I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  If all three of us were going we’d have gotten one room with two queens, but Brady found the idea of sharing a room with his daughter in Paris depressing, so he booked them each their own. It’s ironic; they’re down one person but somehow more than doubling the cost.

  The prospect of spending eight days alone with Eve has Brady tense. He spends half an hour looking for our vacation luggage, only to spend another half hour staring at his closet trying to determine what to bring. Brady never packed for anything that wasn’t work-related. Since getting him to agree to vacation at all was such an effort, I took on any burden associated with the actual trip. I don’t even think he registered that someone packed his luggage until this very moment. Now, flabbergasted, he says aloud, “Another hidden talent, huh, Maddy?”

  The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” Eve calls.

  “Happy leave-for-Paris day,” Paige says when the door opens.

  “Thanks.” Her excitement is tangled with apprehension around how she and Brady will get along, and a deep sadness that I won’t be there for the adventure.

  “Sooo … I couldn’t refrain … after you said you loved Wicked I had to pick up some vacation books for you.” She hands Eve a bag from Wellesley Books that leaves me nostalgic for the afternoons I wasted an hour perusing their rows and rows of shelves for the perfect next read.

  “Sweet.”

  Eve has been devouring our bookshelf. She’ll stay up until one in the morning reading, then curse herself for it the next day, the same way I used to.

  “In the interest of full disclosure, I’m hoping you’ll become my book buddy. I can’t go back to book club. Not without—” Paige shakes off the urge to cry.

  “I’d love to,” Eve cuts in, looking at the clock on her cell. She has to finish packing.

  “Great,” Paige says. “And one last thing.” Eve sighs, bracing for a be careful speech, but that’s not the mission I sent Paige on. “Try to surprise yourself on the trip. Step outside your comfort zone.”

  Eve grins. “What are we talking about here—shoplifting? Skydiving? A nose ring?”

  Paige raised five kids and knows how to handle wisecracks. “Yes, all those things for sure,” she says, “but also, be kind to yourself. Make the trip about you. If an hour passes where you don’t think of Her, that’s okay.” Eve steps back, physically distancing herself from the thought. “Really, honey. It can’t be all mourning, all day, every day. Living doesn’t mean you’re over it or selfish or cold; it just means you’re still here, and she’s not.”

  The words pierce Eve’s most private thoughts. “I’ll try,” she whispers.

  Back in her room, she mulls over Paige’s words. The end depends upon the beginning, I remind her. The hourglass counting down my time is low on sand. I need Eve to feel empowered to move forward.

  She checks the weather in Paris and picks a nail polish and lipstick to go with each outfit. Once the suitcase is stuffed enough to be at risk of bursting open, she decides to call Lindsey and tell her about the trip. It’s the first outbound call she’s made to a friend in months. When Lindsey doesn’t answer, she settles for Kara. All she’s looking for is a sliver of normalcy, a quick chat with a friend to prove she still knows how to communicate. Unfortunately, Christie answers Kara’s cell.

  I’ve often wondered if the age of your soul correlates with the pitch of your voice; women who screech like Christie tend to come across as newbies. “Oh, Eve, it’s you,” she squeals. “Perfect. Before I grab Kara, give me the quick skinny on whatever’s going on.”

  “Going on?”

  “With Kara.”

  Eve already regrets the call. “I have no idea.”

  “Yes, you do. She’s up and down with a bout of PMS that won’t end.” Christie laughs, feeling clever.

  “Mrs. Anderson, I wouldn’t know. Really. Kara and I haven’t spoken since tennis ended.”

  “Ya. I’m very aware of that. You and everyone else. Why has my daughter been blackballed?”

  “Blackballed?”

  Christie lets out a haughty scoff. “Eve, dear, cut the act. I want to help Kara through this, but I can’t if I don’t know what happened.”

  I wish I had the power to kill the phone line, but I do the next best thing and guide Eve to hang up. “I should go,” Eve says. “I’ll call back another time.” After disconnecting, Eve stares at the receiver unsure what that was about. I wish there was a way to share what I know, but the only one who can tell the story now is Kara, which, of course, will never happen. It’s too complicated to convey a few words at a time without any context.

  The phone is still in Eve’s hand when Lindsey calls back. Eve plays back her weird conversation with Christie.

  “Blackballed?” Lindsey repeats. “Who even says that? I mean, Kara’s been a spaz lately, but it’s not like anyone’s excluding her. The girl seriously needs to learn to handle her liquor.”

  Eve wishes she’d kept her mouth shut. “Well, maybe give her a call in case something really is wrong,” she suggests. “I would, but my dad and I leave tonight for Paris.”

  “Oh. My. God. Serious? That’s awesome. He definitely wouldn’t have taken you on a trip like that before.”

  Before; a haunting word. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Umm, you called me,” Lindsey says, in a masterfully rehearsed teenage voice.

  Eve’s teenage voice is out of practice. “Yeah, I did, but now I have to go.” She sounds older than Lindsey, and more noteworthy, she knows it.

  “Whatever, Eve. Maybe you should worry about yourself instead of Kara. I swear my two closest friends are going to end up institutionalized.”

  This time Eve needs no prompting to hang up. It’s time to get the hell out of here, she thinks. It is a larger notion than she appreciates, meaning immediately for the impending trip, and permanently, with boarding school and college and the rest of her life. I focus my energy so it runs through her, a virtual hug. And then, to my wonderment, I find myself on the receiving end of something similar. Eve’s sentiment echoes back to me as a suggestion from a higher place: It’s time to get the hell out of here. I’m not ready. How? I ask. No response, but a vibration stirs underneath me. It’s weak at first but grows stronger and stronger. When it’s as if my spirit is fully resting on its source, I begin to soar straight up at an alarming pace. It’s exhilarating and full of promise until I worry this is it, I’ll never see Eve or Brady again, and with that thought the ride stops as unexpectedly as it began. I look down, nervous, but life’s movie is still there to view. I just inherited a really crappy seat.

  * * *

  Eve and Brady are on an evening flight. The driver arrives at five, but Eve can’t find her headphones. Brady attempts a breathing exercise Dr. White taught him, but doesn’t make it through a full inhale/exhale cycle before screaming, “Come down or I’m leaving without you.”

  “Keep your pants on,” Eve yells back. “I’ll be down in two secs.”

  They’re quiet on the drive to Logan airport and remain so as they trounce through security to their gate. The silence worries them both. Brady’s been in a funk since D.C. and, since he hasn’t told Eve about Marie and Paul, she’s worried his rut either is caused by their trip to Paris or will be ruined by it.

  Momentum shifts in their favor on the plane. Eve flips out when she takes her seat. First class to Paris isn’t your typical oversized leather seat with extra incline—it’s a personal pod that extends to a flat bed. Hers faces Brady’s with a low divider so they can see each other. Eve scrolls through the “free” movies, showering Brady with choices. A flight attendant appears, offering them champagne. Eve looks gingerly to Brady, who gives her a nod. There’s a chance she’ll enjoy the flight more than the actual trip. As they take off, she hands Brady a poem she wrote titled “Typical Teenager,” adding that her contribution to the trip is promising not to be one.

  That’s not the right answer.

  You didn’t ask the right question.

 
Will you please give an answer?

  I’m afraid of rejection.

  So make sure you’re right.

  You’ll find a correction.

  I won’t say a word.

  I don’t need your protection!

  So you refuse to answer?

  Could you rephrase the question?

  Brady folds the paper and slides it into his carry-on. “Now I know you know,” he says smugly.

  “Know what?”

  “When you’re talking in circles like that all the time, frustrating me. It’s intentional, huh?” He smiles. “You just let the cat out of the bag.”

  “That’s okay,” Eve says. “I’m not a typical teenager anymore, so anything you think you now know is history.” They smile, comforted their conversation isn’t strained. Perhaps all the time I sat in the middle, considering myself the liaison between them, I was really a barrier. Perhaps we all offer what we can, until we can’t, and then our loved ones step up or have others step in. Perhaps death exists to challenge the people left behind.

  Brady has a drink to unwind. When he falls asleep Eve pulls out her journal, dating it the way I did mine. She sips champagne and considers her words, looking substantially older than seventeen.

  August 19, 2015

  I feel like this trip is the beginning of something important. It’s our first attempt at creating a memory without Her. The Fourth of July and all of our other nice talks have been indirectly related to her death—a conversation we were settling on because she wasn’t here. This trip is ours.

  I’ve never been so hopeful for a good time, which is funny because good times used to find me. I hope it won’t seem forced, and I hope I won’t be disappointed.

  Me too, Eve. Me too.

  Eve

  My father is on a sixteen-mile run, the longest he’ll do before the qualifier in Quebec next week. We agreed to meet in the lobby at six for dinner, leaving me three hours to roam Paris.

  I find a little café with outdoor seating and pull out my book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Rory recommended it. She said she couldn’t wait to laugh about passing the damn ham, whatever that means. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t been required reading at school. I was too embarrassed to admit that not recalling the story doesn’t mean it was never assigned. Rory doesn’t come across as someone with an appreciation for CliffsNotes. My mom certainly wasn’t. I hid those yellow booklets as carefully as I hid condoms.

  I flip a page every once in a while in case anyone’s watching, but I’m too distracted by how I appear to the outside world—sipping cappuccino; wearing big, black sunglasses and a new couture shirtdress; a young American in Paris—to actually take in the story. Do people walking by think I’m famous? Rich? Over twenty?

  When he approaches, I act like it’s totally routine, like men hit on me all the time. “What is your name?” he asks.

  “Charlotte,” I say, because I want to and I can. Charlotte sounds chic and fun, and I desperately want to be both.

  “Charlotte,” he repeats, “I am Dameon. May I sit with you?”

  “I have a better idea.” His deep-set eyes lift in anticipation. “Take me for a walk around Le Bois de Boulogne. I’m dying to see it.” It’s an outrageous request to a total stranger, but I feel so bold I stand to leave even before he answers.

  “Parlez-vous français?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. You have the accent for the park name perfect.”

  I haven’t completely lost my mind. It’s only a couple blocks away, all crowded streets. I can bolt at any time.

  As we walk, I refuse to think about my mother. Each time her presence seeps in, I shut it down. I’m just a girl in Paris. Dameon isn’t spending time with me out of pity. He’s not avoiding topics like family or death, and he’s not constantly darting his eyes my way to check whether he inadvertently reminded me of Her. He doesn’t even know She existed. Shedding my backstory is intoxicating.

  He has no idea how old I am. I’d guess he’s twenty-five, but don’t dare ask. We share a cigarette and walk along the park, arms linked. I smoke sometimes, but this is different. We’re not out to prove anything or rebel against anyone. We’re simply enjoying a sunny afternoon. “The land was made a park by Napoleon the Third,” he says, sharing the history of the things we pass in a way I could never pull off with a visitor back home. “In this way, we all still benefit from his time exiled in London. They say a lot of the streams and landscaping was inspired by his love of Hyde Park.”

  I’ve never paid much attention to my surroundings, to why things are the way they are and how long they’ve been that way. I picture myself showing Dameon around Boston, limited to places where I eat and shop. How quickly I’d run out of things to say. I lean in closer. Each time he calls me Charlotte I slip more into character, pretending I really am this cosmopolitan woman. The act illuminates everything. I become theatrical, drunk off how unfamiliar and inviting life appears. I see a baby and feel maternal. I see a child rolling on the grass and have an urge to be a kid again. I see a couple kissing and crave romance. Even my laugh sounds different because, to Charlotte who has no worries, everything is entertaining.

  After two hours a chill sets in and Dameon drapes his khaki coat over my shoulders. I pull it snug, acting as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m careful about the time though. At half past five I tell Dameon I have to go. He asks if we can meet for dinner. I say no, that I’m catching a flight home in two hours. The lie slips out like all the others. He nods and takes me in, his hand centered on the small of my back. “It was a perfect afternoon, no?”

  “Oui.” He lifts my chin with his other hand and kisses me.

  The sensation is so different with a man. John never had that kind of patience. When Dameon lets go, my whole body wants more. The kiss belongs on a defining-moment time line of my life. It just happened and yet it’s already changed me.

  Dameon squeezes my hand and says, “I wish you well, Charlotte.” I sigh and turn toward the hotel. Part of me wishes I got his number or tried to make plans for tomorrow, but I don’t want to be a tourist fuck. I speed back to meet my dad, delirious over the fact that I French-kissed a Frenchman in France. I guess I’m not that mature after all.

  * * *

  Dad eyes me suspiciously at dinner. I know I’m beaming but can’t shut it off. It’s been forever since I had fun. He asks three times exactly what I did while he was on the run. I’m out of ways to say I just walked around.

  Without reason, his eyes tear. “What is it?” I ask, relieved for the spotlight to shift.

  “Mom would’ve loved seeing you so happy. Even more than Paris, and she would’ve enjoyed this trip immensely, she’d love this moment with you.” His words send a bullet of shame to my heart—I spent the last three hours desperate to forget Her.

  I can’t come up with a response, so I nod and butter my bread. When the moment passes, I ask whether we’re rich. “Officially I guess it depends which party is in office,” he says, “but by most people’s standards we are, yes.”

  “I guess I never realized it until this trip.”

  I don’t expect the wary look he gives. He takes an aggressive cut into his steak. “You’ve lived a very privileged life, Eve, and if you didn’t realize it before now, that’s disconcerting.”

  I wave my hand in the air to cool him off. “Oh, calm down. I knew we were well off. I mean, everyone in Wellesley is, pretty much. It’s more like … this past week—staying at such an outrageous hotel, going to the spa all day, ordering fancy champagne at dinner—it seems different. I mean, I’d never even heard of a personal shopper. You have to admit, Dad, we never went on a trip like this when Mom was alive.”

  Even before I finish the sentence I wish there was a way to take it back. My big mouth is no better than Lindsey’s and Mrs. Anderson’s and everyone else’s back home. I suck in my breath, terrified I’ve ruined an otherwise perfect week.

  Dad looks back at me with a calm and knowing
bob of his head. When did he get so Zen? I swear, the longer he runs a day, the nicer he is. “No, we didn’t, at least not as a family, and I regret it. Your mother and I went on some long weekends here and there where we splurged, but I never gave us the time or permission to do it all together. I see that now. I see so many things differently.” He takes a slow sip of champagne, then reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. Two months ago I’d have pulled away, but somehow this seems natural, like it would’ve coming from Mom. “This week would have made your mother so happy.”

  “She’s here,” I say, “watching us. I know it.” As I say the words I sense her affirming them.

  “Yeah, I guess I do too. Mostly, I hear her laughter when something is funny, particularly if the joke is on me and I’m not amused.”

  “She had the best sense of humor.” I blot a napkin to my tears, checking the linen for mascara.

  “She did. And an enormous heart.” We never talk like this. It’s hard to celebrate how wonderful she was without getting weighed down by how she died.

  The waiter refills our water glasses. I can tell he’s curious about our relationship. In Wellesley my dad and I are a known tragedy, here we’re a curiosity. Based on our age difference, father and daughter is the most logical, but without a mother at the table people check us out. Rich guy with a young lover? Sleazeball and his escort?

  When we’re alone again, I say, “Thank you for this trip.” I know he understands I don’t mean the hotel or the clothes or the facial—or I do, but only partly—it’s mostly a thank-you for proving there are good times to be had.

  “You’re welcome.” He shifts his chair closer to me and scratches his neck, suddenly uncomfortable. “Listen, I actually have some news on that odd journal about Grandma.”

  I blink to catch up. “What kind of news?”

  He tells me about finding Marie and Paul and his trip to Reston. I’m hurt. “You should’ve told me. Even if you didn’t want me to go. I’ve asked like a million times if you heard back from Bobby.”