Page 24

I turn through more pages, the black-and-white photos transitioning to colored ones. Toward the end, one of the images makes my hand freeze. There, enveloped in each other’s embrace, are my parents.

I’ve seen only a few photos of my dad—my mom kept them hidden away. I study his features carefully like a painting in a museum, ingraining them in my mind: his wavy, dark hair, tanned skin, the easy smile on his lips. We have the same squarish jaw, less graceful than my mom’s. One hand rests on a camera hanging around his neck. The other is wrapped around my mom. She’s wearing a gauzy lavender gown, her face angled up at him. They’re both posed beneath the trellis that sits in the corner of Karmela’s garden. A lantern hangs above them, giving the scene a soft, ethereal glow.

I stare at my mom. It’s unmistakably her—the same dark hair, the same slender silhouette—but the expression on her face is one I’ve never seen. She looks so content. So . . . in love.

“When was this taken?” I ask.

“Just after they got engaged,” she answers. “We used to have a party every summer, to celebrate the harvest and raise money for the church. We called it the Lavanda Gala.” Her voice is distant, wistful.

“What was he like? My dad?”

She ponders the question. “He was on the quiet side, but kind. Very smart—he was a ship captain, you know. People always say sailors only love the sea, but he fell for your mother right away.”

The image of my mom crying over my dad’s dead body slams into me, making my lungs compress with pain.

A flurry of questions floods my mind, making me suddenly doubt the research I did at the café. Was it truly only sickness that stole his life? What about all my other ancestors who died so prematurely?

“Karmela . . .” I begin.

“Please, call me Nana,” she cuts in.

“Nana.” The word sounds strange in its simplicity. I continue on more hesitantly. “I’ve been . . . having some bad dreams.”

Karmela’s skin blanches as her eyes go wide. “What do you mean?”

The words flow out of me easily; it seems my Croatian has improved far faster than I thought it would. “I think it’s stress or maybe jet lag, but yesterday someone told me that people here believe our family is cursed. That my dad and the other people who died young were killed by some kind of spirit that causes nightmares, called a mora,” I cringe as I say it, hoping Karmela will sense my skepticism.

“Who told you this?” she asks sharply.

“Davor,” I stammer. “He told me he used to work for our family.”

Her posture relaxes as she waves her hand dismissively. “You mustn’t listen to him. It is nonsense.”

I wasn’t expecting such a strong reaction, but it eases the tension in my body. “So it’s not true?”

She gives her head a curt shake. “No. Those stories are nothing but envy, pure and simple. The people here have always been jealous of our house and wealth, even though our family has done so much for this island. The entire economy here was built on our oil, employing workers, bringing tourists. Their disdain has only gotten worse after I closed our business, but . . . I couldn’t handle it on my own.” She releases a weary sigh. “When Marija left, I was devastated. I couldn’t understand how she could leave her family, her home.”

Melancholy mixed with resentment courses through me. All these years, Karmela has been alone. It’s not her fault our family has faced so much tragedy, yet she has paid the price. Luka was right, I suppose. I can’t trust everything I hear. Stressing over this would only increase my paralysis.

Besides, I know what it’s like to suddenly be left on your own. I can’t leave Karmela now.

I’m broken from my thoughts by the soft press of Karmela’s hand on mine. I look up to see her blue eyes shimmering with earnest compassion. “Do not worry, Petra. They are only bad dreams. There is nothing wrong with our family. You should be proud of this house.”

She squeezes my hand, then adds, “I want you to know you’re always welcome here. You can stay as long as you’d like. Maybe we can even make lavender oil again someday.” She smiles hesitantly.

At her words, the dream I’d tucked away suddenly unfolds again, blooming like a lush flower. I imagine us spending the rest of the summer together. Eating more meals out here in the garden. Perhaps she could teach me how to make the delicious kroštule we just had, along with other Croatian recipes. We could spend our days chatting about memories or simple everyday things, what to have that evening for supper, or some problem I have, something to do with work or a boy. The image of Luka patching up my thigh flashes through my mind, though I quickly brush it away.

I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I did with my mom. I’d cherish this time we have together. Maybe if I stayed long enough, I wouldn’t feel like so much of an outsider anymore. Maybe Tolba would start to feel like home, far more than California does without any family. The idea fills me with longing.

And to think, yesterday I almost left.

Meeting Karmela’s gaze, I squeeze her hand back. “Thank you . . . Nana.”

Nine

Magdalena

17 June 1895