Free One Thing Stolen by Beth Kephart Page B

She lays it down beside me, on the crinkle paper on the bed.
    Katherine?
    Yes?
    How do you . . . My dad?
    That’s a story for someday.
    You’re American, I say. But you—
    That happens all the time, she says. People fall in love with Florence. Get some rest, she tells me. I’ll be next door if you need me.
    Time is a white cloud.
    Time is drifting.

33

    The room is dim. The glass jars on the glass shelves are still and the windows are open and somewhere, closer now, there is the sound of silverware, the smell of carbonara, voices.
    I close my eyes and I see Maggie and me in West Philadelphia—someone playing bluegrass and a big fan above our heads motoring the warm air through.
Listen
, Maggie said, and was it summer, do you know, when my best friend was so small and so strong and so lit up inside with all that noise and bluegrass, and when no one knew that something was wrong with me? No one would have guessed it.
    I see you’re awake.
    It’s Dad in the room on the stool across the way. The window behind him is closed, its panes like a mirror. There are shadows beneath Dad’s eyes, the back of his head reflected in the window, all those glass jars on glass shelves, the birds quiet.
    What time is it?
    Dad pulls up his sleeve, checks his watch. Just past six.
    The whole day’s gone.
    You slept, Nadia. You were peaceful. How are you?
    I’m—
    I try to sit, but I feel dizzy. I try again and now Dad’s at my side, his big hands steadying me, helping me, slowly. Like I don’t have any bones. Like I’m all melt. Steady.
    You must be hungry, Dad says.
    I don’t—
    Can you stand up? Katherine’s been cooking.
    I say I’m okay, but the room wobbles. Dad helps me up from the crinkle bed, stands with me until my bare feet are steady on the floor. He slips his arm around me and guides me across the tiles through a door I hadn’t seen, into a large square room, where Katherine sits at a table built for two in a room of white, some gray stones rubbing through the thick walls. Along the wall, carved out of granite, is a sink, a half refrigerator, an old stove. There are three light-wood cabinets hanging above, and through each of the handles is looped an embroidered dish towel—purple, yellow, pink.
    You’ve had us worried, Dad says, pulling a chair out for me to sit on, moving the books on the chair to the floor, never taking one arm from me, being sure. He says that Mom and Jack had to leave earlier, that we’ll just have some dinner, that Katherine’s been cooking, that we’re working toward a plan.
    You need time with someone who might understand what’s going on, Dad says. Someone who can watch you, talk to you. Your mother and I . . . we don’t have answers. Your mother and I . . . we just . . . Nadia . . . we love you. You know that we do. Katherine is a neurologist. Retired now, but famous. She knows doctors. She can help you.
    Katherine serves the carbonara from a single pot as Dad talks. She takes flecks of parsley from a Pyrex dish and sprinkles them on top.
    Still warm, she says. Sitting down and letting me take it in, waiting for me to ask questions, maybe, but I have none. I don’t understand, but I do. Katherine is a neurologist. We need answers.
    Dad gets up to crank the windows closed. There is a stack of books on the floor, a floral couch, a table of more books—Italian, American—newspapers, a small TV that looks like the first TV ever built. On the windowsill sits a miniature of the
biblioteca
that we pass each day on our way through Santa Croce, and beside that, tipping toward the glass, is a portrait of Michelangelo—small as a postcard, gold-framed.
    More? she asks me.
    It’s good, I say.
    She gets up, fills my plate, rinses a bunch of grapes, and fits them into a tall white bowl—round as miniature Christmas balls and bright as garnets. She carries the bowl and the plate to the table and slips into her seat, and I see how tall Katherine is, evensitting. They talk