  "You changed my fate."

  But it wasn't enough.

  "I should have known, Papa. That night in Paris, I should have understood what it meant. Then I might have saved them, too."

  * * *

  11

  * * *

  THE ROOM IS SO still that the words hang between us. I can feel the cool air from the window, blowing gently over my body and I realize that I need to change the subject.

  "What is this—the music? It sounds oddly familiar; I remember her playing it for me." I walk over and turn up the volume on the CD player. I say it without fear of hurting him. I want to talk about my grandmother now; how I feel her with me, loving me, encouraging and showing me that the promises she had made to me were being fulfilled. I wait for him to respond, but he ignores me. I try again. "Did you hear what I just said? I remember this."

  "How could you remember such things? Please, stop this talk. We need to think about today. Not the past." He swivels his chair away, and I see the subtle rocking motion as he rhythmically moves back and forth. "Everything you've worked so hard for."

  "I know she's here. They all are, they're here—with both of us," I say softly.

  We are quiet for a few moments. I walk over and lift a heavy frame that holds a faded photograph. I inspect the smile, the wild white hair, and the signature. It occupies an important place on the desk, which holds the treasured files that contain the correspondence they had shared. I knew this relationship was the one that had directed the course of his life's work.

  "She told me the story of how you met each other in Jerusalem. At the party. And he was there too." I point at the photograph. "Einstein."

  "You have quite the memory."

  "It's an incredible story, when you met Grandma Sophie. The party, the house, and all the people who were there—"

  He stands up out of his chair suddenly, as if what I said has knocked all the air out of him. All the color has left his face.

  "Are you okay?" I approach him cautiously.

  "What else did she tell you, about the people we met there?"

  "Nothing. Just her parents and you. There must have been others at the party, but she never spoke of anyone in particular."

  I wait, hoping that he'll come back to me. Back to the conversation we are having, but he is in retreat. I've hit a nerve.

  "Why are you always pulling me into the past? Ghosts, Gabriella—they are just ghosts. Finish your packing for school. Go, please, let me be."

  I back away from his desk, hurt by his uncharacteristic words. Clearly I had upset him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring this up." I choke back the tears. "I don't understand why we can't ever talk about her anymore?"

  "Gabriella, just leave it alone."

  "It was always through her eyes," I say slowly, "that I could see myself. Really understand."

  "Don't do this; choose something else to think about!" he practically shouts, and I see the anger and frustration on his face.

  "Yes, of course." I say. But I want to tell him that I need to choose for myself, that she would have wanted me to.

  The sun shifts and a beam of light comes into the room and catches the edge of a small bronze medallion that I have always lo
ved. I reach for it, its edges polished from years of touch, and turn it over in my hands. Slowly I look at the odd shapes and symbols on its surface, the lines that create a star and the seven spaces, ancient letters that I do not understand. Symbols of the ancient mystical tradition of my family.

  "You've always loved that," I hear his voice behind me. I am embarrassed that he has caught me holding one of his precious objects and I quickly put it down.

  "It's all right. Ever since you were a child, something about it has always attracted you. I want you to have it."

  Removing an object from this sacred space seems wrong. I stare into his deep blue eyes and wait to see if he is going to say more, but it is as if he has stopped himself, catching a thought that he was not yet ready to reveal.

  "No. I know how you feel about her things; I would never want to take it from here." I wonder in a way whether these precious feelings and vibrations even exist outside of this room.

  "She found it on her first trip to Palestine—on an archaeological dig. I think it was the day we met. It was one of her most treasured possessions. Take it. She always wanted you to have it."

  "I don't know."

  "Gabriella, you have arrived at a time in your life that we have waited many years for. Such an adventure, such excitement awaits you. And, there is something else." He pulls several small leather books that are tied together with a ribbon out of a box. I know they are my grandmother's diaries. "I want you to have these." The authority in his voice is final. "Think of them as a good-luck charm of sorts, although you really don't need any luck."

  "Of course I need luck." Help, his guidance—anything.

  "I do remember one more thing that I wanted to tell you." He seems uncomfortable, yet there is an urgency and seriousness that I don't often hear in his voice. He smiles and his eyes mist.