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Authors: Courtney Angela Brkic
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We had to break in because she took the key with her.”
Magdalena considered this.
“We hoped it was a sign that she’d be back, but…”
Magdalena waited.
“I think someone had better break the news to your mother.”
And so the next morning Magdalena took the ferry to the mainland. The fires had been extinguished during the night, but smoke still hung above some sections of the island. The wind had died, and there was something eerie about those unmoving clouds. Magdalena sat on deck and watched the island retreat, those gray patches of sky visible long after Rosmarina itself had disappeared.
When she arrived at their mother’s apartment in Split several hours later, she found the shades still down and the air so still that a cold sweat broke out on her skin. In the kitchen a fly flew in drunken circles over three slices of stale bread, and she watched it make several revolutions while she waited for water to boil.
She had not visited their mother’s apartment in all the time that Jadranka had been staying there, and retrieving the spare key from the ledge above the front door had left her fingertips black with dust. As she washed them at the kitchen sink, she was unable to tell whether the soft groans coming from the next room were human or made by her mother’s mattress, and she scanned the kitchen quickly. There were no empty bottles on the kitchen counter, nor medication boxes in the trash, but she steeled herself nonetheless. With her mother, nothing was ever certain.
“I don’t know what you expect to find here,” Ana had said defensively the night before, when Magdalena telephoned to say that she was coming. “I’m not hiding your sister under the floorboards. I have no idea where she might have gone.”
Now, Magdalena lingered in the kitchen, watching bubbles of water rise from the bottom of the pot, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She added powdered coffee and sugar, stirring them slowly, the spoon making a thick sound against the metal side. Removing it from the flame, she waited several minutes longer than necessary, staring at that inky circle as the grounds settled. But when she poured it into a cup and carried it into the next room, her mother saw through the gesture immediately. “Don’t look at me like that.” She eyed the cup with suspicion. “I told you already, I have no idea where she went.”
Magdalena sat down on the other bed—Jadranka’s old bed—which was covered with clothes and old magazines. She flipped through one so quickly that the pages sounded like cracks from a tiny whip. How to tell if he’s willing to commit, proclaimed one headline. Another: The look for spring is GLITTER.
The single year that Magdalena and her sister had lived under their mother’s roof had effectively ended all their fantasies of maternal affection. Ana Babi ć was not the gentle beauty of her wedding photograph but a nervous woman who ingested the contents of various blister packs. Nikola, her second husband, was not the good-natured father figure she had promised her daughters but a violent drunk who once broke Magdalena’s hand by shoving her into a wall. The bone had failed to heal properly, and today there was a knot beneath the skin, which she rubbed in moments of distraction or worry.
Nikola had finally decamped while Magdalena was in her second year of university, Ana telephoning one evening with news of his departure. He had left her a letter, she said, although she never allowed anyone else to see it. He took almost nothing with him—most of his clothes remained hanging in the closet, and she let his razor sit so long on the lip of the bathroom sink that it permanently scarred the porcelain with rust.
“Good riddance,” had been Magdalena’s immediate response.
“You’ve always hated him,” Ana responded acidly before hanging up.
Her mother could no longer afford her old apartment, and so she moved into a high-rise that was a carbon copy of the twelve
Magdalena considered this.
“We hoped it was a sign that she’d be back, but…”
Magdalena waited.
“I think someone had better break the news to your mother.”
And so the next morning Magdalena took the ferry to the mainland. The fires had been extinguished during the night, but smoke still hung above some sections of the island. The wind had died, and there was something eerie about those unmoving clouds. Magdalena sat on deck and watched the island retreat, those gray patches of sky visible long after Rosmarina itself had disappeared.
When she arrived at their mother’s apartment in Split several hours later, she found the shades still down and the air so still that a cold sweat broke out on her skin. In the kitchen a fly flew in drunken circles over three slices of stale bread, and she watched it make several revolutions while she waited for water to boil.
She had not visited their mother’s apartment in all the time that Jadranka had been staying there, and retrieving the spare key from the ledge above the front door had left her fingertips black with dust. As she washed them at the kitchen sink, she was unable to tell whether the soft groans coming from the next room were human or made by her mother’s mattress, and she scanned the kitchen quickly. There were no empty bottles on the kitchen counter, nor medication boxes in the trash, but she steeled herself nonetheless. With her mother, nothing was ever certain.
“I don’t know what you expect to find here,” Ana had said defensively the night before, when Magdalena telephoned to say that she was coming. “I’m not hiding your sister under the floorboards. I have no idea where she might have gone.”
Now, Magdalena lingered in the kitchen, watching bubbles of water rise from the bottom of the pot, slowly at first, then faster and faster. She added powdered coffee and sugar, stirring them slowly, the spoon making a thick sound against the metal side. Removing it from the flame, she waited several minutes longer than necessary, staring at that inky circle as the grounds settled. But when she poured it into a cup and carried it into the next room, her mother saw through the gesture immediately. “Don’t look at me like that.” She eyed the cup with suspicion. “I told you already, I have no idea where she went.”
Magdalena sat down on the other bed—Jadranka’s old bed—which was covered with clothes and old magazines. She flipped through one so quickly that the pages sounded like cracks from a tiny whip. How to tell if he’s willing to commit, proclaimed one headline. Another: The look for spring is GLITTER.
The single year that Magdalena and her sister had lived under their mother’s roof had effectively ended all their fantasies of maternal affection. Ana Babi ć was not the gentle beauty of her wedding photograph but a nervous woman who ingested the contents of various blister packs. Nikola, her second husband, was not the good-natured father figure she had promised her daughters but a violent drunk who once broke Magdalena’s hand by shoving her into a wall. The bone had failed to heal properly, and today there was a knot beneath the skin, which she rubbed in moments of distraction or worry.
Nikola had finally decamped while Magdalena was in her second year of university, Ana telephoning one evening with news of his departure. He had left her a letter, she said, although she never allowed anyone else to see it. He took almost nothing with him—most of his clothes remained hanging in the closet, and she let his razor sit so long on the lip of the bathroom sink that it permanently scarred the porcelain with rust.
“Good riddance,” had been Magdalena’s immediate response.
“You’ve always hated him,” Ana responded acidly before hanging up.
Her mother could no longer afford her old apartment, and so she moved into a high-rise that was a carbon copy of the twelve