The bag had been standing beside the bed since the evening before. Ivana had packed it on her own the diapers, the discharge papers envelope, the small rompers with white and yellow stripes that she had purchased during the eighth month. The nurse had informed her: “By ten in the morning”, and Ivana had nodded as though it was completely normal. I would respond. I would arrive. I am always punctual.
Ivana placed the phone on the charger and lay down. Lucija slept beside her in the clear bassinet tiny, wrinkled, with a dark fuzz on the nape of her neck. Ivana gazed at her and considered that everything would change from now on. That I would grasp it. That the three days in the maternity ward would be the three days in which men mature.
At ten in the morning I did not appear.
Ivana phoned I did not pick up. She texted I read it but gave no reply. Then I messaged at half past ten: “I’ll be there shortly”. Ivana set the phone aside. The nurse brought the papers for signing. The aide assisted in dressing Lučka that was the name we had chosen for her beforehand, even prior to the birth, Lučka.
At eleven I still had not arrived.
Ivana called once more. This time I answered my voice drowsy and sluggish, as if I had only just risen.
Marko, where are you?
On my way, on my way. There’s traffic.
What traffic on a Sunday?
Well, I hesitated. I’m heading out.
Ivana replaced the receiver. Lučka was moving about in the swaddle, making bubbles. Ivana peered through the window there was the gray February courtyard, leafless trees, automobiles lined along the curb. Across the road from the maternity hospital stood a cafe. A small one, with yellow lettering on the glass. Ivana had observed it for three days from the room window, yet had never paid it much attention.
Now she did.
At one of the tables near the window sat a man. Blue jacket. Dark hair. He sat with his back toward her, but Ivana knew that back thoroughly how often she had watched it in the darkness, when I would turn toward the wall and drift off to sleep quicker than she could utter “good night”.
Across from him sat a woman. Young. A stroller was positioned beside their table gray, costly, with large wheels.
Ivana remained at the window for about three minutes. Then she grabbed the bag, requested the aide to watch Lučka, and descended to the on-duty nurse.
I need to step out for five minutes, Ivana said. Are the documents all prepared?
They are. But it would be better if you waited for your husband, she regarded Ivana over her spectacles.
It won’t take long.
Ivana exited via the staff entrance that Nataša, her ward neighbor who had been released the previous day, had pointed out to her. The February air struck at once against the face, beneath the coat, into the ears. She crossed the street and pushed open the cafe door.
Within, the air carried the scent of coffee and cinnamon. Soft music played something jazzy and indistinct. Ivana spotted us straight away.
I sat holding a cup in both hands. I was laughing my head tilted slightly backward, shoulders at ease. Ivana had not seen me in such a relaxed state for perhaps three months. Since the time her belly had become prominent.
Martina was speaking and smiling. She was attractive fine features, short chestnut hair. No sound came from the stroller beside the infant was asleep.
Ivana walked up to the table and stood beside it.
I lifted my head and the smile vanished from my face as swiftly as if a cord had been yanked.
Ivana
Hello, Ivana said. You said you were coming.
I set the cup down. Martina regarded Ivana with polite bewilderment.
Ivana, hold on, this isn’t
Not what I imagine? Ivana kept her voice level. There were other tables in the cafe, and she sensed eyes on us, yet it mattered little to her. You didn’t answer at ten. You wrote “soon” at half past eleven. It’s nearly twelve now. I stood at the ward window and saw you, Marko. Practically face to face.
Ivana, I rose. Let’s step outside.
Why bother? I have to return soon Lučka is waiting.
Martina across from me sat up a little straighter.
Pardon me, she said. Are you his wife?
Yes.
I’m Martina. Martina Babić. I work with Marko.
Ivana examined her. Then the stroller.
We ran into each other here by chance, Martina went on. I live in the building next door. I came in with my daughter. Marko must have come in as well. We just got to chatting.
How long have you been chatting?
Martina was quiet for a moment.
I arrived around nine.
Ivana turned her gaze to me.
Around nine, she echoed. You were here at nine in the morning. You knew the discharge was at ten.
Ivana
Did you know?
I knew, I did not avert my eyes, though something within me moved a tiny, barely noticeable bewilderment. I intended to grab a coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, Marko. Three hours is not five minutes!
The child in the stroller next to us began to stir. Martina bent down quickly, fixed the blanket. Her daughter was likely around three months old.
I’m sorry, Martina said to Ivana. Softly, without drama. I had no idea about the discharge. He didn’t mention it.
It’s fine, Ivana answered in the same soft tone. It’s not your fault.
Ivana faced me.
The papers are ready. Put the car by the staff exit, I’ll inform the guard, he’ll allow you in. Wait there.
Then she departed.
On the way back across the road Ivana moved more slowly than on the way there. February no longer felt as biting perhaps because she had warmed a little in the cafe, or perhaps for some other reason. Ivana reflected on how Lučka still knew nothing about discharges. That she was only three days old, and her chief concern was to breathe and feed. That her entire life lay ahead, and Ivana wanted it to be a good one.
The aide awaited Ivana at the station with Lučka in her arms.
So, has he arrived?
He will, Ivana said. He’ll be here shortly.
Ivana took the daughter. She smelled of milk and powder, and this scent was so genuine, so tangible, that all the rest the cafe, the blue jacket, the jazz faded somewhat.
The nurse provided the rest of the documents. Ivana signed where directed. She dressed herself, dressed Lučka the swaddle closed with three snaps, her hands trembled slightly, but she handled it.
I waited at the staff exit. The car stood precisely where Ivana had indicated. I came out to greet her, reached for the bag she handed it over. Then I attempted to take Lučka she did not hand her over.
Ivana
Later, Ivana said. Home first.
I did not object.
In the car we traveled without speaking.
Lučka slept in the car seat Ivana sat in the back beside her, her hand resting on the edge. I drove. A tree-shaped air freshener dangled from the rear window it had hung there since December, Ivana had always neglected to mention that it should be taken down.
Is she asleep? I inquired.
Yes.
Good.
Beyond the windows the February streets unfolded gray, with gritty snow along the pavements. Few people about. An advertisement patch on the side of a building: some bank, some deal.
Ivana watched Lučka. She had a custom to open her mouth slightly while sleeping, as if about to speak and delaying it. Ivana had already come to cherish this custom.
Ivana, I said.
Later, she replied once more.
I only want to say
Marko. Later.
I went quiet. A red light ahead. I halted the car. My fingers drummed on the wheel lightly, nearly without sound. A habit.
Green. We proceeded.
Ivana pondered that the maternity hospital was now behind them. Ahead lay the apartment in which she had been three days earlier as quite another person. Or the same. She could not tell.
We parked by the entrance. I took the bag. Ivana took Lučka. We entered the lift. Ascended to the sixth floor. I unlocked the door struggled with the lock for some time, as usual, since the lock ought to have been replaced long since, yet we had kept postponing it.
Welcome home, I said softly. Not clear to whom her or the baby.
Thank you, Ivana answered.
Home smelled just as it had three days earlier somewhat of coffee, somewhat of dust, somewhat of my aftershave. In the kitchen sink stood two cups. Ivana noticed them at once two. Not one.
Ivana placed Lučka in the crib we had readied it two months prior, white, with a cloud mobile. Lučka turned her head a little and settled. Ivana went into the kitchen.
Who was here? Ivana asked.
I stood at the window. Did not turn at once.
In what way?
Two cups in the sink. I left for the maternity hospital on Thursday. Today is Sunday. Who drank from the second one?
Mother stopped by.
Your mother visited?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I believe.
Ivana turned on the tap, picked up the sponge. Wordlessly she washed both cups. Set them to dry.
Marko, Ivana said, without turning. I want to talk. But not now. I need to feed Lučka and get at least an hour’s sleep. Then we can talk.
All right, my voice was cautious, like someone treading on ice without knowing the thin spots.
And I want you to be truthful. Not now later. But truthful.
I am truthful.
Ivana turned at last.
You sat in the cafe opposite the maternity hospital from nine in the morning. On the day your daughter was to be discharged. You silenced your phone and did not reply even once until I called myself. That is not truthful, Marko. Even underhanded!
I looked at Ivana. In my eyes was the expression she had learned to interpret over four years of marriage: not remorse bewilderment. I did not feel remorse, I felt found out.
I’ll explain, I said.
I’m listening. But not now. In two hours.
Ivana went to Lučka.
She fed quickly eagerly, methodically, with complete earnestness. Ivana looked at her and reflected: here is a person who requires no explanations. Who needs no instruction to “be truthful”. Who simply needs you entirely, wholly, at this very moment.
Ivana laid her down and lay down herself. She thought she would not be able to sleep, yet she slept before completing the thought.
She awoke after an hour and a half. Lucija was asleep. The flat was silent.
I sat in the kitchen coffee before me, phone face down. When Ivana entered, I slipped the phone into my pocket. Too quickly.
Ivana filled a glass with water. Sat across from me.
Speak, Ivana said.
I was quiet for a bit. Then I started:
Martina and I have worked together for two years. You know, we handled one project together that tender in November. She went on maternity leave before we finished, there was much anyway, we talked a lot.
I remember that tender, Ivana said. You came home at ten at night. I was in my seventh month.
Yes. I did not deny it. We worked hard.
And?
And nothing. We just worked. I met Ivana’s eyes. Ivana, I swear there is nothing between us.
Nothing was there? Or nothing is there?
A pause. Small, nearly imperceptible but she caught it.
Nothing is there, I repeated.
And was there?
I set the cup on the table.
Ivana
Yes or no.
It’s more complicated than yes or no.
Ivana nodded. Very slowly.
I see.
Wait. I reached out a hand, but Ivana did not move toward it, so I withdrew it. It was a while ago. Before you became pregnant. Once. I it was a mistake. I put an end to it myself.
Once.
Yes.
And today you just happened to be in the cafe opposite the maternity hospital exactly when I was waiting for you.
I dropped in for coffee. Spotted her. We got talking. Ivana, I had no plans I swear.
You had no plans, Ivana repeated. You simply failed to show up for your daughter’s discharge. Not deliberately. It just turned out that way.
I remained silent.
Ivana rose. Walked to the window there was the familiar courtyard, trees, cars. She considered that three days earlier she had gazed from a different window at the same sky.
Marko, Ivana said, without turning. I won’t create a scene. I lack the energy for it, and to be honest, the wish as well. We have a daughter who is three days old. I want you to understand one thing.
What?
I would have forgiven a mistake. I would probably have been able to endure it if you had told me yourself. But before I happened to see you through the window. You see the difference?
I stayed silent.
You didn’t come for the discharge not because you lingered in the cafe. You didn’t come because sitting there mattered more to you. And it’s not even about Martina. It’s that it mattered more to you.
Ivana turned around.
I am not going to make any decisions today. I want you to know that. Today I will feed Lučka and sleep. Tomorrow as well. In a week we will talk again, and you will tell me everything truthfully. Not “once”, not “a mistake” truthfully. Then I will consider.
Ivana
This is all I can manage right now.
I nodded. Very quietly.
All right.
The following days were odd thick, like batting. Lučka slept, ate, stared at the ceiling gravely, with the air of someone pondering a serious matter. I moved through the apartment quietly, prepared meals, went out twice for diapers, once for Ivana’s medications. Ivana neither sent me away nor summoned me.
On the third day my mother phoned.
Ivana answered, as she was accustomed to doing.
Ivana, Vesna’s voice was strained, slightly higher than usual. How are you? How is Lučka?
Fine. Everything is fine.
Listen, I wanted to ask. Marko seems odd. What happened?
Speak with him yourself.
Ivana, come on
Vesna, Ivana said steadily. I love and respect you. But I cannot discuss this now. I feed the baby every three hours and hardly sleep. When I am ready we will talk.
A pause.
All right, the mother-in-law said. I’m sorry.
That was unexpected.
I will bring you soup tomorrow, she added. May I?
Yes, Ivana said. Thank you.
Vesna arrived the following day right at midday, with a pot of chicken soup and a package of buns. Ivana opened the door, Vesna entered, removed her shoes, hung her coat and went straight to Lučka.
Heavens, she said softly. What a little beauty.
Lučka slept. Vesna stood over the crib for a long time silently, arms crossed on her chest.
May I hold her? she asked at last.
Wait, let her sleep. She fell asleep just an hour ago.
Of course, of course. The mother-in-law stepped back from the crib, went to the kitchen and began unpacking the soup. Are you hungry?
A bit.
She served Ivana some soup, set the plate down. She sat opposite with a cup of tea my tea, with bergamot, which Ivana did not care for.
They sat in silence.
Ivana, she began. I won’t meddle in what isn’t my concern.
Good.
But I want to say one thing.
Ivana ate her soup and waited.
He called me. Marko. Told me what he had done. She held the cup in both hands, gazed into it. I won’t defend him. He’s a fool. He has always been somewhat of a fool in these matters something goes on in his head and he stops thinking. But he is not a bad man. I know that for certain.
Vesna, Ivana said. I’m not saying he is bad.
No?
No. That would be simpler.
She looked at Ivana. Then nodded slowly, as though she had grasped something.
You are a clever girl, she said. You have always been smarter than he is. I always told him so.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
It is good, the mother-in-law said firmly. It is good. Because one of the two must be the smart one.
Lučka made a sound from the room. Ivana stood.
The soup is good, Ivana said. Thank you.
Vesna stood as well followed her. She stood in the doorway as Ivana picked up Lučka.
Now? she asked.
Ivana passed the baby to her. The mother-in-law took her assuredly, without haste, the way people who have held infants before do. She rocked her.
Lucija, she said. Lucijica
Lučka fixed her with a look of serious examination.
She resembles Marko, Vesna said. The forehead and nose. His.
I see.
And the eyes yours. The expression isn’t the same yet, but you’ll see later. Definitely yours.
Ivana watched them both. She thought that this was one of those things that cannot be undone. No matter what happened this woman would be Lučka’s grandmother. This blood, this face, these hands. Forever.
A smile. Probably not genuine the nurse in the maternity hospital had said that genuine smiles begin later, that this was a reflex. But she lay in Ivana’s arms, looking at her face and something happened at the corners of her mouth. Something very small and very definite.
I stood close by. I saw it.
Ivana, I said in a whisper. Did you see?
I saw.
Is that a smile?
Probably still a reflex.
Still.
We stood side by side, looking at her. The apartment was still. Ivana thought that this was it the strangest thing in life: it fits into these few seconds. Nearby stands a person you do not trust and whom you love. Or no longer love. Or still love. You do not know.
I need to tell you something, I said. Quietly, without turning.
Go ahead.
It was not just once.
A pause.
How many times?
Three months. Roughly. In the autumn. When you were in the sixth and seventh month.
Ivana stood there. Lučka yawned widely, with a toothless mouth and closed her eyes.
Then I ended it myself, I went on. That is true. She wanted to keep going, I said no. Said it was a mistake.
And what about on the day of the discharge?
That morning she texted. That she wanted to talk. I went thought it would be five minutes. Thought I would explain that we have everything, that we have a child. But she began to cry, and I could not leave immediately.
You could not leave her. But you could not come to me.
I said nothing.
Ivana slowly placed Lučka in the crib. She straightened.
Thank you for telling me.
Ivana
No. Not now. Ivana lifted her hand. I will not decide anything now. That is true. But I need to think. Not three days longer. And you must give me that time.
How long?
I don’t know. Ivana looked at me. I need to figure out if I can live with this. Not “forgive” but live. Those are different things.
I understand.
I’m not sure you do. But all right.
Ivana took the blanket from the chair and covered Lučka. She was already asleep steadily, trustingly, the way only those who have no need to sort anything out yet can sleep.
A week later Ivana telephoned her friend Lana. They had been friends since their student days, she lived in another city, but every few days she would always write something along the lines of “how is your little one doing”.
Lana, Ivana said. I need to talk.
I can tell from your voice. Go on.
Ivana explained. Briefly, without details only the essentials. Lana listened without interrupting. Then she said:
Ivana, I will ask you one thing. Only honestly.
All right.
If he had told you himself. Before the discharge. Before you saw. How would you have reacted?
Ivana considered.
I don’t know. Probably differently.
There. Lana was silent for a moment. This is important, you see? Not what he did that is awful, and I do not excuse it. But what he chose. To conceal. To lie “once”. And then only because he realized you would find out anyway.
Yes.
You are smart. You will work it out yourself. I just want you to know: whatever you decide it is the right decision. Because it is yours.
Lana, you always say that.
Because it is always true.
Ivana laughed. For the first time that week genuinely.
Lana, will you come soon?
As soon as you begin walking with Lučka, I will come at once. I need to smell the top of her head, otherwise I won’t make it.
You will, Ivana promised. She smells nice.
They all smell nice. It’s an evolutionary trap.
Lana.
What?
Thank you.
No problem. Call tomorrow.
Ivana hung up the phone. Outside it was already dark the short February day was drawing to a close rapidly, as though it itself did not enjoy existing. Ivana poured herself some tea and sat by the window.
I returned from the store brought bags, placed them in the kitchen. Peeked in.
Would you like tea? I asked. I bought yours with mint.
I have already poured some.
Oh, right. I lingered in the doorway. Is Lučka asleep?
Yes. I just fed her.
Good.
I went to the kitchen. Ivana could hear me unpacking the bags, something clattering against the refrigerator shelf. The usual noises of usual life. Ivana thought that this was the hardest part: when nothing has altered on the outside the same noises, the same scent, the same blue jacket on the hook yet inside something has moved. And it is uncertain whether it will return to place. And whether it should.
Ivana came to accept it little by little, as one accepts major decisions not all at once, but in small portions, a bit each day. Ivana observed how I take Lučka at three in the morning so she can rest. How I hold her awkwardly at first and then with growing assurance. How I speak to her quietly, earnestly, as to an adult who needs an important matter explained.
Once Ivana awoke at four in the morning because of the quiet Lučka was not crying, and that alone seemed odd. She rose and went to the room.
I sat in the armchair beside the crib. Lučka lay in my arms I held her carefully, a little awkwardly with my elbow supported on the armrest. Both were asleep. She with her mouth slightly open, I with my head leaned back, with a wholly relaxed, almost childlike face.
Ivana stood in the doorway. Then she went back to bed.
She did not yet know what she would decide. But she thought that this too was truth no less than the other. That people are more complicated than what they do on one particular day. That Lučka would know a father who sat with her at four in the morning. And a father who missed the discharge. It is the same face. The same person.
What to do about it that was her question. Hers alone.
Ivana stared at the ceiling and thought.
One evening Lučka was already three weeks old Ivana sat in the kitchen. Lučka was asleep, the apartment was still. She scrolled through something on her phone not reading, just scrolling, as one reads the air. I came home from work, changed, put the kettle on. Sat across from her.
We were quiet for a minute.
How was your day? Ivana asked.
Fine. We finally submitted that documentation. I rubbed my face with my palms. Did you sleep?
Two hours. Lučka let me.
Good. A pause. I went today.
Where?
To the psychologist. I made an appointment last week, today was the first session.
Ivana set the phone down.
And?
Nothing much yet, I spoke slowly, as if weighing the words. I told her. She listened. Asked questions. I realized I couldn’t answer some of them.
Which ones?
Well, for example: “What did you feel at that moment?” I gave a weak smile. I realized I don’t know. That I don’t really understand what I feel in general. It has probably always been that way.
Yes, Ivana said. Probably.
She said it’s called “alexithymia”. When you can’t identify emotions.
I know the word.
Where from?
I read about it. Ivana looked at me. It’s not a diagnosis. It’s just a trait.
She said the same. That it can be worked on.
The kettle whistled. I got up, poured the hot water. Placed a mug in front of Ivana with mint, hers. One for myself with bergamot.
Ivana held the mug in both hands.
Marko, Ivana said. I don’t expect you to change in three weeks.
I understand.
And I don’t expect you to explain why things turned out this way. I have stopped waiting for explanations.
I looked at Ivana.
I expect something else, Ivana continued. That you will be honest. Not because you got caught but on your own. Willingly. Can you?
I don’t know, I said. I’ll try.
That’s an honest answer.
We drank tea. Outside snow was falling slow, almost unwilling, February snow.
She smells of milk, I said suddenly. Lučka. Every time I pick her up milk and something else. I can’t name it.
Baby soap, maybe.
No, something else. I looked out the window. I didn’t think it would be like this. That you pick her up and that’s simply everything, nothing else.
Yes, Ivana said. That’s how it is.
I lifted my head.
Why?
I want to sort it out, I spoke slowly, as if I had thought out each word beforehand. Why I do what I do. Why I lied. Why I went there in the morning instead of I stopped. I want to understand. Not even for you for myself.
Ivana looked at me.
All right, Ivana said.
That doesn’t mean you have to decide anything right now.
I know.
I just want you to see.
I see, Marko.
I nodded. I stood and went to the sink washed the cups that were there. This was an old habit of mine that Ivana had not noticed before, but now did: when I felt awkward I washed something.
Ivana looked at my back.
The same back that had been in the cafe opposite the maternity hospital. The same blue jacket. And yet something different. I don’t know exactly what. Perhaps she was simply looking in a different way.
Marko, Ivana said.
Yes?
We haven’t finished talking. We still have a lot to talk about.
I know.
And I don’t promise how this will end.
I understand.
But I am still here.
I turned. Looked at Ivana for a long time, without words. Then nodded. Slowly.
I am too.
In the crib in the next room Lučka moved. Ivana stood and went to her. She lay with open eyes serious, intent, looking at the ceiling.
Hello, Ivana said. What is it?
She turned her head toward the voice. And again that same twitch at the corners of her lips. Reflex or not it does not matter.
Ivana picked her up.
The apartment was quiet. Outside late February, nearly March. Snow lay on the windowsill wet, heavy, no longer wintry. Tomorrow, probably, it would thaw.
Ivana stood with Lučka by the window and thought that life is not something that happens once and then stops. It is every day anew. Every morning a choice. Sometimes the right one, sometimes not.
And what matters most not what I chose then. But what she chooses now.The bag had been standing beside the bed since the evening before. Ivana had packed it on her own the diapers, the discharge papers envelope, the small rompers with white and yellow stripes that she had purchased during the eighth month. The nurse had informed her: “By ten in the morning”, and Ivana had nodded as though it was completely normal. I would respond. I would arrive. I am always punctual.
Ivana placed the phone on the charger and lay down. Lucija slept beside her in the clear bassinet tiny, wrinkled, with a dark fuzz on the nape of her neck. Ivana gazed at her and considered that everything would change from now on. That I would grasp it. That the three days in the maternity ward would be the three days in which men mature.
At ten in the morning I did not appear.
Ivana phoned I did not pick up. She texted I read it but gave no reply. Then I messaged at half past ten: “I’ll be there shortly”. Ivana set the phone aside. The nurse brought the papers for signing. The aide assisted in dressing Lučka that was the name we had chosen for her beforehand, even prior to the birth, Lučka.
At eleven I still had not arrived.
Ivana called once more. This time I answered my voice drowsy and sluggish, as if I had only just risen.
Marko, where are you?
On my way, on my way. There’s traffic.
What traffic on a Sunday?
Well, I hesitated. I’m heading out.
Ivana replaced the receiver. Lučka was moving about in the swaddle, making bubbles. Ivana peered through the window there was the gray February courtyard, leafless trees, automobiles lined along the curb. Across the road from the maternity hospital stood a cafe. A small one, with yellow lettering on the glass. Ivana had observed it for three days from the room window, yet had never paid it much attention.
Now she did.
At one of the tables near the window sat a man. Blue jacket. Dark hair. He sat with his back toward her, but Ivana knew that back thoroughly how often she had watched it in the darkness, when I would turn toward the wall and drift off to sleep quicker than she could utter “good night”.
Across from him sat a woman. Young. A stroller was positioned beside their table gray, costly, with large wheels.
Ivana remained at the window for about three minutes. Then she grabbed the bag, requested the aide to watch Lučka, and descended to the on-duty nurse.
I need to step out for five minutes, Ivana said. Are the documents all prepared?
They are. But it would be better if you waited for your husband, she regarded Ivana over her spectacles.
It won’t take long.
Ivana exited via the staff entrance that Nataša, her ward neighbor who had been released the previous day, had pointed out to her. The February air struck at once against the face, beneath the coat, into the ears. She crossed the street and pushed open the cafe door.
Within, the air carried the scent of coffee and cinnamon. Soft music played something jazzy and indistinct. Ivana spotted us straight away.
I sat holding a cup in both hands. I was laughing my head tilted slightly backward, shoulders at ease. Ivana had not seen me in such a relaxed state for perhaps three months. Since the time her belly had become prominent.
Martina was speaking and smiling. She was attractive fine features, short chestnut hair. No sound came from the stroller beside the infant was asleep.
Ivana walked up to the table and stood beside it.
I lifted my head and the smile vanished from my face as swiftly as if a cord had been yanked.
Ivana
Hello, Ivana said. You said you were coming.
I set the cup down. Martina regarded Ivana with polite bewilderment.
Ivana, hold on, this isn’t
Not what I imagine? Ivana kept her voice level. There were other tables in the cafe, and she sensed eyes on us, yet it mattered little to her. You didn’t answer at ten. You wrote “soon” at half past eleven. It’s nearly twelve now. I stood at the ward window and saw you, Marko. Practically face to face.
Ivana, I rose. Let’s step outside.
Why bother? I have to return soon Lučka is waiting.
Martina across from me sat up a little straighter.
Pardon me, she said. Are you his wife?
Yes.
I’m Martina. Martina Babić. I work with Marko.
Ivana examined her. Then the stroller.
We ran into each other here by chance, Martina went on. I live in the building next door. I came in with my daughter. Marko must have come in as well. We just got to chatting.
How long have you been chatting?
Martina was quiet for a moment.
I arrived around nine.
Ivana turned her gaze to me.
Around nine, she echoed. You were here at nine in the morning. You knew the discharge was at ten.
Ivana
Did you know?
I knew, I did not avert my eyes, though something within me moved a tiny, barely noticeable bewilderment. I intended to grab a coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, Marko. Three hours is not five minutes!
The child in the stroller next to us began to stir. Martina bent down quickly, fixed the blanket. Her daughter was likely around three months old.
I’m sorry, Martina said to Ivana. Softly, without drama. I had no idea about the discharge. He didn’t mention it.
It’s fine, Ivana answered in the same soft tone. It’s not your fault.
Ivana faced me.
The papers are ready. Put the car by the staff exit, I’ll inform the guard, he’ll allow you in. Wait there.
Then she departed.
On the way back across the road Ivana moved more slowly than on the way there. February no longer felt as biting perhaps because she had warmed a little in the cafe, or perhaps for some other reason. Ivana reflected on how Lučka still knew nothing about discharges. That she was only three days old, and her chief concern was to breathe and feed. That her entire life lay ahead, and Ivana wanted it to be a good one.
The aide awaited Ivana at the station with Lučka in her arms.
So, has he arrived?
He will, Ivana said. He’ll be here shortly.
Ivana took the daughter. She smelled of milk and powder, and this scent was so genuine, so tangible, that all the rest the cafe, the blue jacket, the jazz faded somewhat.
The nurse provided the rest of the documents. Ivana signed where directed. She dressed herself, dressed Lučka the swaddle closed with three snaps, her hands trembled slightly, but she handled it.
I waited at the staff exit. The car stood precisely where Ivana had indicated. I came out to greet her, reached for the bag she handed it over. Then I attempted to take Lučka she did not hand her over.
Ivana
Later, Ivana said. Home first.
I did not object.
In the car we traveled without speaking.
Lučka slept in the car seat Ivana sat in the back beside her, her hand resting on the edge. I drove. A tree-shaped air freshener dangled from the rear window it had hung there since December, Ivana had always neglected to mention that it should be taken down.
Is she asleep? I inquired.
Yes.
Good.
Beyond the windows the February streets unfolded gray, with gritty snow along the pavements. Few people about. An advertisement patch on the side of a building: some bank, some deal.
Ivana watched Lučka. She had a custom to open her mouth slightly while sleeping, as if about to speak and delaying it. Ivana had already come to cherish this custom.
Ivana, I said.
Later, she replied once more.
I only want to say
Marko. Later.
I went quiet. A red light ahead. I halted the car. My fingers drummed on the wheel lightly, nearly without sound. A habit.
Green. We proceeded.
Ivana pondered that the maternity hospital was now behind them. Ahead lay the apartment in which she had been three days earlier as quite another person. Or the same. She could not tell.
We parked by the entrance. I took the bag. Ivana took Lučka. We entered the lift. Ascended to the sixth floor. I unlocked the door struggled with the lock for some time, as usual, since the lock ought to have been replaced long since, yet we had kept postponing it.
Welcome home, I said softly. Not clear to whom her or the baby.
Thank you, Ivana answered.
Home smelled just as it had three days earlier somewhat of coffee, somewhat of dust, somewhat of my aftershave. In the kitchen sink stood two cups. Ivana noticed them at once two. Not one.
Ivana placed Lučka in the crib we had readied it two months prior, white, with a cloud mobile. Lučka turned her head a little and settled. Ivana went into the kitchen.
Who was here? Ivana asked.
I stood at the window. Did not turn at once.
In what way?
Two cups in the sink. I left for the maternity hospital on Thursday. Today is Sunday. Who drank from the second one?
Mother stopped by.
Your mother visited?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I believe.
Ivana turned on the tap, picked up the sponge. Wordlessly she washed both cups. Set them to dry.
Marko, Ivana said, without turning. I want to talk. But not now. I need to feed Lučka and get at least an hour’s sleep. Then we can talk.
All right, my voice was cautious, like someone treading on ice without knowing the thin spots.
And I want you to be truthful. Not now later. But truthful.
I am truthful.
Ivana turned at last.
You sat in the cafe opposite the maternity hospital from nine in the morning. On the day your daughter was to be discharged. You silenced your phone and did not reply even once until I called myself. That is not truthful, Marko. Even underhanded!
I looked at Ivana. In my eyes was the expression she had learned to interpret over four years of marriage: not remorse bewilderment. I did not feel remorse, I felt found out.
I’ll explain, I said.
I’m listening. But not now. In two hours.
Ivana went to Lučka.
She fed quickly eagerly, methodically, with complete earnestness. Ivana looked at her and reflected: here is a person who requires no explanations. Who needs no instruction to “be truthful”. Who simply needs you entirely, wholly, at this very moment.
Ivana laid her down and lay down herself. She thought she would not be able to sleep, yet she slept before completing the thought.
She awoke after an hour and a half. Lucija was asleep. The flat was silent.
I sat in the kitchen coffee before me, phone face down. When Ivana entered, I slipped the phone into my pocket. Too quickly.
Ivana filled a glass with water. Sat across from me.
Speak, Ivana said.
I was quiet for a bit. Then I started:
Martina and I have worked together for two years. You know, we handled one project together that tender in November. She went on maternity leave before we finished, there was much anyway, we talked a lot.
I remember that tender, Ivana said. You came home at ten at night. I was in my seventh month.
Yes. I did not deny it. We worked hard.
And?
And nothing. We just worked. I met Ivana’s eyes. Ivana, I swear there is nothing between us.
Nothing was there? Or nothing is there?
A pause. Small, nearly imperceptible but she caught it.
Nothing is there, I repeated.
And was there?
I set the cup on the table.
Ivana
Yes or no.
It’s more complicated than yes or no.
Ivana nodded. Very slowly.
I see.
Wait. I reached out a hand, but Ivana did not move toward it, so I withdrew it. It was a while ago. Before you became pregnant. Once. I it was a mistake. I put an end to it myself.
Once.
Yes.
And today you just happened to be in the cafe opposite the maternity hospital exactly when I was waiting for you.
I dropped in for coffee. Spotted her. We got talking. Ivana, I had no plans I swear.
You had no plans, Ivana repeated. You simply failed to show up for your daughter’s discharge. Not deliberately. It just turned out that way.
I remained silent.
Ivana rose. Walked to the window there was the familiar courtyard, trees, cars. She considered that three days earlier she had gazed from a different window at the same sky.
Marko, Ivana said, without turning. I won’t create a scene. I lack the energy for it, and to be honest, the wish as well. We have a daughter who is three days old. I want you to understand one thing.
What?
I would have forgiven a mistake. I would probably have been able to endure it if you had told me yourself. But before I happened to see you through the window. You see the difference?
I stayed silent.
You didn’t come for the discharge not because you lingered in the cafe. You didn’t come because sitting there mattered more to you. And it’s not even about Martina. It’s that it mattered more to you.
Ivana turned around.
I am not going to make any decisions today. I want you to know that. Today I will feed Lučka and sleep. Tomorrow as well. In a week we will talk again, and you will tell me everything truthfully. Not “once”, not “a mistake” truthfully. Then I will consider.
Ivana
This is all I can manage right now.
I nodded. Very quietly.
All right.
The following days were odd thick, like batting. Lučka slept, ate, stared at the ceiling gravely, with the air of someone pondering a serious matter. I moved through the apartment quietly, prepared meals, went out twice for diapers, once for Ivana’s medications. Ivana neither sent me away nor summoned me.
On the third day my mother phoned.
Ivana answered, as she was accustomed to doing.
Ivana, Vesna’s voice was strained, slightly higher than usual. How are you? How is Lučka?
Fine. Everything is fine.
Listen, I wanted to ask. Marko seems odd. What happened?
Speak with him yourself.
Ivana, come on
Vesna, Ivana said steadily. I love and respect you. But I cannot discuss this now. I feed the baby every three hours and hardly sleep. When I am ready we will talk.
A pause.
All right, the mother-in-law said. I’m sorry.
That was unexpected.
I will bring you soup tomorrow, she added. May I?
Yes, Ivana said. Thank you.
Vesna arrived the following day right at midday, with a pot of chicken soup and a package of buns. Ivana opened the door, Vesna entered, removed her shoes, hung her coat and went straight to Lučka.
Heavens, she said softly. What a little beauty.
Lučka slept. Vesna stood over the crib for a long time silently, arms crossed on her chest.
May I hold her? she asked at last.
Wait, let her sleep. She fell asleep just an hour ago.
Of course, of course. The mother-in-law stepped back from the crib, went to the kitchen and began unpacking the soup. Are you hungry?
A bit.
She served Ivana some soup, set the plate down. She sat opposite with a cup of tea my tea, with bergamot, which Ivana did not care for.
They sat in silence.
Ivana, she began. I won’t meddle in what isn’t my concern.
Good.
But I want to say one thing.
Ivana ate her soup and waited.
He called me. Marko. Told me what he had done. She held the cup in both hands, gazed into it. I won’t defend him. He’s a fool. He has always been somewhat of a fool in these matters something goes on in his head and he stops thinking. But he is not a bad man. I know that for certain.
Vesna, Ivana said. I’m not saying he is bad.
No?
No. That would be simpler.
She looked at Ivana. Then nodded slowly, as though she had grasped something.
You are a clever girl, she said. You have always been smarter than he is. I always told him so.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
It is good, the mother-in-law said firmly. It is good. Because one of the two must be the smart one.
Lučka made a sound from the room. Ivana stood.
The soup is good, Ivana said. Thank you.
Vesna stood as well followed her. She stood in the doorway as Ivana picked up Lučka.
Now? she asked.
Ivana passed the baby to her. The mother-in-law took her assuredly, without haste, the way people who have held infants before do. She rocked her.
Lucija, she said. Lucijica
Lučka fixed her with a look of serious examination.
She resembles Marko, Vesna said. The forehead and nose. His.
I see.
And the eyes yours. The expression isn’t the same yet, but you’ll see later. Definitely yours.
Ivana watched them both. She thought that this was one of those things that cannot be undone. No matter what happened this woman would be Lučka’s grandmother. This blood, this face, these hands. Forever.
A smile. Probably not genuine the nurse in the maternity hospital had said that genuine smiles begin later, that this was a reflex. But she lay in Ivana’s arms, looking at her face and something happened at the corners of her mouth. Something very small and very definite.
I stood close by. I saw it.
Ivana, I said in a whisper. Did you see?
I saw.
Is that a smile?
Probably still a reflex.
Still.
We stood side by side, looking at her. The apartment was still. Ivana thought that this was it the strangest thing in life: it fits into these few seconds. Nearby stands a person you do not trust and whom you love. Or no longer love. Or still love. You do not know.
I need to tell you something, I said. Quietly, without turning.
Go ahead.
It was not just once.
A pause.
How many times?
Three months. Roughly. In the autumn. When you were in the sixth and seventh month.
Ivana stood there. Lučka yawned widely, with a toothless mouth and closed her eyes.
Then I ended it myself, I went on. That is true. She wanted to keep going, I said no. Said it was a mistake.
And what about on the day of the discharge?
That morning she texted. That she wanted to talk. I went thought it would be five minutes. Thought I would explain that we have everything, that we have a child. But she began to cry, and I could not leave immediately.
You could not leave her. But you could not come to me.
I said nothing.
Ivana slowly placed Lučka in the crib. She straightened.
Thank you for telling me.
Ivana
No. Not now. Ivana lifted her hand. I will not decide anything now. That is true. But I need to think. Not three days longer. And you must give me that time.
How long?
I don’t know. Ivana looked at me. I need to figure out if I can live with this. Not “forgive” but live. Those are different things.
I understand.
I’m not sure you do. But all right.
Ivana took the blanket from the chair and covered Lučka. She was already asleep steadily, trustingly, the way only those who have no need to sort anything out yet can sleep.
A week later Ivana telephoned her friend Lana. They had been friends since their student days, she lived in another city, but every few days she would always write something along the lines of “how is your little one doing”.
Lana, Ivana said. I need to talk.
I can tell from your voice. Go on.
Ivana explained. Briefly, without details only the essentials. Lana listened without interrupting. Then she said:
Ivana, I will ask you one thing. Only honestly.
All right.
If he had told you himself. Before the discharge. Before you saw. How would you have reacted?
Ivana considered.
I don’t know. Probably differently.
There. Lana was silent for a moment. This is important, you see? Not what he did that is awful, and I do not excuse it. But what he chose. To conceal. To lie “once”. And then only because he realized you would find out anyway.
Yes.
You are smart. You will work it out yourself. I just want you to know: whatever you decide it is the right decision. Because it is yours.
Lana, you always say that.
Because it is always true.
Ivana laughed. For the first time that week genuinely.
Lana, will you come soon?
As soon as you begin walking with Lučka, I will come at once. I need to smell the top of her head, otherwise I won’t make it.
You will, Ivana promised. She smells nice.
They all smell nice. It’s an evolutionary trap.
Lana.
What?
Thank you.
No problem. Call tomorrow.
Ivana hung up the phone. Outside it was already dark the short February day was drawing to a close rapidly, as though it itself did not enjoy existing. Ivana poured herself some tea and sat by the window.
I returned from the store brought bags, placed them in the kitchen. Peeked in.
Would you like tea? I asked. I bought yours with mint.
I have already poured some.
Oh, right. I lingered in the doorway. Is Lučka asleep?
Yes. I just fed her.
Good.
I went to the kitchen. Ivana could hear me unpacking the bags, something clattering against the refrigerator shelf. The usual noises of usual life. Ivana thought that this was the hardest part: when nothing has altered on the outside the same noises, the same scent, the same blue jacket on the hook yet inside something has moved. And it is uncertain whether it will return to place. And whether it should.
Ivana came to accept it little by little, as one accepts major decisions not all at once, but in small portions, a bit each day. Ivana observed how I take Lučka at three in the morning so she can rest. How I hold her awkwardly at first and then with growing assurance. How I speak to her quietly, earnestly, as to an adult who needs an important matter explained.
Once Ivana awoke at four in the morning because of the quiet Lučka was not crying, and that alone seemed odd. She rose and went to the room.
I sat in the armchair beside the crib. Lučka lay in my arms I held her carefully, a little awkwardly with my elbow supported on the armrest. Both were asleep. She with her mouth slightly open, I with my head leaned back, with a wholly relaxed, almost childlike face.
Ivana stood in the doorway. Then she went back to bed.
She did not yet know what she would decide. But she thought that this too was truth no less than the other. That people are more complicated than what they do on one particular day. That Lučka would know a father who sat with her at four in the morning. And a father who missed the discharge. It is the same face. The same person.
What to do about it that was her question. Hers alone.
Ivana stared at the ceiling and thought.
One evening Lučka was already three weeks old Ivana sat in the kitchen. Lučka was asleep, the apartment was still. She scrolled through something on her phone not reading, just scrolling, as one reads the air. I came home from work, changed, put the kettle on. Sat across from her.
We were quiet for a minute.
How was your day? Ivana asked.
Fine. We finally submitted that documentation. I rubbed my face with my palms. Did you sleep?
Two hours. Lučka let me.
Good. A pause. I went today.
Where?
To the psychologist. I made an appointment last week, today was the first session.
Ivana set the phone down.
And?
Nothing much yet, I spoke slowly, as if weighing the words. I told her. She listened. Asked questions. I realized I couldn’t answer some of them.
Which ones?
Well, for example: “What did you feel at that moment?” I gave a weak smile. I realized I don’t know. That I don’t really understand what I feel in general. It has probably always been that way.
Yes, Ivana said. Probably.
She said it’s called “alexithymia”. When you can’t identify emotions.
I know the word.
Where from?
I read about it. Ivana looked at me. It’s not a diagnosis. It’s just a trait.
She said the same. That it can be worked on.
The kettle whistled. I got up, poured the hot water. Placed a mug in front of Ivana with mint, hers. One for myself with bergamot.
Ivana held the mug in both hands.
Marko, Ivana said. I don’t expect you to change in three weeks.
I understand.
And I don’t expect you to explain why things turned out this way. I have stopped waiting for explanations.
I looked at Ivana.
I expect something else, Ivana continued. That you will be honest. Not because you got caught but on your own. Willingly. Can you?
I don’t know, I said. I’ll try.
That’s an honest answer.
We drank tea. Outside snow was falling slow, almost unwilling, February snow.
She smells of milk, I said suddenly. Lučka. Every time I pick her up milk and something else. I can’t name it.
Baby soap, maybe.
No, something else. I looked out the window. I didn’t think it would be like this. That you pick her up and that’s simply everything, nothing else.
Yes, Ivana said. That’s how it is.
I lifted my head.
Why?
I want to sort it out, I spoke slowly, as if I had thought out each word beforehand. Why I do what I do. Why I lied. Why I went there in the morning instead of I stopped. I want to understand. Not even for you for myself.
Ivana looked at me.
All right, Ivana said.
That doesn’t mean you have to decide anything right now.
I know.
I just want you to see.
I see, Marko.
I nodded. I stood and went to the sink washed the cups that were there. This was an old habit of mine that Ivana had not noticed before, but now did: when I felt awkward I washed something.
Ivana looked at my back.
The same back that had been in the cafe opposite the maternity hospital. The same blue jacket. And yet something different. I don’t know exactly what. Perhaps she was simply looking in a different way.
Marko, Ivana said.
Yes?
We haven’t finished talking. We still have a lot to talk about.
I know.
And I don’t promise how this will end.
I understand.
But I am still here.
I turned. Looked at Ivana for a long time, without words. Then nodded. Slowly.
I am too.
In the crib in the next room Lučka moved. Ivana stood and went to her. She lay with open eyes serious, intent, looking at the ceiling.
Hello, Ivana said. What is it?
She turned her head toward the voice. And again that same twitch at the corners of her lips. Reflex or not it does not matter.
Ivana picked her up.
The apartment was quiet. Outside late February, nearly March. Snow lay on the windowsill wet, heavy, no longer wintry. Tomorrow, probably, it would thaw.
Ivana stood with Lučka by the window and thought that life is not something that happens once and then stops. It is every day anew. Every morning a choice. Sometimes the right one, sometimes not.
And what matters most not what I chose then. But what she chooses now.
