The Gallery of Vanished Husbands: A Novel (39 page)

“And sit, drink some water.”

Anna thrust a glass in front of me while Julian slid a wooden chair behind me. Even Hildegard looked rattled.

“You have to go,” said Anna.

“I know,” I said, realising as I did so that my luxuriant and prolonged childhood was at an end. I stared at Anna with a shivering sense of time pivoting up and down like a seesaw. I memorised every detail: the tiny crease in the centre of her forehead that appeared when she was worried; Julian beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder; the grey silk of her blouse. The blue tiles behind the sink. Hildegard wringing the dishcloth.

That Elise, the girl I was then, would declare me old, but she is wrong. I am still she. I am still standing in the kitchen holding the letter, watching the others—and waiting—and knowing that everything must change.