Page 49 of Go Back to December

“Ah, miha, it’s so drafty here.” Sofia rubs my arm in a rough sort of gesture, and I suppress a cringe. The look she and Peter share makes it worse. He’s likely told her about my dad, but they can’t possibly understand how close his death feels right now.

“Did you know the judge?” Sofia asks.

I shake my head. My mouth is so dry I can hardly move my tongue.

“She was a neighbor,” Peter supplies. “Incredible career on the bench and a very fine law professor.”

“Baz’s mentor. Kept him in line,” Sofia says. “She encouraged him to do The Hague internship.”

“Peter, Sofia.” A white-haired woman greets them with gentle hugs. “Thank you for coming.”

“Oh, it’s such a loss!” Sofia sniffs, and Peter hands her a tissue. “We are going to miss her. Baz especially. I’m sorry he’s not here. But you must meet his partner, Melody.”

“Melody.” The white-haired woman’s face brightens, and my heart twists tighter.

I take the hand she offers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

As she admires my completely inappropriate for a funeral scarf of many colors, her eyes flood. “She would love that you’re wearing that.”

A man with a grim face approaches and says gruffly, “We should get started.”

“Yes, of course.” The woman glances at my scarf. “This may sound crazy, but there’s a favorite poem of hers. It’s printed in the program. Melody, would you read it for us, for her?”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Please,” she whispers. “I don’t think I could get through it myself.”

Peter and Sofia’s heads bob, and Of course slips from someone’s mouth. The woman beams at the three of us and walks to the front of the room.

The Johnsons usher me to a collection of seats Luiza’s holding for us. Perspiration trickles from my palms, up my arms and down my neck. I peel off my coat and am desperate to remove my scarf to cool off, but I can’t. Not when it means this much to the people who are mourning the loss of a pioneering woman of justice.

There’s a formal program, which I can’t follow, because I can’t focus on anything. The fragrance of gardenias clogs my nose. I can feel every contraction and release of my heart pumping blood.

Karma is one full-fledged bitch. My nefarious scheme to ruin Baz is going to kill me.

The woman who loves my scarf stands up and speaks about her friend, her partner, their love of the law. She stops short of mentioning their love for each other, which clearly doesn’t need to be spoken. We hear it in the depth of her voice; we see it in the pride and pain on her face.

“Now we’d like to share with you a favorite poem that Melody will read.”

Luiza jerks forward in her seat, jaw dangling.

I nod my mutual disbelief as I rise. Slowly, I pass the other mourners, pause at the lectern and peer out at the crowd.

Everyone is patiently waiting for me, a total interloper at a most sacred farewell ritual, to begin.

On the lectern, the program is open to the poem. I glance down at the title.

In de Schaduw van de Wilg

When I blink, the words don’t magically change back into English.

My eyes wander further down the page, which is populated with more words I don’t recognize. From the capitalizations and double vowels, I deduce it’s entirely in Dutch.

Hoping for the English translation, I turn the page.

It’s blank. The last page of the program. There’s nothing left.

Sweat coats my back, my thighs, the soles of my feet in my thick black tights. Why in the world this woman would think I knew how to read and speak Dutch is beyond comprehension. It has to be the grief scrambling her reason.