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She found none of those. Instead, she found herself staring at…a list.
On the first page, it was a to-do list. People to call, things to remember. The page after that, it was a list of appointments and dates. The page after that, a list of potential places to visit on a honeymoon.
Page after page, Nadia saw list after list comprising her mother’s life. Nadia loved lists, too. They kept her focused, helped her get things done. She was a meticulous list-maker; Priya had taught her how to create a “bullet journal,” and Nadia used it nonstop to keep track of her duties with G.I.R.L., her driving lessons, her family dinners, her friends’ home addresses. Nadia would be lost without her lists.
And it seemed Maria had been the exact same way. No time to waste on extra words or sentimentalities. Those were better expressed in person, Nadia always thought. Writing things down was a matter of practicality; telling someone how you felt or what you needed to their face was always a more expedient, meaningful, and effective method of communication.
Nadia had spent years rejecting the Red Room’s brainwashing about her genetic similarities to her parents. But here she was, faced with Hank’s organized chaos and Maria’s list-making. Maybe that didn’t have to be something bad, something she had to reject. Maybe it was okay if there were a few things they had in common—even if they happened accidentally.
With a smile, Nadia kept flipping through the pages of her mother’s journal. What a beautiful gift Hank Pym had left her, and completely by accident! Hank had never known Maria was pregnant before she was taken by the KGB—he had never known Nadia even existed. Knowing or not, Hank had left a piece of Maria behind for their daughter. It was part of why Nadia was so grateful to Janet; she had no real blood connection to Nadia, but chose to love her regardless. It was the kind of selfless, unquestioning love that Nadia tried to embody in all her relationships.
It might even have been a better gift than the Pym Particles. But, in fairness, Hank had never given those to Nadia. She’d figured out how to make them on her own.
Like she did most things.
Grocery list. Recipe ideas. Phone numbers. Addresses. Future potential pets. Where to go on vacation. What to do on the weekends. Genetic anomalies in Dolichovespula arenaria.
Future potential baby names.
Nadia stopped. She skimmed the list. There it was—“Nadia,” about three-quarters of the way down. It had “Hope” written next to it and circled with red pen. Nadia wondered if Hank had ever seen this list, or if it had just been a flight of Maria’s own fancy.
Nadia also became immediately relieved that her mother had gone with “Hope” instead of some of the other contenders. Boglárka? Nadia was no buttercup. Csenge was all right, but she shuddered to think of the way that Americans would butcher the pronunciation. (CHEN-geh, for the record.)
Nadia closed her eyes for a moment and hugged the book back in to her chest. You couldn’t know someone through their things—but maybe, just maybe, it was possible to know someone through their writing. Even if it wasn’t flowery prose. Even if it didn’t start with “Dear Diary.” Even if it was just a series of relatively utilitarian lists.
Nadia immediately, already, knew more about her mother than she ever had, and she’d only begun to skim the journal. She knew that her mother loved to cook—perhaps the Chicken Soup book on Hank’s shelf had been her influence? Nadia knew that her mother wanted to go on vacation and that her favorite idea for a pet was, for some reason, a chinchilla. Nadia knew that her mother loved going to a certain café when she wasn’t working. And she knew that Maria Trovaya wanted a child, one day.
Nadia had never really come face-to-face with the full weight of losing her mother. Or her father, for that matter. After all, it was difficult to mourn someone you’d never known. For most of her life, Nadia had been on her own. Sure, she’d been around other girls in the Red Room, but in the space where her parents would’ve been, there was no one to look out for Nadia. To love her, the way parents usually did. Until Janet. And Bobbi. And Jarvis. “Family” had always been an evolving concept for Nadia, and now this physical evidence of her mother’s fondness for her, even before she was born, was working at the edges of that concept, challenging and expanding it.
Nadia tilted the book open again, thinking about her mother and only half paying attention as she flipped the page again—and she almost dropped the book when she saw the next list:
Things to share with your future potential child.
“Lumea se clatina,”* whispered Nadia.
It was one of the longest lists in the whole book. Nadia read aloud, not wanting to miss a single letter, a single piece of punctuation. She wanted to feel every syllable.
Things to share with your future potential child.
Teach them to make palacsinta† and paprikás
Nadia laughed. Of course the first item would be food-related.
Go on a roller coaster
Visit the Philadelphia Insectarium and Butterfly Pavilion
Attend disznóvágásról‡
Have a picnic in Central Park
Go bowling (very American!)
Trip to the New York Hall of Science
Listen to ABBA
Read Frankenstein
