Gadget Girl

by Suzanne Kamata

  Down near the grotto, there are rows of chairs. I motion for Mom to wait for me, and then I move down to the cave, to the place where Bernadette was cured.

  When I step up to the railing, my heart starts to bang. I feel my knees begin to buckle and I hold myself upright with my arms until I can control my legs again. All of my senses are suddenly acute. I can hear every bird in every tree. The world is bright; the mountains are haloed. It’s just adrenaline, I tell myself. But fear grabs me by the throat. What if I do experience a miracle? What then? I’m old enough to know that everything has a price. You don’t get something for nothing in this world.

  Bernadette may have been graced with a vision, but she was sent away to a convent. She died there, away from her family, from tuberculosis when she was just sixteen. Only a couple of years older than I am now.

  I saw a movie on cable once about this Japanese woman with a brain-damaged daughter. She believed that if she made the tour of eighty-eight temples in Shikoku, her girl would be able to walk. Even when she was grown, the mother pushed her child from temple to temple in this wicker buggy, picking fruit along the way to earn money for food. Finally, at the last temple, the daughter got out of the buggy, stood up on her own, took one step, fell down, and died.

  I take a deep breath. My heart starts to slow down. What a waste that would be.

  I want to ride on the back of some boy’s scooter and feel the wind in my hair. I want to fall deeply in love, even if it hurts. I want to sprawl on Whitney’s bed and watch more movies and talk about our dreams of the future, and I want to draw and travel and even learn to dance. And maybe Mom is right about my dad. If he can’t accept me, his own flesh and blood, limp and claw and all, maybe he’s not worth getting to know.

  I curl the fingers of my right hand around the railing and peer into the grotto. I try to conjure the lady in white. Some people said that she was a fairy. Bernadette never actually said that she was the Virgin, but that’s what the villagers wanted to believe. I don’t see a fairy or anything else. All I see is stone. I heave a sigh of relief and start to walk away.

  That’s when I hear the voice.

  “Forgive,” a woman whispers.

  My skin goes all prickly. I veer back toward the cave, but there’s nothing there. Just stone, as before.

  “Forgive,” the voice says again, a little louder this time. I turn to see an elderly woman, her eyes squeezed shut. Okay, so she’s not talking to me. She’s thinking about her own problems. Once again, relief whooshes through me, but this time it’s mixed with something else. I think of Mom and all the gifts that she has given me on this trip—the story about my father, the knowledge of my brother, Junpei, this moment at the shrine, even my friendship with Hervé.

  I feel a sudden surge of love for my mother. I hurry as fast as I can to find her. When I do, I am as surprised as I’ve ever been. She’s behind all of the rows of chairs, kneeling. Her head is bowed and her hands are folded together. The sight of my mother praying is about as much of a miracle as anything.

  “Mom,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  She opens her eyes. They are rimmed with red. There are a few streaks on her face. “I’m sorry, Aiko. I’m so sorry about everything.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I forgive you.” I hold out her hand to help her up.

  Instead, she opens her palm to me, offering a square of folded paper.

  “What’s this?” I ask, plucking it from her hand.

  “It’s your father’s address. Do with it what you like.”

  I hold it for a moment without reading it, and then I put it in my pocket. It’s my father’s address, but this is also where my brother lives.

  31

  We hang out in Lourdes for a few more days. We’ve come all this way, so why not? Mom and I go for a walk around the city, stopping here and there to sketch. It reminds me of old times, when we would sit at the table drawing each other. Today my anger is gone. I don’t feel irritated even when Mom puts her hand on my arm to steady me, or guides me through a door.

  We find a cool gallery on rue Mozart and stop in to see metal sculptures of dogs, bulls, and birds.

  “This artist has a way with the welder, doesn’t he?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, sure does.” I’m a little relieved to see that Lourdes is about more than the lame and the sick.

  There are also horses for riding, and a railway leading to the top of a mountain—Le Pic du Jer—from which we can see the village of Lourdes with all its orange-tiled roofs, Bernadette’s old hometown, Pau, and the lush valley below.

  Before we leave, we duck into a souvenir shop. It’s full of Our Lady of Lourdes key chains and T-shirts. You can buy coasters and silver spoons, and, of course, containers of water. I remember how moved Whitney was by the story of Bernadette and buy a bottle of spring water for her. There’s a picture of Bernadette on the label, her hands folded in prayer. The lady in white hovers above her.

  The clerk looks at my clawed hand and gives me a sickly sweet smile.

  While she’s ringing up my purchase, I bite down on my tongue. I want to tell her that the water’s not for me, that she doesn’t need to feel sorry for me, or hope for a cure, but then again, it’s none of her business.

  I hand over the money and quickly turn away.

  On Friday, we take the train back to Paris.

  When we walk into the hotel lobby, I cry out in surprise. “Raoul!”

  He’s sitting on one of the velvet-upholstered chairs, reading a newspaper.

  “Hello, ladies,” he says without moving. Is it my imagination, or is he suddenly a little shy?

  Mom stops still in her tracks and drops her purse. Incredibly, tears are pooling in her eyes. She picks up her bag, and we go to him together. All three of us stand there hugging and kissing in the hotel lobby.

  “I was just reading a review of your show,” he says to Mom when we finally break apart.

  “I didn’t know you could read French,” I say.

  “Un petit peu.” He shrugs. “I could make out some words, like magnifique and radicale.”

  “Are you staying here?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I got the art deco room,” Raoul says.

  “Cool,” I say. “Can we see it?”

  “Sure. And then I’m taking you both out to dinner.”

  I slip back into our room to get the CD I bought for Raoul. “This is for you,” I say, handing it over.

  His face lights up. “Rai! This puts me in the mood for couscous. I bet there’s a North African restaurant around here. What do you think?”

  “Sounds great,” Mom says, linking her arm through his.

  I nod in agreement. I’ve never had couscous, but I trust Raoul. So far everything we’ve eaten with him has been delicious.

  Raoul turns to me and says, “So what’s Gadget Girl up to these days?”

  My mouth falls open. Did Whitney tell? Did I leave some incriminating evidence in my room? Did he hack my website? “How did you know?”

  He shrugs and looks at Mom.

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” she says. “All of the evidence is there—the eggbeater, the macchinetta. And there was that story about the giant red sea turtle that crawled into Gadget Girl’s camp with a bell on its back. That’s a story from the Shikoku Pilgrimage that I told you about. I thought you wanted people to know it was you.”

  I nod slowly. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I did want them to know, underneath it all. And maybe it’s time to come out about my work.

  “Gadget Girl has gone global,” I say, no longer able to contain my enthusiasm. I tell them about Hervé’s translation, and about Gadget Girl in chalk on the sidewalks of Paris.

  “Good for her,” Raoul says with a wink. “Now about that other project.”

  And then I remember that he’s supposed to be babysitting my sprout. I kinda forgot about that when I sent the e-mail inviting him over.

  “Oh, yeah. How’s my indigo plant doing?”

  Raoul’s face g
oes a little cloudy. “I think it misses you. I followed your instructions to the letter, but it started looking a little droopy soon after you left. I even played it some Turkish music, but it didn’t seem to do any good. I’m really sorry, Aiko. I know you were counting on me.”

  Oh, well. I can’t exactly blame him for almost killing my plant. And really, what does it matter? I was trying to prove myself as an indigo farmer in order to impress my father. What do I care what he thinks, this man who couldn’t open his heart to a tiny, helpless baby, a man who ignores his flesh and blood across the sea? I have nothing to prove to him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say to Raoul. “There will be other sprouts.”

  Mom excuses herself for a moment to ask the concierge for a restaurant recommendation and then leads us out to a cab.

  We wind up in a place a few streets away called Le Souk. We’re shown to a low table and seated on cushions. Arabian dance music pulses from the speakers in the corner, and the scent of mint and cooking meat fills the air. A waiter wearing a red fez brings us menus and sprinkles water on our hands.

  Raoul brings his fingers to his nose. “Orange blossom water,” he tells us. He peruses the menu, then orders a tagine.

  “You’ll like it,” he says. “It’s meat and dried fruit cooked in a special clay pot.”

  While we wait for our food, Mom fills Raoul in on our sightseeing activities. She glosses over our trip to Lourdes, and doesn’t mention Hervé at all. That’s for me to tell.

  The waiter brings a pot of mint tea and pours us each a cup.

  Raoul raises his. “A toast,” he says, “in honor of Aiko’s fifteenth birthday.”

  “It’s already over,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Nevertheless.”

  We clink cups, and then he pulls a small package from his jacket pocket. “Happy birthday.”

  I open it slowly, trying to prepare my reaction. I remember all the awful gifts I got from Mom’s previous boyfriend, the effort that it took to appear glad. They are both watching me, which makes it all worse.

  But when I’ve unwrapped the small box and opened the lid, I gasp. Inside is a dozen pairs of high heels—charms dangling from a bracelet. These are the high-heeled shoes presented to girls at their quinceañeras. “Thank you! It’s perfect!”

  “May I?” Raoul reaches across the table.

  I hand over the bracelet, and he clasps it around my wrist.

  “And now,” he says, reaching into his other pocket and pulling out another small fuzzy box, “would you have me as your stepfather?”

  I look across the table at Mom. Her eyes are filled with tears—happy tears, judging by the smile trembling on her lips. She sees the question in my eyes and nods.

  “Yes,” I say. “I would.”

  He opens the box. The diamond glitters in the lamplight. We all admire it for a moment, there against the blue velvet, before he removes it and slides it onto my mother’s ring finger. They kiss.

  I smile, tears pooling in my eyes as well. “I think this calls for champagne.”

  We are almost too happy to eat, but then the food comes, and it’s irresistible. The waiter brings a clay pot with a cone-shaped lid. The lid is lifted, releasing a rich, spicy aroma, and we ladle lamb stewed with pears, almonds, and raisins onto beds of couscous.

  When the champagne arrives, I am allowed a sip. It’s not enough to make me drunk, but I feel giddy—giddy enough so that when the other patrons start grooving to the techno-Arabian music, I don’t even resist when Raoul pulls me to my feet. There, in Le Souk, I get my first dance.

  32

  “Raoul and I are going to do some sightseeing. Do you want to come?”

  I’ve already seen the Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Cœur, and I think the two of them could use some time alone, so I pass. “I’m feeling inspired,” I say. “I want to work on my manga.”

  Mom nods. There is no argument. She understands the heart of an artist.

  At first I think I’ll work in the hotel room. But I’d really rather be downstairs in the café. Maybe someday Gadget Girl will take off and visitors will flock to see my favorite table. I imagine my spot being cordoned off, like the booth at the place in London where J.K. Rowling drank coffee and wrote stories about Harry Potter. If all goes well, I could put Hervé’s family business on the map.

  I pack up my drawing materials and notebook and head to the cafe.

  Hervé’s father greets me with a big smile.

  “Un citron pressé,” I say, ordering a drink made from citrus fruit. It’s time to try something different.

  “Tout de suite,” he promises, and goes off to get my beverage.

  Hervé’s not there. Which is maybe just as well. I’ve got work to do.

  Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been thinking about giving up on Gadget Girl altogether. But that wouldn’t be fair to my loyal fans—Brandy in Alaska! Zack in Tallahassee!—and I think I need to tie up the story. Or at least take it to the next level. And I want everyone to know, finally, that I’m the one who created the comic.

  This next episode will be called Gadget Girl Falls in Love. Maybe a little too sappy for Chad and Luke, but who cares? In this edition, Gadget Girl will meet the Kitchen Musician. He’ll be a Latino who’s also good with his hands—part Robert Johnson, part Anthony Bourdain, a guy who can charm with his guitar playing and his cooking. The Kitchen Musician will not be a dude-in-distress—not even close. He’ll join forces with Gadget Girl. They’ll be partners. And Chaz Whittaker? I guess he’ll just have to fend for himself.

  I look out the window. I see la parfumerie across the street, a mocha-colored woman in high heels and a flowing scarf walking her dog, a glimpse of a gargoyle. Of course this story will be set in Paris.

  It’ll all be there—a daring rescue from the top of the Eiffel Tower, a romantic cruise along the Seine, numerous cups of strong coffee and hot chocolate at sidewalk cafés. As soon as I open my notebook, my pencil starts flying across the page. Right now I’m just making rough sketches, getting the ideas down. The refinement comes later.

  I’ve already decided that this will be my wedding gift for Mom and Raoul. They’re talking about getting married in a couple of months, so I don’t have a lot of time.

  I’m so intent on my drawing that it takes me a moment to notice that someone is standing next to me.

  “Can I join you?”

  I look up, startled to see Hervé, standing there. He’s wearing jeans and a tight grey T-shirt. Obviously it’s his day off.

  “Have a seat,” I say, trying to keep my voice cool.

  “Where have you been?” Hervé leans forward across the table. “I saw you walk by the café the other day and you didn’t come in. And then—pouf!—you disappeared.”

  The knot in my stomach begins to unravel. I’m suddenly not so sure about what I saw. “You were talking to that girl…”

  He frowns. “You mean Celeste?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?”

  He shakes his head. “She is not my girlfriend. Not anymore. We break up, we get back together, we break up again. It makes me crazy.” He fills his cheeks with air, then implodes them. “Enough! I told her that we are finished for good this time.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I state the obvious. “You don’t have to work today.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “No. So maybe I will just sit here with you?”

  I smile and nod. Although I remind myself that there is really nothing between us, I can’t help but feel happy. Just being here together is enough for now. In a few years our age difference won’t be such a big deal. And then? Who knows.

  “What are you drawing?” he asks.

  “It’s really rough,” I say, “but, here.” I pull my hand gently away from his and push the sketchbook toward him. I tell him about Raoul’s arrival and my mother’s engagement. And then I outline the basics of the story I’ve come up with.

  �
��Nice,” he says. “I hope you will send me a copy when it’s finished.”

  “Yeah, of course.” This seems like the perfect time to exchange contact info, so I write down my e-mail and Facebook addresses and hand them over to Hervé. He does the same. Suddenly, France doesn’t seem all that far away from Michigan.

  “Will you come to the airport to see me off?” I ask. “I mean, I would like you to.”

  “Bien sur.”

  michigan, again

  “There is no place like home.”

  —Dorothy

  33

  As we ride in the cab to the airport, I watch out the window, trying to memorize everything about this city. I take in the grey stone buildings, the chic thin women, the yappy little dogs on leashes. I look out the back window at the Eiffel Tower receding in the distance. I say good-bye to the City of Lights, the capital of fashion. The City of Love.

  There is an entourage waiting at the airport to see us off—Giselle, Monsieur Le Clerc, all of the gallery workers, Etienne and his wife, and, best of all, Hervé.

  When he comes over to me, he seems a little bit shy. I think he might even be the tiniest bit sad. He leads me away from the others, till we’re standing in front of a white pillar.

  “So I guess this is adieu,” I say, thinking to impress him with my French.

  He frowns. “Not adieu. That means good-bye forever. I hope to see you again.”

  His words make me feel like leaping, like singing and dancing. Like doing cartwheels and jumping jacks. “Me too,” I say. “Maybe you could visit America again.”

  A fantasy springs to mind: Hervé, as an exchange student at my new high school. Madison Fox looking on in jealousy as we walk down the hallway holding hands. The two of us all dressed up for an autograph party for my newly published manga at the local Kinko’s, er, bookstore.

  “Or maybe we will meet in Japan someday?” he says.

  Another fantasy: Hervé and me, at the top of Tokyo Sky Tree, looking down at the metropolis below, or sipping green tea lattes in the Gundam robot cafe, or even the two of us swimming with the loggerhead turtles off the coast of Shikoku.