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I wish I had been able to sleep in the plane.
I wish...I wish I had been able to sleep at all in the last week, really.
At this time of the day, I should usually be at the recording studio or in a rehearsal room, practicing for my next gig. Instead, though, I'm on my second train, with twenty hours of travel down and still one to go, as well as a seven-hour jet lag tugging at my heavy eyelids and my mind racing with the million outcomes this trip could have.
I wish I was home right now.
And yet.
And yet, I'm here, because her birthday is today and I haven't visited her since the accident seven years ago.
Last month I found a two-week period where I didn't have any obligations—and although my mind was screaming in alarm when the idea popped in my head, my heart was telling me it was time to face what I'd been avoiding for so long. After talking about it with my therapist I booked the plane and the train tickets, found a hotel and, although I almost cancelled twice, I'm here now.
There's no turning back, and maybe—just maybe—some people will be happy to see me.
The automated voice in the speakers announces the stop for Würzburg in thirty minutes. I take off my eye mask, frustrated that I wasn't able to sleep despite the exhaustion weighing on my shoulders, and resolve to squinting outside my window until the kilometres of farm fields, bathed in the sunrise, change into small towns, and finally, into the white brick and tinted windows of the train station walls.
The station looks just as I remember it: the impersonal hollow hallways, the giant cork board of tourism attractions posters, the kitsch café for tired travellers willing to pay ten euros for a bland coffee, the information stand and convenience store with its dozens of brochures lined next to the European gossip magazines and the local paper...
And the biggest, most popular shop of the station, situated right next to the exit that leads to the Main Street: the florist.
How many times have I stopped there when coming back from a trip to South Korea, at the end of a summer or holiday period, just to get something for Elizabeth to go with the gift I had gotten her? Too many times to recall, too long ago now.
For the first time in seven years, I step into the shop.
My eyes automatically search for the hydrangea arrangements, which I don't recall were placed so far back in the store—it seems something, in this station, has changed after all.
I reach for the white hydrangeas paired with pink tulips—her favourites, and possibly the last ones of the season—as if by muscle memory. However, my eyes fall on a more modest arrangement of green hydrangeas paired with lavender stems. A pairing I would never have thought of, and yet...
The emerald green of the hydrangea petals reminds me so much of her eyes, so bright and bold. And the lavender smells as lovely as the scented candles she liked to light in the apartment when we arranged a date night in the comfort of our home, when everything in our lives perfectly fell into place.
My hand gently brushes a petal on the bouquet.
It looks like the white hydrangeas will have to wait until next year.
I pay for the second arrangement and step out of the station in the brisk air of this October morning. A strong gust of wind blows through my open coat—thankfully, a few taxis have already started to line up in front of the station, and I'm sheltered from the cold quickly.
With my hand luggage secured in the trunk and the flower bouquet in my hands, I give the name of my hotel and get settled in the heated space. I continue gazing out the window during the short ride, curious to know if any of the shops I used to know have closed—and indeed, I barely recognize any storefronts on the street, a stark reminder of all the years that have passed since my last visit.
Even the hotel where I stop has undergone major renovations, with the change of red bricks to tinted windows for a more modern look. Really, what's the kick for tinted windows, I'll never understand it. And what's with that odd abstract chandelier hanging from the ceiling—
A buzz on my phone distracts me from my contemplation.
-> Do I still pick you up at your hotel?
I raise an eyebrow.
I thought I was coming over to your house first?
The three dots appear, disappear, and come back.
-> Ah, right, I forgot. Okay. Nine, right?
Nine. See you, Clemens.
-> 👍🏻
I shut my phone, repress a yawn, already half-asleep now that I've gotten settled in a lounge chair (more comfortable than the previous ones, I'll admit), and move to the reception desk. The hotel bed awaits me in my room, and I can't wait to catch up on some much-needed sleep.
⚡️
At nine on the dot, the taxi stops in front of the Müller's address in Rottendorf. It takes me a moment to gather my courage and step out of the vehicle after paying; Clemens and I haven't properly spoken since Elizabeth died, excluding the awkwardly polite conversation we had last week when I told him I'd visit the city.
I knock three times on the red door of the old house. As I wait for him or his wife Carmen to answer the door, my heart racing with nervous anticipation, it's like time comes at a standstill—I'm twenty-eight again and picking up Elizabeth for our first date, fully aware that one of her parents, or worse, her brother, could answer the door.
When it squeaks open, a young woman in her twenties, blue eyed and blonde like Clemens, answers. "Can I help you?"
I could've sworn she was born when I was finishing my masters...
"Yes," I croak out in German. The rest of the sentence and practically everything I practised in the plane flies out of my brain, so I resolve to speaking English. "Clemens is waiting for me."
I must look like an idiot, with my flowers in hand and my slightly panicked face. I swear, I swear Annika was only born eight years ago, how could she have become a woman already? Or have the years blurred together so much that my sense of time has changed?
The woman's confused expression shifts into understanding after scrutinizing me. She steps back a little and opens the door wider.
"Oh, yeah, he told me he was waiting for someone," she simply answers in a sharp local accent. "Come in."
I awkwardly step in the doorway and shut the door behind me. I shuffle with the lock before I realize it's been modernized and let her close it.
A young girl around seven years old, with blond pigtails and dressed in baby blue autumn dress and leggings, runs up the flight of stairs by the entrance hall and misses by a hair's breadth the massive cabinet displaying various children's gymnastics trophies I don't recognize.
Well, it's better than the collection of army medals Betty's father hung in there, I suppose.
"Catherine?", the little girl asks as she inches closer to us.
Her blue eyes stare up at me in confusion, and I almost choke on my breath when the woman answers her.
"Yes Annika?"
"Who's that?"
Blessed with her father's juvenile forwardness, I see.
At least it confirms that Annika has not, somehow, aged twice as fast in the span of seven years. But did Clemens have another daughter before marrying Carmen?
"I think he's a friend of your dad. Is he downstairs?"
"Yeah, he's looking through some photo albums in the guest room."
"Thank you." And to me, in English: "Wait here."
"Sure."
Catherine disappears downstairs with Annika, giving me time to calm the tornado of thoughts that has formed in my head in the last five minutes. All my questions will have to wait—I'm not really here for a long visit.
Clemens runs up the flight of stairs with a white letter envelope and a trio of white tulips in hand, the two girls following behind him. "I know this isn't the usual babysitting schedule, but thank you for coming so quickly, Catherine." He grabs his coat from the closet next to the door and kisses Annika on her forehead. "Don't forget to finish your homework, okay? You know the rules. I will be back tonight." And finally, he turns his head to me. "Zeno."
"Clemens."
He gestures his hand toward the door. I nod once more to the two girls and open it, only to awkwardly wait for Clemens to pass first. We get settled in his black Tesla quietly while I try to think of anything to fill in the silence.
"Annika's all grown up now. I still remember her baptismal ceremony. How old is she now, seven?"
"She's turning eight in three days," Clemens replies, uninterested.
"Time flies."
"It does."
First attempt at breaking the tension failed.
"How's Carmen?"
"In Spain. Her dad isn't doing well."
"Oh. I'm sorry. Tell her I hope he gets better soon."
"I will."
The silence settles again. This time, I let it hover until we arrive at the cemetery's parking lot. "Do you want to go first?"
"No, go ahead."
"Okay. Which row is she buried in?"
"She wasn't buried." I raise my eyebrows in surprise, but let him continue. "There's a memorial wall at the back on your right, next to the statue of Jesus. We had a picture of her framed, you'll find her easily."
"So what? You cremated her?"
Clemens turns his head to me and smirks. "Why do you care? You weren't there for her funeral and suddenly you're angry we did something you don't like?"
"I was—"
"A coward, Zeno." A coward? He just called me a coward? "Cremation and spread of ashes are the traditions in our family, and so we went with our traditions. I should be the one asking you where you went after you gave us the apartment keys."
"I had to go bury my father, okay? And—" I take a deep breath to level my tone, which wavers with every word. "And I'm not angry you cremated her," I lie through gritted teeth. "I'm just surprised, since it isn't in my traditions."
I step out the car and shut the door before I can let my mouth run any more. I don't remember ever being this angry at someone, but it seems both Müller siblings can bring out quite intense reactions from me.
Piece of shit.
Flowers held tightly against my chest, I march up to the stone wall, frustration and incomprehension slowly bubbling up in my chest. I nearly forget to make my cross sign when I pass by the Holy statue in my hurry.
All of it deflects when my eyes fall on Elizabeth's last graduation portrait, framed next to her memorial text.
Elizabeth Müller
October 18th, 1987 - April 25nd, 2016
Beloved chosen daughter, sister and friend
Time falls away, but these small hours still remain
My throat closes up when I read what's been engraved in the stone. In nostalgia, yes, because of the song lyrics chosen for her memorial, but also in anger—because of course, of course they would omit the obvious presence of the engagement ring on her finger, indirectly making a fool out of me every time somebody walks by to notice a missing dedication.
It only serves to remind me just how much fault I have in this whole story.
In a stone vase under the scriptures, I squeeze the flowers in next to a deteriorating duo of white tulips in an attempt to dissolve the mounting feelings inside of me. In the frame, her picture keeps smiling widely in my direction, her eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness.
The camera clicks. A flash illuminates the photoshoot area and leaves as quickly as it came. Done with her portraits, Elizabeth slowly puts the diploma roll and the flowers down on the photographer's desk, careful not to damage the fragile papers. The assistant helps her take off the black draped gown and the white scarf before she gets to take her leave.
When she turns to me, her smile is as bright as the sun shining outside, and there are tears rolling down her cheeks. "Doctors of music."
"Doctors of music," I repeat, the crack in my voice betraying the buildup of emotions I've been holding back for the last week. She jumps in my arms so suddenly that I have to take a few steps back, and when I feel balanced I wrap my arms around her. "I'm so proud of you, Betty."
"I'm proud of you too honey," she whispers. "And you know what the best part of all this is?"
"What is it?"
"We did it together." But before I have the time to respond to her sweet words, she gasps loudly and pulls back, making me panic. "I didn't take off my ring during the pictures!"
What? "But is that so bad? I just asked you two days ago..."
"It's because...I haven't told my parents about the engagement yet..." And again, before I can even think of something to say, her expression changes, this time in a mischievous one. "Well, they could always find out when the printed pictures come in, could they?"
I smile widely, a few happy tears of my own escaping my eyes when I laugh. I can't wait to marry this woman.
"Happy birthday, my love," I whisper in the wind. The rest of my words die with the sound of leaves crushed under steps. "Can't you give me another minute?"
"I already delayed the opening of my pharmacy by one hour, I can't do more. Let me have some time with my sister."
It barely took us fifteen minutes to get here and you're worried about being late?!
Not without a roll of my eyes, obviously hidden from Clemens to keep some politeness, I step away from the memorial with one more cross sign before walking back to the car, letting Clemens have his space.
I tug on the door handle, hoping to at least sit down while I wait. The door doesn't budge, locked.
God, this man pisses me off so much. I wonder how Elizabeth put up with him when he was a teenager, already spoiled by his parents as an only child for the first fourteen years of his life.
I check my watch, growing impatient to leave. Now that I know where she is, I can come back, but for now I just want to go back to my room. With another glance in the car, I notice my name written on the envelope Clemens brought in what I can only assume is Carmen's handwriting.
What could this envelope possibly hold?
At 9:40 on the dot, Clemens comes back in complete silence, his shoulders uncharacteristically hunched over. We get settled back inside, but he doesn't start the car just yet.
"Carmen thought I should wait for you to come back before I threw it out, in case there were some pictures or videos you didn't have."
He holds out the envelope to me, his eyes fixed on a spot ahead of us. I open it easily, its contents preventing it from closing properly.
"Oh."
Betty's iPhone.
"It's already unlocked, a friend of hers knew her password. Carmen said it's what Ellie would have wanted. She was convinced you'd come back sooner or later to visit, and that you deserved to revisit it before I got rid of it."
He starts the car and drives off, my stumped silence filling the air between us. My thumb hovers over the power button, unsure of what I should do—unsure if I should do something.
Do I deserve it? Do I deserve to see the pictures, the videos dear to her, have a look in her memories even after what I've done?
The car stops. We're at the hotel entrance.
If Clemens is kind enough to keep it even if his wife is away...
"Thank you."
He offers me a tight smile and nods his head. "Just bring it back to me before you leave."
"Of course."
And for the fraction of a second, when I turn to him, I see the man beyond the standoffish appearance—I see the older brother who lost his adopted sister, who never got to see justice served, and most likely, who has been living with more questions than I could imagine about the circumstances of her death.
"And I'm sorry. About Betty. If you want to know what happened..."
His eyes avoiding mine, he simply nods. "Maybe another day."
I return the nod and close the door. I turn away from the car as he drives off, unable to bear another second the frigid tension between us.
I don't think there will be another day. Not this year, anyway.
⚡️
I wish I could say that I already shed all the tears in my body for the year during the last three months of therapy.
Unfortunately, the moment I open her phone, a part of my life in Germany with her seems to break free from the corner where I had pushed it far enough to forget it existed.
Parties with friends.
Dates, at home and outside.
Short videos of her playing, and auditions.
Recordings of her guitar, voice notes to remember a melody that came up in the tram. Vows in progress and a slurred Siri, set an alarm for six in the morning, followed by my voice murmuring something unintelligible behind her, her drunk giggle, and the sound of the phone falling to the ground.
I end up never going out of my room after coming back from the cemetery and fall asleep at nine in the evening, emotionally depleted.
I suffer the consequences of this trip to the past in my sleep. Fiction and memories mix to create a timeline completely out of reach, no matter how fast I run,
and I run,
and I run,
to lost moments and lost hopes I can only find in my dreams.