Following her performance, I praised her until she turned the pigment of a peach. If I could just achieve the same bravery as she. She begged me that I deny telling our father the story of her great feat. Why does she insist on destroying my heart with these petite requests? Did she sincerely believe that I, her most loyal follower, would report her misdeeds to our father? It doesn’t take a genius to know he would collapse into worry the instant he heard his sweet child decided to challenge what he himself could not. I informed her I would never commit such a crime.
She looked like Hedvig did when I presumed she was about to have little shits. Adrienne’s face became like a scrunched up orange and she requested I accompany her to the kitchen tonight to discourse something with Father. She possessed an announcement. I speculated that she would discuss her plans to leave KISZ, forage into the world on her own, just like I did when I was her age (that’s twelve).
Instead she inquired from both of us, at the same time, where her mom went. She looked so old then. I wanted to halt her from talking so I could never view her wearing the pain of an older person. She pointed to her breasts, which closely invoked vomit in me, and demanded who would be there to explain them to her. Is it possible Adrienne could ravage my heart times two? My father delivered the answer he discoursed with us ad nauseam: She moved away when Adrienne was three. Things altered, Father told her.
Adrienne insisted he inform her where our mom was placed. I interpreted my father at that juncture as so guilty for failing Adrienne on this monumental level. He would never be able to bestow upon her the love a mom could. Neither of us would be able to accomplish that.
At times, I discover Adrienne conversing with herself in a mirror. She carries on a complete conversation with her reflection. To say that I am not tempted to eavesdrop for even a short period of time would be an understatement. I spy on her. Usually she perches on the counter of the bathroom and stares at her reflection. She touches her mirror self’s eyes, and bangs, and lips. That’s all while she is conversing, of course. She says a line, then says a response. It’s a back and forth exchange, with someone on the other end telling her masses of very loving things.
One time, I remember, she offered to herself a story about how she felt when she received an outstanding score on a test. For this mirror story, the teacher had paraded examples from Adrienne’s writing across the class. When she peered sideways, she spied the boy she liked grimacing. But, only two days later, he proposed they meet behind the bathroom. When she followed his proposition, he kissed her. After, they both departed in the opposite direction. She never spoke to him again. She’s twelve, so this disgusts me a little, but I keep listening. They never met again, but she loves him, she says.
I know who she fabricates to be encountering in those bathroom settings. It’s Mom. She’s trying so aggressively to make a relationship. It’s just… Mom doesn’t sound right when Adrienne pretends. She sounds like a little girl, and I hope Adrienne’s imagination is strong enough, and I hope she stays young enough, so she doesn’t suffer the same realization that our mom is no longer our mom.
I couldn’t forget these bathroom scenes now that Adrienne peered into Father and I in the kitchen asking of our mom. What was I supposed to say? I reclined in the corner of the kitchen when Father completely dissipated and confessed he heard she could be wandering in Munich. I could kick him at that moment. Why would he deliver this information to his daughter? She cannot leave now to seek Mom. She is twelve, and we all knew Father would not depart the country for that.
Adrienne’s eyes engulfed her face. I strove to hug her but I barred myself from nearing her. This was her obtrusion to deal with on her own. She begged Father that we impart on a family vacation there. He looked at me, and then he informed Adrienne that we lacked the money to travel internationally. Adrienne’s eyes downcast and she appeared to be swallowing the information in massive chunks.
She asked if Father ever communicated with Mom. I never even ventured toward this topic. But, there Adrienne went, acting braver than I’ll ever accomplish. I could see my father wincing in his side. Adrienne’s words stabbed into his heart, and mine as well. He refrained from putting forth an answer to Adrienne’s question. He explained that she left, slipping out away at night time. She did not secretly go. She departed after we talked for months about it. It was a choice we would need to accept because we would never accomplish changing it, he mandated.
What I knew Father was attempting to arrive at is that he refused to allow Mom to become another one of our famous statistics. Suicide—a popular way to go in this country. It was 1956 and I had reached the age of eighteen when she prepared to leave us, and I witnessed the depressive state she occupied. At night time, she cried, and I heard through the walls. At day time, she said very small amounts of words to me.
At the present moment, I grasp her explanations for leaving. You might not remember how aggravating it becomes when you are told for hundreds of times that you cannot grow into who you desire to be. Instead, you fabricate that your job makes sense and that your life is adequate. Mom worked the night time duties in a factory that produced footwear. During the day time, she would sleep while Father journeyed off to his work. They saw each other on Sundays, but what could they talk about when they sparsely participated in activities together? I always stored up data to talk to my mom about, when she was awake, which was only for three hours before I retired for the night in my bed.
And so one day I awoke to Father towering above my bed. He rested his hand on top of my shoulder and informed me that my mom became sick. He said she concluded that she must leave to get better. She will go to a different country until she possesses the ability to return. In that moment, I speculated she would come back to Hungary sooner rather than in the distance. I informed Father.
My father hauled a big breath. Apparently, he had uttered wrong words to me. I failed to understand until that precise moment, that Mom actually was not going to return. Father said we must move onward, but I knew he still preserved his love for our mom like the jar of pickles on our shelves. His love would stay fresh forever because it was meant to be decayed in the first instance anyway. That’s how love was to him. Ruined before it was ever reached.
I didn’t want Adrienne to taste this kind of love, and neither did Father, so we reserved to help her move onward too. I thought we had done as superb a job as we could muster, but Adrienne grew old before we realized. And she stood in front of us, yet both of us had reserved no words for her.
But, how would you, Uncle Lanci, explain to a petite person who still has years until she is grown old, that her mom disappeared into the West because unlike me or my father, she never put faith in the fact that Hungary could get better? Was she incorrect in her disbelief of our country? And how is it, Uncle Lanci, that I explain all of these particulars to Adrienne, whose sole desire is for her mom to divulge the details of adolescence to her? I wonder if I should approach Hedvig and request her to discuss puberty with Adrienne.
So, here’s what I thought first to say: “Adrienne, you’ll understand when you just get older. Like I did.”
I resolved to accompany her to a walk. That made up plan one. I thought it smelled of shit too, Uncle Lanci. Don’t worry; I refused to do that absolutely dumb thing to my petite Adrienne.
So, I reasoned I would say, “Adrienne. She persists to love you, but she is unable to return to Hungary.” Naturally, Adrienne would reply with, “Why?” Just like she insisted upon doing with Father. I could inform her that she had to get better with doctors from afar. They could not all possibly journey to Hungary, so she went there. I can see how this answer would tie me up in knots. I would refrain from lying to her at all costs, though.