Eleven
“Once we accept our limits, we go beyond them.”
~Albert Einstein
Elliot watched the belt at baggage claim go around, waiting for their luggage to appear while Nadia hung at his side, falling asleep on his shoulder.
He’d never seen a woman sleep for practically twenty hours straight, but somehow she managed it, only waking up for a few minutes here and there during the flight. And she was still tired?
While she had slept on the plane, he learned as much as he possibly could about her language. Her grogginess kept her close to his side, however, so he wasn’t complaining.
“There’s my bag.” She lifted her head and reached for her suitcase.
Watching the rubber curtain, he waited for his to appear. A new load came through and several people surged forward to claim their belongings, but he still didn’t see his. The longer they waited the more his concern grew.
“Do you think we should file your name with baggage claim? They’ll contact us when they find it.”
“Let’s just wait a little longer. Here come some more.” His stomach knotted at the horrifying possibility he might have to make do without his things.
“None of these people were on our flight. I think our lot’s done.”
His jaw ticked as he tried not to lose his temper.
He didn’t want Nadia to see how much a little setback could rattle him, so he worked hard to keep it together.
Of course, his bag was the only one missing on the entire flight.
That was just his luck. Forcing out a deep breath, he grit his teeth. “Fine.”
After filling out the superfluous forms and leaving Nadia’s aunt’s phone number, along with his cell, they found their way to the exit. It was just after six a.m. and the sun had yet to rise.
Loading their carry-on and her suitcase in the trunk of a cab, he focused on keeping his breathing even and held her door. Nadia gave the driver the address and they were on their way.
“It’s so strange being back. Everything looks exactly the same, yet so different.”
Budapest was lovely. The European architecture always impressed him, but Nadia didn’t live directly in the city. Her family resided just outside the city limits in the town of érd.
Congested streets gave way to thoroughfares in ill repair, so narrow at parts two cars wouldn’t fit.
Scrubby land left wide-open patches of earth, adjacent to terracotta-roofed homes packed tighter than sardines.
It made his skin itch, seeing the two-hundred unit apartments and imagining close to eight hundred residents crammed into one building.
The number of older citizens out and about, on foot, had his brow lifting. Hungarians were not an idle people. It was clear the country was not at its economic best, but an evident work ethic was implied after only a brief glance.
Nadia sighed, stealing his attention from the road.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She smiled softly, her hands wringing in her lap. “Anxious.”
He should do something to ease her tension.
His mind shuffled through the traits of the men he admired, wondering what they might do in such a situation with a beautiful woman.
He could say something clever to distract her or…
Sliding his hand across the tattered cab seat, he slipped his fingers around hers and squeezed.
Her eyes turned to him and there was a moment of sharp doubt in his chest that faded when he caught her smile.
Her fidgeting stilled and he slowly pulled away his touch, satisfied that he’d helped her in some small way.
The cab slowed outside of a pale, stucco home and her fingers started fidgeting again.
The lawn showed dry patches where the soil seemed made mostly of dust and two of three shrubs were dead, long without leaves and showing nothing but gnarled branches that looked dry enough to snap with his fingers.
Reaching into his pocket, he removed the money he’d transferred. “How much do I give him?” he asked Nadia in a low voice.
Nadia took the bills, sorted out a few and handed them to the driver. “Koszonom.”
She appeared a bit shaky as they retrieved their belongings, pausing at the iron gate to draw in a steadying breath. “Otthon,” she whispered and he was pleased to identify the word. Home.
Before they reached the door it opened and he recognized her mother. Rapid Hungarian words flew between them, caught with smiles and tethered in welcoming hugs, yet Nadia still appeared tense.
Was he the only one picking up on her nerves? Her family should notice such things.
“Mama, emlékszel Elliot,” Nadia introduced, pulling him to her side.
“Jó újra látni, Kisné Rozsa,” he greeted with halting efficiency.
Both Nadia and her mother smiled, but then lost him as they rattled off words too fast for him to track.
They bustled inside and his nose took a moment to adjust to the unfamiliar fragrance. A bantam old woman with hair wrapped in a silk scarf crept into what appeared to be the parlor and clasped her work-weathered hands tight as she smiled.
“Nadia,” the older woman spoke affectionately, tears shimmering in her eyes.
Nadia’s face reflected equal affection. “Nagymama.”
The fondness the two shared was evident in their embrace. They whispered a few soft-spoken words and the woman touched Nadia’s face with evident affection, her eyes again glazing with unshed tears.
Nadia held the woman’s arm and walked her over to where he stood. “Elliot, this is my grandmother.” She turned to the little woman. “Nagymama, ez az én barátom Elliot.”
He nodded and greeted. “?rvendek.”
The women chatted as he was shuffled into a small kitchen that smelled … curious. He was handed a glass of water and shoved into a seat. The grandmother continued to ask him questions, but none of the words she used were in his vocabulary aside from a spare few.
Nadia was so animated, laughing and smiling.
When her grandmother spoke, she listened, her brow tightening in concentration and her eyes illuminating.
She burst into melodic laughter. He had never seen her so animated or unguarded.
The sight of her evident happiness filled him with deep satisfaction and he was certain bringing her here had been the best thing he’d done in a long time.
The mood quieted as Mrs. Rosza, Nadia’s mother, said the word néni—aunt. Nadia’s chest rose as she took a deep breath and all humor vanished from her expression. “Elliot, will you come with me?”
He nodded and stood, surprised and flattered she’d look to him for support in such an emotional situation. Taking her hand, they left the kitchen and Nadia led him through the house to a back room. The scent of illness was faint, but there.
He recalled that same scent from just before his father passed away.
No matter how many times his mother washed the windows and polished the furniture, there was only so much one could hide when a person was reaching the end.
His stomach tightened against the unwelcome return of sorrowful memories, reminding him just how hard it was to say goodbye to loved ones.
The door creaked as Nadia stepped into the room.
A small woman rested on her back, hair thin enough to see her scalp, her face serene.
Nadia’s hand tightened in his and her faint sniffle met his ear.
Instinctively, his hand rose to rest at the base of her spine, offering her his physical support as she moved into the room.
They approached the bed slowly so not to disturb the woman. Nadia’s finger traced the frail bones of the woman’s hands folded over her chest and the weary eyes gently opened. “Nadia?”
“Néni Mira,” she responded, dropping to her knees and resting her brow at the woman’s side.
The woman’s frail hands brushed weakly at Nadia’s dark hair. “I did not expect to see you again in this life.”
Elliot stepped back, wanting to offer them privacy, but not wanting to abandon Nadia. The aunt’s English took him by surprise, but he supposed it made sense, being that this woman had raised Nadia in America for most of her life.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” Nadia rasped, her fingers gently crawling over the quilt.
“You’re here now, baby. No apologizing. Ki ez az ember?” Who is this man?
Nadia gave a throaty laugh and sat up, wiping her eyes. “This is Elliot. He helped me get here. Elliot, this is my Aunt Mira.”
“Jókép?,” she said, openly appraising him. His neck heated as his mind recalled jókép? was the word for handsome.
Nadia took advantage of his limited linguistics as she spoke in fluent Hungarian. Her words threaded together like fine silk and he lost track. They gestured and laughed. It was clear they were talking about him.
“Elliot.”
He turned as his name was called from the door. Nadia’s grandmother held a bowl of bright pink liquid, looking like a cross between Pepto-Bismol and yogurt. She asked him a question, but, again, he was at a loss.
“She made soup for you,” Nadia translated. “Fruit soup. Try some. It’s delicious.”
Delicious like chicken soup or delicious like the dreadful tea Nadia had fed him?
“Will you be all right?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m going to visit with Mira for a bit. You go eat.”
He followed the little old woman back to the kitchen and was again urged to sit. The bowl slid in front of him as she wrapped his fingers around a spoon. Giving him an expectant look, she said, “Eszik.” Eat.
He slowly dipped his spoon into the pink broth. It was cold.
The grandmother smiled expectantly, nodding, as he brought it to his lips. He prayed this was going to be a Hungarian dish he liked. The unexpected blend of berries met his tongue and his taste buds danced.
Smiling with relief, he nodded appreciatively. “It’s good.”