When We Meet Again (34 page)

But now, as I knelt beside her headstone in the shadow of a huge sugar maple, I knew I was wrong, and that’s what I had come here to say.

“You never would have wanted this for me. My life, what I’ve become,” I said. “I’m lonely, Mom, and I don’t know how to
find my way back to who I used to be.” I waited for a moment, hoping that I would feel an answer of some sort, but there was only the sound of a gentle breeze rustling the trees.

“I’d tell you everything, except I feel like you probably already know it,” I continued after a while. “I can feel you with me all the time. I miss you every day of my life, Mom.” I paused and rocked back on my knees. “The thing is, there’s something I have to let go of. I’ve been so angry at Dad for years for leaving. He left you. He left
us
. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. But I’ve realized now that I can’t keep carrying that anger around with me, because it’s too heavy. I’m worried that if I don’t learn to let go of the past—all of it—I’ll never really be able to move into the future.

“So I came here today to tell you, Mom, that I’m putting it down. I have to put down the weight of blaming Dad, but I also have to put down the weight of blaming myself. I don’t want you to think I’m betraying you. I’ll never feel about Dad the way I felt about you. You’re the one who stayed, the one who raised me, and there will never be another relationship in my world that compares with that.” I sighed and stood up. “But I’ve realized lately that letting the past define your life is like tying yourself to a version of the world that doesn’t exist anymore. And I can’t keep doing that. I hope you understand.”

I stayed there for a minute, listening to the wind through the trees, watching the sunlight filter down in patches. “I found my grandfather,” I added. “The love of Grandma Margaret’s life. But it’s too late. He’s gone. If you’re up there, Mom, if heaven is really a thing, can you help me find Catherine? If I just know she’s okay, I think I’ll be able to find some peace.” I paused and added, “I love you, Mom. I’ll love you forever.”

There was no answer, and so I began to walk back to the car. I wasn’t sure if my visit had really had a purpose. But the weight on my heart felt a little lighter, and that was something. I smiled as I turned the key in the ignition, backed the car out of its spot, and got back on the road to my future.

I
called my father that night from my hotel room in Atlanta, but I didn’t tell him much. I wanted to see the look on his face when I explained everything, and I knew I’d be home tomorrow afternoon; I’d already booked my flight.

“Let’s just say I think you’ll be surprised by what I have to tell you,” I said.

“You’re going to keep me in suspense?” I could hear the smile in his voice.

“For less than twenty-four hours. Can I drop by your office when I get back?”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to send you a photo now, though. Consider it a clue.”

“I’m intrigued.”

We said our good-byes, and I hit Send on one of the pictures I’d taken in the warehouse earlier. He called back almost immediately.

“Wait, are those all paintings of your grandmother?” he asked when I picked up.

“Yep. And there are hundreds.”

“You’re kidding me.” I could hear him breathing on the other end. “And you can’t tell me anything now?”

“I want to wait until I have the whole story. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Good luck, Emily.”

Ingrid Gaertner’s house was a gorgeous, immaculately maintained brick bungalow in the swanky Ansley Park neighborhood just east of downtown Atlanta. It sat up on a small hill at the end of a cul-de-sac, which made it hard to find but also gave it a sense of privacy. The many live oaks dotting the property only added to the house’s seclusion.

I parked, checked the address to confirm I was in the right place, and made my way up the winding brick steps toward the front door at just past 8 a.m. My heart thudded as I rang the bell. Fromm had said that my grandfather had lived here since the late 1980s, and it was strange for me to think that he’d stood in this very spot countless times. It was sad to realize I’d missed meeting him by less than a year.

There were footsteps inside, and then the door was opened by a tall, slender woman whose gray hair was swept up into a chignon. She was wearing a black silk blouse and flowy black linen pants, and even at this early morning hour, her makeup was flawless. “You must be Emily,” she said, staring at me as if she’d seen a ghost. Her voice carried the hint of an accent, and I recalled that Fromm had said she was German. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look unfriendly either.

“Mrs. Gaertner?” I asked, extending my hand.

She looked at my outstretched hand but didn’t shake it. “Please. Call me Ingrid. After all, we are family, aren’t we?” She turned without another word, and I withdrew my hand and followed her, closing the door behind me. I assumed that her disappearance into the house was an invitation for me to come in.

Inside, the home was dimly lit and richly furnished. My grandfather’s paintings—all of them landscapes—lined the walls of the front hall, and as I entered the formal living room behind Ingrid, I was struck by the opulence. The sofa was high-backed, tufted, and upholstered in a rich red velvet, and the chairs facing it had gold legs that made them look like they belonged in a European palace. There was a white grand piano in the corner and a rich oriental rug beneath our feet. Sunlight poured in from floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked an immaculate garden overflowing with roses. “What a lovely home,” I said.

Ingrid shrugged. “It was my taste. Not Ralph’s. He preferred to spend his time elsewhere.” She sounded wounded rather than angry, and it made me sad to realize that months after his death, she was still hurting so much. I also noted the fact that she had referred to him as Ralph, his assumed name, whereas Fromm, his oldest friend, had still called him Peter.

She gestured for me to sit on the velvet sofa, and she settled gracefully onto one of the chairs. “Would you like some coffee or tea? I can ring for Alice, our housekeeper.”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I felt a bit like a bug under a microscope as she continued to stare at me.

“You look just like her, you know,” she said abruptly after a moment. “Margaret. Your grandmother.”

“I’m so sorry, Ingrid, about everything,” I said, meaning it. No matter how tragic my grandparents’ love story was, Ingrid’s was almost as sad. To be married to a man you love only to realize he was still somehow beyond your reach must have been devastating.

“You’re sorry?” She made a
tsk
ing sound and looked away. “Oh, Emily, you have no idea.”

I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

“It’s not your fault, of course,” she said after a moment. “It’s just, I don’t suppose you know what it feels like to love someone who will never love you in return. To realize you missed your chance, all because your timing was wrong.”

I thought of Nick, of the love I’d let go, of the way I still felt. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

She studied me for a moment and nodded. “Well, I’m sorry, then. It’s a terribly inconvenient way to feel, isn’t it?”

The word choice was strange, but I nodded, because she was right. It
was
inconvenient to love someone who would never love you the same way, because it held you back in life. It tied you to something you could never have. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, because I wasn’t sure what else to say.

She sighed. “I’m sorry too, Emily. Despite everything, I would have liked it if you had found your way here while Ralph was still alive. He would have been so delighted to meet you. Timing is a strange thing, isn’t it?” Her mind seemed to wander somewhere else for a moment. “In any case, dear Arno Fromm says you came looking for Ralph. Is that correct?”

I nodded. “Did you send me the painting?”

She regarded me thoughtfully. “Yes, I did. Did you show it to your father too?”

“Yes. In fact, we went to Germany together to try to trace where it had come from. We were here in Atlanta just last week.”

“And yet he’s not here now.”

I looked down. “That’s my fault. This was something I needed to do on my own. I know he’d like to meet you, though.”

“The two of you are not close.” It was a statement, not a question. “I have read your columns. You have a lot of anger toward him.”

I took a deep breath. “Yes. I’m trying to let go of some of those feelings. I think I’ve carried them with me for too long.”

“But your father, he is emotionless, yes?”

I squirmed a little under her penetrating gaze. “Not exactly. I think he just had trouble tapping into his feelings for a long time. When I was a kid, I never really felt like he loved me. But things are a little different now.”

Ingrid looked at me for a long time. “So I see Margaret suffered too, then.”

“What?”

“We are a result of what our parents make us, unless we stop the progression, aren’t we?” Ingrid asked. “Knowing that your father hasn’t coped well with feelings, well, it leads me to guess that he was raised by someone who shut her emotions away.”

“Yes, maybe,” I whispered, thinking of the way that although I knew my grandmother loved me, she would often drift away midsentence, her face going blank. I had often wondered where she was vanishing to, but now I knew. I wondered if my father’s childhood had been filled with moments where he was right on the cusp of receiving his mother’s love, and then she simply drifted. It would explain a lot.

“And do you do that too? Shut your feelings away?” Ingrid asked. She didn’t wait for an answer before adding, “Your grandfather was that way, you know. Ralph. Easier to feel nothing than to feel the pain of loss each day.”

“But I think he
did
feel, didn’t he? There’s such emotion in his paintings.”

Ingrid’s face fell, and I realized too late what I’d said. “That’s because
she
is in all of them,” she said through gritted teeth. “But just because he felt with his paintbrush did not mean he felt in the real world. They are different things.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

“You know I loved him,” she said abruptly, looking me in the eye. “There were skeptics at first, people in the art world who thought I was just drawn to his talent. But that wasn’t it. I
felt
something with him that I’d never felt before. Do you understand?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. The story that led us here was written long before you were born.” She sighed. “I believed he loved me too, at first. Maybe he did. There are different kinds of love in the world, aren’t there?”

I thought of the all-consuming love I had for Catherine and the love I had for Nick, which wouldn’t go away. I thought of the way I loved my father, despite the fact that it hurt, and the way my love for my mother was a constant, grounding ache of loneliness. “Yes, there are,” I agreed.

“But when you fall in love with someone, when you promise your life to that person, you want to receive love the same way you give it. Freely. Openly. Without reservation. But in time, I realized I would never have that. It was only when I learned of Margaret that I understood why.”

“How did you find out? Did he tell you?”

“No. He couldn’t even speak her name aloud. Until the end, of course.” Her mouth twisted with anguish for a moment, and then she pulled herself together, clearing her throat and smoothing her face back into an expressionless palette. “I never knew Margaret existed, you see. Not until I began to suspect him of cheating, and I followed him to the warehouse. I’m sure you know by now what I found. The place is an enormous shrine to her.” She laughed bitterly. “And would you believe that all along, I thought the woman in the background of his paintings was a symbol? I saw her as hope, as love.” She looked out the window for a long time before turning back to me. “Do you know he never painted me? Not once?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

Silence descended, and I could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the house. Ingrid sniffled, and I looked back in surprise as I realized she was crying.

“Ingrid . . .” I said, starting to get up.

She waved me away, and I sat back down. “Please, don’t look at me now. My emotions sometimes get the best of me. I know better.” She took a deep breath and went on. “After I discovered the warehouse, I demanded that he stop. And I believe he wanted to. He tried to. But it was an obsession.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“And your life?” she asked abruptly. “How has it been? Have you been happy?”

“Um, sure,” I said, startled by the rapid change in topic.

“I understand that your mother died,” she said, her voice softening as she leaned forward. I saw real sympathy in her eyes. “I’m very sorry to hear that. And your father left when you were young?”

I looked down. “You really have read my columns.”

“Many of them. You were only a teenager, weren’t you? When your mother passed?”

“Eighteen.”

“And your father didn’t return?”

“No.”

Ingrid looked at her lap for a long time. “I’m very sorry. I’ve been talking all about my loss, but you have suffered too. You have also waited for the kind of love that it is only natural to wish for.”

My eyes were suddenly wet. “But he’s trying now. I think he regrets what he has done.”

“So did my Ralph.” She paused. “But your father, he still has time left to change things, doesn’t he? If he’s strong enough.”

I nodded slowly.

“And you will forgive him?”

“I want to.”

“You are wise to keep trying.”

“But didn’t you keep trying?” I couldn’t resist asking. “Didn’t you keep getting hurt?”

She smiled. “Yes. And I would do it all over again in a heartbeat. That’s terrible, isn’t it? But the outcome didn’t make me love Ralph any less. It just made me regret my lack of control. But given another chance, I think I would continue to forgive endlessly.”

“Why?”

“Because it is the only way to find peace, don’t you think?”