Roots

My father was by no means a professional genealogist. He taught history at the local high school and spent too much time in the library. Between grading papers, he would look up public records, attempting to document his broken lineage. Sitting in rush hour traffic, he would map out his family tree in his head. A rush of leaves falling from a single branch when he found sixteen children from a single set of parents. A branch broken when he found out a family had succumbed to a disease curable today, but deadly in the 19th century.

I am not sure why my father's interest in genealogy became a sudden obsession when I moved to Baltimore. After all, he always knew he was adopted and had never taken an interest in his birth parents before. Perhaps, it was because he was lonely. It was just him and the dog in that tiny apartment. I should have visited more, I know I should have. But work was busy, the weeks flew by, and driving up to my dad's kept getting pushed off to the following weekend.

Until there were no weekends left. Until I received a call from a sheriff about the accident on route 276. Until I packed my black dress and heels in a suitcase to head back home.

Skipper greeted me at the door after my father's memorial service. I shuffled through my bag and found my pill bottle, I was running low again. Finding a new doctor would be a top priority when I returned to Baltimore. I rubbed my wet eyes into my dress sleeve and looked around the apartment. Incredibly neat for a messy man. My father's signature style was a cross between 60s hippie and Professor Plum from Clue. His curly chestnut hair sprung out in different directions. He had small, bright hazel eyes and a devious smirk. His shirt tails would always fail to stay tucked and his shoes were badly scuffed. Even Skipper matched his look, an old sheepdog who badly needed a haircut.

I walked over to his desk and sat in his leather chair. He used to tell me, "Juliet, let your desk be messy with projects, but your home be neat for company." And his desk was indeed messy, papers with names of ancestors, their stories and birthplaces. A few utility bills and some treats for Skipper. I opened the top drawer to find a mysterious little black notebook filled with notes on various ancestors in our family tree. Towards the end of the book, my father wrote his name, birth date, and occupation; and stuck in a photo of us when I was a little girl. I flipped to the next page and saw a photo of myself with my birth date and occupation. There was a sentence underneath the photo that said "My beautiful daughter" in my father's scratchy handwriting. I scratched the back of my neck. A tear fell on the page. I flipped to the next one.

Coiling down the page in a double helix, a DNA molecule was doodled in blue ink. Little notes were written along the bars between the two strands of the helix. Most of the notes were illegible, except for one— "Juliet, if you are reading this, take the money from the safe and finish what I started. Fill out the tree. The combination is your birthday."

I stood so long at the safe with my mouth open that Skipper started barking. 20,000 dollars, just sitting there. I counted it three times. 20,000 dollars? To finish his genealogy work? Surely, this must be a mistake. I started scratching at the cut on my shoulder, peeling off the scab. It seemed like too much money for a genealogy project. Money that I could use for more medication, to quit my job at the restaurant, or even rent a new apartment in the nice part of the city. Things that could actually change my life for the better.

I slept in the apartment for a few days, packed up boxes. Some old friends came by to help load my father's things into my car. My boss texted me, asking when I would be back in Baltimore. I ignored the messages and curled up with Skipper on the couch. My arms ached, probably from lifting all the boxes. I walked over to the coat closet and reached for my prescription. Empty. Ugh. I returned to the couch to finish my show on Netflix, but I couldn't stay focused. Now that my father's things were taken care of, what was I to do with that money?

***

"Dad would want me to live better with that money, feel better, you know?" I told Skipper, who sat in the front seat of my car.

We were on the drive home to Baltimore. Boxes were piled in the back seat. Skipper looked out the window.

"What if I split the money? I can use half of it to find us a better place, make our life easier, and spend the other half on what my dad wanted, on the genealogy stuff." Skipper kept looking out the window.

When I returned to Baltimore, I ended up spending $8,000 on a professional genealogist. He traced my family back several generations and found out that my father was born in Germany, specifically the city of Augsburg. His birth name was Werner Sachs. But still no birth parents to be found.

Then there was the remaining $2,000 dedicated to this project. The notebook sitting on the end table. Skipper watching me from across the room. "My beautiful daughter" in scratchy handwriting swirling around in my head.

I drew myself a warm bath and sprinkled in some baking soda. It was supposed to help with the itching. I thought about Germany. Does his mother still live there? Did she have a mess of curls like he had? Did she feel an ache in her heart the moment his car slid into the guardrail? Or was she scrolling through Instagram like I was, oblivious to the world, oblivious to route 276. I sunk my head under the water. My beautiful daughter.

I owed it to him. If I was going to spend the other half of the money on myself, the least I could do was find his birth parents with the remaining $2,000 set aside. I put a pot of coffee on, filled up Skipper's bowl, and took a Perc to settle my stomach. Jazz filled the apartment, music my father loved, and I pushed all the furniture to one side of the room. I spread the papers from the genealogist across the floor and opened up the notebook.

Over the next few months, my friends worried about me and my boss had run out of patience. But I didn't have time for them. I only left my apartment to walk Skipper, stop by CVS, and pick up Lo Mein at the local Chinese restaurant. The rest of my hours were spent with my tree, the broken lineage of branches. WWII registration cards, death certificates, and baptismal records cluttered my floor. Black and white photographs hung haphazardly on the walls. But I was getting somewhere. I was finally getting somewhere.

The last cup of coffee, the pop of the pill bottle, the clock's small hand reaching the three. I remember that moment so well. The moment I found my grandmother, her German address, her photo. She was alive.

***

Skipper was eager to run around after the long flight to Germany. I pulled him back and looked at the address I wrote in the notebook. Yes, this was the house. An elderly woman opened the door, she had a bob of straight gray hair and those familiar small green eyes. They lit up when they saw Skipper.

"Liesl, a dog is here! He's big too! I think he's my dog." shouted the woman.

Another woman opened the door further and stepped in front of the elderly woman. Her unruly black hair was tied up in a scrunchie and she was shorter than average, probably in her fifties.

"You'll have to excuse my mother," she whispered so her mother couldn't hear. "She's not all there, she has dementia."

I stood there awkwardly with the notebook tucked under my arm, Skipper's leash in the other. I started scratching the cut on my wrist.

"I'm looking for Ingrid Sachs," my voice quivered. The elderly woman started petting Skipper.

"My name is Liesl," said the woman, "and yes, this is my mother, Ingrid. Do I know you?"

Once inside, Liesl helped Ingrid sit down by the window. Skipper sniffed around her feet. We sat at the kitchen table and Liesl read each page of the notebook, filled with my father's notes and my own findings. She softly mumbled in German, "Ein Bruder, ein Bruder."

"Would you like, um, a glass of wine?" she asked, peering up from the notebook.

"Yes, danke."

Our glasses of wine turned into cups of tea and then back to glasses of wine after Ingrid went to bed. Liesl told me stories of Ingrid's life and her own childhood. I told her stories of my father.

"It's difficult to sum up a man in a few stories. It makes me wonder what someone will tell about me someday," I said, brushing my fingers along the doodles of DNA.

"I don't think it's about what you say, I think it's about how you say it" replied Liesl, "I can tell you loved him as much as I love my mother."

They let me stay the night and in the early morning I left a note with $11,400, all the remaining money, on top of Ingrid's dresser. I put Skipper's leash on and we made our way to the train station. I walked past shops starting to open for the day. My head was pounding, but the sun felt warm on my face. There was a bench outside the station and we waited for the next train to Munich. I rummaged through my pockets and found my pill bottle. There were only three Percs left.

"She doesn't need all that money."

Liesl walked around the bench and sat next to me. Skipper pulled on the leash, his tail wagging. She looked down at the pills and then towards the train tracks.

"We all have our vices, but I can help."

I looked down at the pills and then back at her. "My father told me to finish what he started, to fill out the tree. It only seemed right for Ingrid to have the money."

Liesl kept her eyes on the train in the distance, "Maybe your father wasn't talking about finding branches, maybe he was talking about planting roots."

Tears stung the corners of my eyes and one rolled down my cheek. I could feel the heat of the sun burning my face, my throat tightening, my scalp itching. The train was pulling up to the station.

"Juliet, I have a guest room. It isn't much, but perhaps you can stay a while. I'd like to learn more about my niece."

We sat there as the train left without me and another one came and left. I turned to her, about to say something, but no words came out. She reached for my suitcase and started rolling it back towards the house. We walked past the shops, a bakery with pastries, right past the pharmacy, and on the corner I stopped at a newsstand. Near a collection of touristy trinkets sat a notebook. The sun wrapped around my back, Skipper's tail thumped against my calf, and I reached in my pocket for a few Euros. Lisel smiled at me, her hair sprouting in different directions. I paid the seller and lifted the book from the stand. A little black notebook just like my father's, filled with blank pages, ready for me to begin my story.