Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(133)

They returned with shovels and buried Oskar and Sophie right there beneath the oak. Two smooth earthen mounds. That was all that was left of Oskar, the first boy I had ever kissed, and of Sophie, the dearest friend I would ever know. By the time I climbed down, my body was stiff with cold. The forest was silent, both a conspirator and mourner. There is never the light without the shadow.

It felt wrong to leave Sophie’s grave unmarked. There should have been a monument. A headstone to attest to her bravery, like her beloved Baron Wilhelm Alexander. The only marker I had was an acorn. I tucked it into the spot where Sophie’s body was buried. I lay the seidr branch across it like a sword.

It was the winter solstice. The longest night of the year. The loneliest of my life.

I made my way through the forest, the stars and my grief my only compass. Many times, I thought about lying down in the snow and going to sleep. How would I go on without Karl and Sophie? How? It was dawn when I heard the sound of waves and smelled salt in the air. I had made it to the beach, to Hohwacht. I staggered in the sand to the edge of the water. The fishing boat was late. There had been trouble and they could not be seen out until the dawn. In those hours I waited, I made my decision. I would go work for the Allies. When the baby came, I would give it up for adoption. I could not be its mother. There would be too much sadness. Besides, that baby had been Hanna Schmidt’s, and I was Hanna no longer.

The sun struggled to rise above the far gray line of the horizon. It took so long I wondered if it would rise or not. If it had lost the will to warm the earth.

“Come on,” I said to the sun.

It sat there like a puddle. Unformed. Uninterested.

“Get up!” I shouted.

I took a stone from the shore and tossed it toward the apathetic sun. Can you imagine? Foolish.

“Get up!” I screamed it this time. I cursed the sun. Tossed another stone. And another. My arms ached from the cold and the effort. I cried until I had no more tears to give.

“Get up, I say!”

And then, as if it heard me, the sun began its ascent. The milky haze turned a golden orange, a light so fierce it seemed to cut open the sea. Pressed against its glowing strength was the outline of the fishing boat, chugging toward the shore.

The ship grew bigger, pushed forward by that sun on the first day toward the greater days of light. The captain leaned over the railing and shone his lantern on me. “Greta Andersson?”

I put up a hand to block the glare. With the other, I reached for him. “Ja, jag ?r Greta Andersson.”





BROOKLYN, NEW YORK.


JUNE 2020

Miles cannot look away from his screen. His throat is tight.

In her Zoom square, Chloe uses her sleeve cuff to wipe her eyes, which are red and puffy. But in the quiet of her room, Mormor seems to be at some semblance of peace.

“I’m very tired now. I think I’ll rest,” she says.

Chloe looks at Miles. “Um … sorry, could you…?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He gives a small, static wave and clicks the red leave-meeting box.

Miles pads down the stairs to the kitchen. It’s 6:00 p.m. He needs to leave soon to meet Chi. He puts in a FaceTime call to Mama D in Amsterdam. It’s late there but she answers. Her hair is a mess. The way it’s standing up at the back reminds him of her punk days. She’s got a cup of tea in front of her. A red mug with two singing cats that Miles gave to her for Christmas one year. She has lugged it all the way to Europe. Behind her on the wall are the tacked-up photographs, every face a story.

“Hey, honey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. It’s mostly true. He’s not sure what or who he is, as if his seven years of change has come all at once. He only knows that he has become a different Miles. “There is a lot to say. It can wait. But first, there’s a story I think you need to hear…”





NEW YORK CITY.


DECEMBER 2020

There’s a printed sign outside the loft in Tribeca: “Voices of Resistance. A photography exhibition by Dallas Campbell-dela Cruz. Capacity 25. Masks must be worn. Please follow all social distancing protocols. Follow us on social media—#Vioces2020.”

“Uhhh…,” Chi says.

“Oh no,” Miles says.

He taps Mom Lisa’s shoulder as she arranges a front table display of five industrial-sized bottles of hand sanitizer. She has stationed them throughout the space. Their tall squirt necks dot the landscape like tiny dystopian cranes. Her undercut is freshly shaved and her suit—black pinstripe, cobalt-blue bow tie—is as sharp as her black-and-white wingtips.

“They misspelled Voices.” He points to the sign.

“What?” Mom Lisa marches over to inspect it and stands at attention like the soldier she once was. “Ayyyy, diyos ko. Don’t tell your mama, okay? She’s stressed enough.”

The loft space was a last-minute find. Some friend of a friend of an artist Mama D knows offered it up cheap after the Amsterdam exhibition had to be postponed another year due to the ongoing pandemic. Things turn out best for those who make the best of how things turn out, as his Grandma Susan would say. Miles has always thought it was a bumper sticker slogan until now. Mama D is making final adjustments to her remarks. Miles can tell she’s nervous.

“That mask really goes with your outfit,” Miles says, and hugs her.