Page 85 of Playing Her Game

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do,” I admit.

“You are not required to solve your entire life before dinner.”

A laugh escapes me, wet at the edges.

“Your mother has spent a great deal of time telling you what you ought to want,” she continues. “I would like you to have the opportunity to discover what you actually want.”

I think of Rez. Of the six days in Chicago, of the way he looked at me when I left, of his promise to call. I think of how frightened I am to hope for something that might not fit neatly into any plan I have ever made.

“I do know what I want,” I say quietly. “I'm just not sure what to do with it.”

Oma nods as if that is a perfectly reasonable answer.

“Then perhaps that is enough for now.”

I look at her. “And your trip?”

“I will go, I will have my conversation, and I will return.”

“And then?”

“Then I will speak to your parents.”

There is no hesitation in her voice.

I sit back, absorbing that. “You're going to tell them what to do?”

“No.” Her gaze holds mine. “I am going to tell them what they need to hear.”

A smile begins to form before I can stop it.

“Oh, I wish I could be there for that.”

“You will have your opportunity to speak for yourself. I have no intention of taking that from you.” She squeezes my hand once more. “But there are things that need to be said by someone they cannot dismiss as a daughter being emotional or confused.”

I know exactly what she means. My mother can turn anything I say into evidence that I don't understand the world, that I am too young or too sentimental or too caught up in the moment to see what is best for me.

Oma has never needed to raise her voice to command a room. She has lived long enough to know that power doesn't always announce itself.

“Will you tell me what happens?” I ask.

“When I return.”

“And until then, I lie to my parents.”

“You tell them what you know.” Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief. “Which, at present, is very little.”

I laugh properly this time.

She lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles, a gesture so old-fashioned and so entirely hers that my eyes sting again.

“You have always been dear to me, Anneliese. You know that.”

“I do.”

“Then let me do this.”

I nod, unable to find a clever answer or a way to make the emotion in my throat disappear.