Page 103 of Guy's Girl
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
It’s then that he starts to run.
He wasn’t planning on running home. In fact, he’s already been for his usual Monday morning run that day, six miles down to Battery Park and back up again. This extra jog will wear on his muscles; he’ll be sore tomorrow. But walking is not enough right now. His limbs ache to stretch, to push against the pavement in long, satisfying strides.
He doesn’t put in AirPods. He listens to the sounds of the city: the rumble of cars, the whiz of bikes spinning past, the laughter of groups gathered on the greens, the gentle crash of waves on the pier.
At Pier 45, there’s a long break in the trees, affording an unobscured view of the Hudson. Under the partly cloudy afternoonsky, the waves are a chalky blue grey, reminding Adrian of the Danube. Reminding him of long walks in the morning, of Americanos and chocolate-filledfánks.
He redirects his thoughts. Ginny isn’t the only memory he has of the Danube, right? He grew up next to that river. He and Jozsef used to kick footballs against the rocky ledge that guards the walkway from the river, seeing who could get it closest to the top of the ledge without going over. They must have lost dozens of balls that way, each one swept away in the tide, bobbing up and down as it drifted toward the Parliament Building. Hisnagyanyawould have scolded him if she knew how wasteful he was being, but he never had to tell her; Jozsef’s family seemed to have an endless supply of footballs.
He would always have mixed feelings about that river. He spent some of his happiest moments there—from football with Jozsef to riding his rusty little bike along its pathway to sitting with his skinny legs crossed upon the ledge and throwing bits of bread to the seagulls.
But the Danube would also always be the river that swallowed his father.
For many years after he learned how his father died, he couldn’t go near the Danube. He would take winding routes that obscured the view of the water, only drawing near when he absolutely had to. When he looked at the bridges that connect one side to the other, all he could see was a car skidding on black ice, crashing through the railing, soaring through the air, diving nose first into the water. All he could feel was metal and rubber sinking to the bottom. A door that wouldn’t open. A tight space filling until there was no room left to breathe.
Stop.
Why is Adrian thinking about this right now? He doesn’t like to think about his father in that way. He likes to think of him ashe was when he was alive: intelligent, charismatic, beloved by his students. Adrian’s thoughts seem to have grown steadily darker as the day wears on. He needs it to stop.
He’s almost home now. Only a few blocks to go. His breath is labored. Sweat trickles down his back, pooling at his waistband, dampening the soft fabric of his T-shirt. His legs ache. He pushes his pace. He wants to outrun these thoughts, the eerie feeling that has dogged him all day. When he turns onto his block, he does not see the restaurants and bodegas that line the street; he sees his father’s face, a yellow car, a stack of books.
Adrian takes the stairs two at a time. He fumbles with the key. When the door opens, he spills into the room and falls to the floor, panting.
One photograph. The only image he has of his father. A photograph he does not even possess, that he held for only a few weeks before returning it to his mother’s hiding place. He doesn’t even know if the image in his mind matches his father’s true likeness. It could be completely false, warped by the passage of years. He might not even know what his father looks like.
This realization makes Adrian want to curl up into a ball and cry.
But he can’t, of course. Adrian doesn’t cry. Adrian doesn’t feel, period.
His eyes drift about the room, passing over the kitchenette, his desk, his sofa, and landing finally on his open closet. On the dress shoes lining the top shelf.
It’s then that he remembers the package.
Adrian is off the floor and up on his toes before he can think too hard about it, feeling about the shelf for the cardboard box. He finds it and pulls it out so hastily that he knocks one of his shoes to the floor. He doesn’t stop to put it back on the shelf. He carries the box over to the sofa and sits down. The box balances on his lap, the top half-open. A partial invitation.
Adrian opens the flaps one by one, smoothing each crease until each lies flat. Inside is the black leather album. He lifts it from its box and wipes off the cover. Exhales lengthily. Then he flips open the cover.
The first photo is of a young version of his mother and father. They’re dressed up, perhaps for some school function. They can’t be older than sixteen. Was there prom in communist Hungary? He doesn’t know. Yet another thing he’s never asked his grandparents.
He flips to the next page. In this photo, his father is a touch older and dressed in a sports uniform, a football under his arm. The uniform readskölcsey ferenc.
Adrian stares at this photo for a long time. His father played football.Football.
In the photo to the right, his parents are again together, only this time Eszter is there, too. They’re on a picnic blanket spread out on the shore of Lake Balaton. His father wears dark blue swim trunks, his mother andnagyanyalong bathing costumes. Adrian recognizeslángosanddobostorta, glasses filled with dark red wine. Their smiles are bunched, eyes squinting in the sunshine. His father’s mouth is open as if he’s in the middle of saying something. Adrian fills with a strange ache. A desire to know what, exactly, hisapasaid.
He flips the page again. Again. There are several more pictures: his parents at university, his parents at a sporting event, his parents on holiday in what looks like Sofia, his parents at graduation.
And then, on the next page—his mother in a white dress, his father in a pale grey suit. They stand with their arms around each other. Behind them, the doors to a cathedral are open wide. Flower petals drift through the picture, which appear to have been thrown by people standing off frame. His father is smiling. His mother is smiling. He has never seen his mother smile that wide. Not once.
It’s here that Adrian’s eyes first start to water. He blinks rapidly, pushing down the tears, and flips quickly to the next page.
He sees his parents buy their house. He sees them throw dinner parties and tend the garden in his grandparents’ backyard. He sees them on a hike in the hills around Szentendre. He sees them riding bikes along the Danube, just as he used to do. And then, all at once, he sees a bump in his mother’s stomach, and he knows that Beatrix is on her way. He sees the bump grow over the course of the next few photos, and then he flips the page, and there they are, his mother in a hospital bed, baby Beatrix in her arms. His father stands beside his mother, one hand on her shoulder. Their eyes are tired, but their smiles are genuine, filled with shock and wonder.
The more Adrian flips, the harder his eyes sting. Water wells up in his eyes, blurring his vision until he’s forced to blink, to allow the tears to run down his cheeks. He can’t remember the last time he cried. He didn’t even think his body was capable of producing tears.
He turns the page again. He sees his parents with baby Beatrix, out for a picnic in one of the city’s parks. He sees Beatrix in his father’s arms. He sees Beatrix in a stroller as Eszter and her mother visit Eötvös Loránd. He sees them out to eat at a restaurant in Pest. He sees playdates and first steps and a little family snuggled up on an unfamiliar sofa in a house that Adrian never lived inside. He sees an entire life unfold. He sees a childhood he never had, a family that was happy, that was unhurt and unbroken. The tears come faster and faster now.
