Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(102)
The letter smells earthy, like something exhumed.
Dear Jenny,
Sometimes we make mistakes that have consequences we cannot foresee. I made such a mistake myself and it has been the ghost in my life every day since. We cannot change the past. It is done. But we have the choice to live in courage going forward. I hope you will find the courage to become your true self.
Someone once gifted this to me. Better you should have it now. From small acorns grow mighty trees. Plant something good for yourself and it will prove good for others, too.
Your friend,
Lotte Hermann
Miles sits with the acorn in his hand. It’s small but it feels weighty. He hits the search engine for anything on a Lotte Hermann in Germany. He finds a trove of wrong Hermanns on Facebook and LinkedIn. At last, he finds an article from 2010 about the fortieth anniversary of the Die Eichel treatment center in Berlin. He hits translate on the site, ignoring the oddball verb tenses to get the gist.
DIE EICHEL: 40 YEARS OF HEALING
Before all the ones had heard the term, PTSD, Charlotte “Lotte” Hermann-Bauer was to treating those who will suffer from this trauma. Since 1970, Frau Hermann has helped many mend broken lives, serving equally those who suffered from what had been done to them or from what they ones have done to others during the war.
“All deserve healing,” Frau Hermann insists from her second-floor office with its view of summer trees which she visits three days a week, commuting from Bremen where she lives with her second husband, Franz Bauer. “Guilt, shame, trauma, abuse—these are poisons in the soil. The garden must be planted anew. For nothing good can grow in poisoned soil.”
Miles forwards the article to Chloe. Then a text floats up from Mom Lisa.
ML: Got the day off. Gonna come over around two.
Miles breaks into a grin. It feels like Christmas.
M2G: What if I’m not home?
ML: Funny. See you soon.
* * *
They sit wearing masks in the backyard eight feet apart under sweet blue skies. It’s weird for them not to hug. Mom Lisa and the whole dela Cruz clan are big huggers. It’s been weeks since he’s seen her. Her eyes look bruised with fatigue. Her undercut has grown out, making the longer portion on top stick out at a weird angle. At any other time, he’d razz her about it. But he’s just glad to have her there. She’s brought him a tinfoil container of adobo that one of the other Filipina nurses she’s staying with has cooked. Miles digs into the comfort of the vinegary pork and rice. It reminds him of the times they would visit his grandparents and cousins in California. Maybe he’ll ask his Iola Concepción to show him how to make it so her recipe won’t be forgotten.
“This is amazing,” he says.
“Para sa totoo,” Lisa answers, and tilts her face toward the sky.
Mama D is a talker. When Miles and Mom Lisa are together, they can fall into relaxed silences, happily alone together. She says Miles would be good at fishing, which she likes to do sometimes with her brothers and cousins. They’ve run through their favorite topics—video games, Marvel movies, the Brooklyn Nets—and have studiously avoided the scary ones—Covid, the hospital, the patients she’s lost. Dodger has settled his tanklike butt on Lisa’s feet and won’t get up, like he thinks he can keep her there. It’s around three thirty. The sun is high and edgeless.
“Mom. Can I ask you a question?”
Mom Lisa lifts her head up from her sun-drowse. She quirks an eyebrow, nods.
“How do you talk to girls?”
The plastic lawn chair groans as Mom Lisa bends forward laughing. “Oh, Iho. I used to ask myself the same question.”
“Okay, but, obviously you figured it out.”
“Like a boss.”
“But, like, what if you might’ve said the wrong thing to a girl and she’s not talking to you?”
“Do you think you were wrong?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I think I was wrong in the way I went about it.”
Mom Lisa nods slowly. “Okay. I’m gonna teach you some magic words. This is straight outta the lesbian grimoire. Top secret stuff. You ready?”
Miles leans forward. “Ready.”
“Here it comes.” Mom Lisa holds his gaze. “I. Am. Sorry.”
She sits back in her chair. Sips her guava juice from a straw tucked beneath her mask.
“Okay. Thanks for that,” Miles says, pissed.
“You’re welcome. Don’t mope.”
“I’m not moping.”
“Well, you’re mope-adjacent. I can tell even with your mask on.”
“You know, you’re not right about everything.” He’s angry and he’s angrier that he feels guilty about it. Angry that he can’t even get pissed off at his mom now without thinking, What if she gets sick? What if this is the last time we’re together? Why couldn’t she just answer his question? He is moping. He doesn’t care. He enjoys a good sulk.
“Look, just be a person, Iho,” Mom Lisa says, soft and sincere. “Be yourself. That’s the most radical thing you can do.”
Two lawns over, their neighbor Mr. Zhao sings Britney Spears off-key while he prunes his roses.
“Dang,” Mom Lisa says, shaking her head. “The pandemic hasn’t improved his voice one bit.”