“We should search the water, to be sure.”
I tip my head to the side, giving her a sidelong glance. She doesn’t seem to be the mystical type. “Why? Do you buy into that stuff?”
She stares into the distance. “It does not matter if I believe. What matters is if Sylvie believes.”
After this, Karin bids me goodbye and tells me they will begin combing the area immediately but that their most intensive search will start the following weekend. Please let Sylvie be back before then.
As she pulls out of the driveway, I realize she didn’t ask for an item of Sylvie’s clothing or anything else with a scent on it. I am about to run after the car and call her back when understanding strikes like a blow to my chest.
Karin is not looking for Sylvie. She is searching for her body.
Chapter 21
Sylvie
Friday, April 22
Lukas and I were packed and about to leave for the airport. But when I went to Grandma’s room to say goodbye, it seemed like she was hardly breathing. She had shrunk so deeply into her bed that the shape of her body was barely visible beneath the sheets, as if she were already starting to leave us. I could feel death in the room, like a presence waiting behind the heavy curtains to claim her fully. Isa hovered over Grandma, a strained look on her usually cheerful face, fussing with the oxygen tank.
“Maybe we shouldn’t—” My eyelids felt hot and gummy. How could I leave Grandma like this? My time with her was precious. Every bite I fed her, every song I sang to her, I feared would be the last.
She opened her mouth but no words came out. She started to cough, a delicate skull fighting for air. I helped her sit upright. She held on to my arm and pulled my ear toward her lips. “Go.”
With a barely discernible gesture, she pointed toward Tasha, who sat on the bedside table with her serene smile, and then to the Kuan Yin in the corner altar. “I am in the hands of the goddess.”
Lukas bent over the two of us, his forehead furrowed. “We could still cancel. It would be no problem.”
“It is your birthday weekend,” Grandma said. After all these years, she had remembered. “I did not call you back here to watch me die. I would never wish that burden on the ones I love most. I only wanted to see you live. Go. For me.”
I took her frail body in my arms and murmured into her wispy hair, “I love you. We will be back in a few days.”
She nodded and made an impatient gesture with her hand for us to leave. When Lukas bent down to say goodbye, she caught his shirt. “Take care of her.”
He hugged her and said, “I will.”
Her next words were a whisper of air. “Open your hearts, be happy.”
At our meeting point at Schiphol Airport, I spotted Estelle from a distance. She wore an exotic linen dress that accentuated her defined collarbones underneath a fringe-trimmed opera stole in rich beige, the same color as her golden skin. She grabbed me first, kissing me fully on the lips, practically sticking her tongue down my throat. That was Estelle. “I always wanted to do that, you gorgeous thing.”
Laughing, I pushed her away. “Where did you get that dress? It’s lovely.”
“I have a tailor in Bombay who designs them for me. I go to him whenever I fly there. I will get one for you next time.” Then she turned to Lukas. “And now you.” She kissed him thoroughly as well until a masculine hand landed on Lukas’s hair and pulled him away from her.
“I have had enough of that,” Filip said, eyes bright, fingers still tangled in Lukas’s black locks, looking fine in his straight-legged dark jeans, tailored black jacket, and a navy slim-fit button-down shirt decorated with a tiny diamond pattern. Seeing the two of them together almost stopped my breath. He gave Lukas an affectionate swat on the back of his head.
“You saved me,” Lukas said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.
“Yeah, right. You look as proud as an ape with seven dicks,” Filip said. “And what the hell are you wearing? Could you not find something a bit nicer?”
“What?” Baffled, Lukas looked down at his battered leather jacket and faded jeans above the solid low hiking boots he always wore. I hid a smile.
“It might be a good idea to pack a little more in there,” Filip said, gesturing at the small canvas backpack Lukas had slung over his shoulder that somehow held all his clothing and toiletries. “And a bit less of that.” Filip pointed to the giant black camera bag filled with lenses and equipment Lukas took everywhere.
“I brought clean underwear,” muttered Lukas.
“Come on, you delicious thing,” Estelle said, linking her arm through Lukas’s. “We had better go through security.” She paused to let a flock of Asian tourists pass. At the end came an elderly woman in a wheelchair, pushed by a young, attractive woman, probably her granddaughter.
“Wait.” I stood there, frozen amid the bustle of the crowd. “I cannot stop thinking about Grandma. Maybe I should stay.”
They all stopped. Filip reached out and rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. “It is your decision, belle Sylvie, but I think your grandma would want you to enjoy your birthday.”
I cast my eyes over my little group of friends—surprised they looked concerned for me—and covered his hand with mine. “You have it right. And I have never been to Venice before.”
I dozed on the airplane against Filip’s shoulder. He woke me as we were about to land at Marco Polo Airport. Were Estelle and Lukas snuggling in the seats behind us too? I craned my neck to look out the window. I saw large islands set in a turquoise sea, and a wide water highway set off by long wooden pilings, where boats and water taxis sped in two directions. I was in an alternate reality.
We grabbed our luggage after we disembarked. Outside the terminal, even the air smelled different, like seaweed and cut grass. Here, I would forget about Jim. Here, I would become a new Sylvie, happy and free with her friends. We walked to the dock, where we debated the ferry or a more expensive water taxi. In the end, since there were four of us, we decided to splurge on the taxi.
Our driver, a cute Italian guy wearing a tight T-shirt and sunglasses, cast longing glances at Estelle the entire trip to our hotel. She laughed and waved at the boats that passed while her hair tossed in the wind. On the same water highway I had seen from the air, we sped past the Alilaguna water bus. It was jammed with tourists pressed against windows, clicking pictures. Lukas came and stood beside me, his shoulder solid against mine. We watched Italian teenagers cruise by in speedboats, and wealthy older couples enjoying their rides in luxurious yachts.
By the time we passed the island of Murano and then curved around the coast of Castello, the sun hung above the horizon like a molten gold medallion. I had expected Venice to be overrated. Everyone knew it was inundated with tourists, the authentic Venice eradicated by money-making shops, the city slowly sinking beneath the weight of its own clichés. I too had read Death in Venice. And yet I was captivated by the skyline of thirteenth-century buildings lit by globes of light, the silhouette of the winged Lion of Venice atop its tall granite column against a pink-streaked sunset. A yellow-and-orange craft sped past painted with the words Ambulanza, Venezia Emergenza: an ambulance boat. Yes, Venice was a myth. But its magic was real too.