One Night in November

by Amélie Antoine

  “I don’t see what makes that a bad day,” muses Tiago.

  “Because you can’t imagine what a turn-off it is when a gorgeous girl drops that line with a perfect smile. It’s so awful that when one of them invited me to have lunch with her after the audition, I had to refuse because the sound of her voice made my crotch itch!”

  “Yeah right,” I muttered.

  “Okay, wise guy, why don’t you tell us about your day, Léopold. Then we’ll see who gets to drink for free tonight!” countered Sylvain bitterly.

  I can’t help but sigh.

  “Dude, it’s like you always forget that I work on a pediatric oncology ward. Do you really want me to tell you about my day?”

  My three bandmates indulge in a collective moan, then Sylvain adds, “All right, you win. But this is the last time! You’re disqualified from all future rounds. We’re tired of you making us sob with your sick-kid stories.”

  I look out the window without bothering to reply. Sylvain likes to joke, but despite his cool demeanor, I know that he couldn’t do my job for even an hour. I can’t help but think of Malo, whom I saw for the last time just before meeting up with the gang for this trip. Malo. Such a cute kid, only five years old and always so quick to smile. I’ve been taking care of him for almost a year, every time he comes to the hospital for chemotherapy. Would you tell me a story, Léopold? Pretty please? Every time I checked his stats or replaced a drip, I would invent a fairy tale—and the hero was always named Malo. But today his dad came to get him. He packed up all their things and took the Cars poster and family photos off the walls of the austere little room, then shook my hand a little more firmly than usual. Malo waved, almost shyly, as I watched him walk down the hall toward the exit, my throat tight. I felt so stupid. The kid was in total remission, and I had to be the only idiot who was sad about never seeing him again, never hearing his angelic little laugh as my stories got more and more unbelievable. It reminded me that no matter how things go in this job, I inevitably lose the children I can’t help but get attached to.

  “We’ll be there in five minutes! No time to waste: we’ll drop our stuff off at the hotel and head out right away. Do you have the tickets, Léo? What time does the opening act start?”

  Alexandre’s voice brings me back to reality, and I rummage through my inside jacket pocket to find the tickets I printed hastily this morning. For a split second, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten them—that would just make my day. Luckily, all four are there after all, and I sigh imperceptibly in relief.

  6

  MARGOT

  The sullen expression on William’s face as he puts his phone down is ominous.

  “What is it?”

  “The babysitter canceled. She can’t watch Sacha tonight,” he announces with a sigh.

  “But I saw her downtown yesterday and she didn’t say anything!”

  I keep clearing the dining room table, fueled by anger.

  “What’s her excuse?”

  “She said she was tired and had a hard week. She wanted to rest . . .”

  “Are you kidding me, William? And you agreed and told her it was no big deal? That you understood?”

  “Well, what was I supposed to say? It’s not like I had any leverage. I can’t make her come!”

  “You could have told her that we bought these concert tickets months ago and that it’s rude to cancel at the last minute.”

  “Fine, next time you handle the babysitter.”

  “No way will there be a next time for her. She’s stood us up once, I’m not going to give her the chance to do it again.”

  Sacha is sitting in his playpen, cooing as he tosses all the toys he can reach onto the floor. At seven months, he’s starting to realize that the world on the other side of the bars is much more interesting, and I know that pretty soon he’ll throw a fit as soon as we try to put him down into it, among all the multicolored toys he already knows by heart.

  William picks him up and sits down on the couch to read him a story.

  But I refuse to give up. I hide out in Sacha’s room and call William’s mother—I’m desperate. As soon as she realizes what I’m asking, she eagerly jumps at my request to come over and take care of her beloved grandson.

  I quickly lay Sacha’s sleep sack in his crib, getting everything ready for bedtime. In the bathroom, I set out the diapers and his warm green pajamas where she’ll be sure to see them. I want to make things as easy as possible for my mother-in-law . . .

  When I return to the living room, William is trying to build a tower out of wooden blocks, but Sacha keeps sending it flying as soon as his father has three pastel-hued floors stacked up. My son bursts out laughing every time, and the exuberant expression on his face fills me with joy. I squat down to kiss his round little cheeks, and he leans in, clearly enjoying my affection.

  “Your mother will be here in an hour.”

  William looks up with a frown.

  “My mother? I thought you didn’t trust her? That you wouldn’t leave her alone with Sacha until he’s an adult?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve decided to give her a chance.”

  My husband calls my bluff.

  “Or we could say that you really don’t want to give up your night out!” he replies teasingly.

  William knows me like the back of his hand. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for weeks, to a night out, just the two of us . . .

  I have to admit that when I decided to take six extra months off at the end of my three-month maternity leave, I overestimated my ability to spend twenty-four hours a day with my baby. I had imagined only the good parts, like how much I would enjoy watching my son grow and develop without missing a single second. Plus, William and I had done the math: given my pittance of a salary working as a medical secretary in a dentist’s office and the exorbitant price of childcare in Villejuif, we wouldn’t lose much money if I stayed home. And it would be easier on Sacha, who wouldn’t have to deal with long days away from home at the age of three months. It was an easy choice to make. My love for my son is unconditional and overwhelming—to the point of getting up several times a night to make sure he’s still breathing, along with the pure pleasure of watching him sleep peacefully—but now that fall is here, I must admit I’m looking forward to going back to work, to having a social life, to freely coming and going as I please.

  “Should we give him his bath before my mom gets here?”

  William’s voice brings me back to reality, and I head to the bathroom to run the water.

  I play with Sacha in his tub while my husband changes out of his suit and tie and into black jeans and a hoodie. I watch as my son splashes energetically, then wonders how his face got all wet, and I realize how impossible it is for me to imagine life without him. Of course I remember perfectly how things were before, before our life was filled with his laughter and shrieking. I know that the world used to exist without Sacha, but that time seems so far away now, as if I’d spent the first thirty-one years of my life simply waiting for him to come along.

  My mother-in-law shows up at seven thirty with a big book tucked under her arm. The Future Is in Your Palm. A promising title . . .

  “I’m going to practice on Sacha! Apparently our futures are written in the palms of our hands!” she declares enthusiastically.

  I’m tempted to explain that since he’s barely seven months old, I doubt his lines are particularly legible or definitive, but I hold my tongue. After all, William’s mother is doing us a favor tonight. Without her, I’d have to forget about Eagles of Death Metal.

  “That’s great, Patricia! Then you can see if your predictions match the tarot-card reading and the full horoscope you did for him,” I say, trying hard to remove all traces of skepticism and mockery from my voice.

  It must work, because my mother-in-law nods vigorously. “Exactly!” I button my coat as she continues, “And let’s not forget that this little cutie is here in part thanks to me!”

  I must have heard this a co
uple dozen times since Sacha was born. Patricia will never forget that if it weren’t for her, William and I might never have met, though there’s nothing particularly romantic about the story. She sent her son to the other side of town to find her some star anise at an organic grocery store in my neighborhood, and he entered the place just as I walked in to stock up on tea. The short version is that one thing then led to another, and now we have Sacha.

  So for the rest of my life, I’ll have to listen to my mother-in-law continually remind us of how she brought us together, and how neither of us would ever have found love without her remarkable talents as a matchmaker . . .

  Once we’re in the elevator, William rifles through his wallet and realizes he doesn’t have any cash.

  “Do you have any?”

  “You know I never have cash. I even use a card when I buy a baguette.”

  “We’ll have to run back upstairs, then. I’m sure the T-shirt stand won’t take cards. They never do . . .”

  When we finally get to the parking garage, William climbs into the driver’s side of our old Clio while I think back to make sure I’ve explained everything my mother-in-law needs to do. The bottle: seven ounces, plus two scoops of cereal. The diaper and diaper cream. The nightlight in his room and the baby monitor. The Camilia for his tender teething gums, even though Patricia has more faith in her tarot cards than in homeopathic remedies. The Tylenol and the thermometer left out in the bathroom where she can see them, just in case.

  “The car won’t start!”

  William keeps turning the key in the ignition, but not a sound troubles the silence that reigns in the dark garage. I let out a weary sigh.

  “Are we cursed or what? I’m starting to think Sacha worked some sort of black magic to keep us from going out without him!”

  My husband glances at his watch: 7:54 p.m.

  “If we hurry, we can make it by Metro.”

  I grab my purse and get out of the car. William is already a few yards ahead of me. I hurry to catch up with him. Once we reach the street, he takes my hand and we run for the station, usually a fifteen-minute walk away.

  “Come on! Nothing’s going to keep us from having our night out!”

  7

  DAPHNÉ

  Today, like every weekday, is a race against the clock, a fight to keep time from slipping through my fingers. I’m the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. And I don’t need a watch to know it. I have to be at the school by six fifteen to get Charline, but I’ll never make it. Best-case scenario, if I run as fast as I can and arrive at the gates covered in sweat, I’ll still be ten minutes late. As is the case almost every evening, I’ll be the last parent to pick up her child, and the school principal will smirk, letting me know exactly how she feels about me, the Bad Mother Who’s Always Late: Thank goodness other parents aren’t like you, or we’d never be able to close the school gates . . . When I walk past her again on my way out with Charline, she’ll ask mockingly, Do you realize how hard it is to teach children to respect principles that their parents don’t heed? I’ll want to slap her and offer to let her spend a day doing my job as a supermarket cashier while I do hers, but instead I’ll keep my head down like a scolded child, ashamed to be humiliated like that in front of my daughter.

  But luck is on my side for once, because when I get to school, the other parents are waiting impatiently in front of the closed gate. I check the time on my phone. There’s no mistake; I’m exactly ten minutes late. At the far end of the playground, I see a figure running toward the school entrance. Keys in hand, the principal, Mrs. Coullet, hurries toward us, out of breath.

  “I’m so sorry. I had to take care of something and it kept me from getting here on time . . .”

  The parents gripe as they wait for their children to come out. I make eye contact with the woman who so enjoys belittling me and offer a dazzling smile.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say magnanimously. “Everyone gets delayed sometimes!”

  Charline finally comes through the gate and throws herself into my arms, all wrapped up in her pink puffer coat, which she absolutely had to put on this morning despite the fact that it’s nowhere near cold enough for it.

  “Did you have a good day, sweetie?”

  “Yes! Louise invited me to her birthday party Saturday afternoon, so we need to buy her a present . . .”

  “Fine, we’ll do that Saturday morning.”

  I go through the list of everything else we have to do Saturday and wonder how I’m going to fit this into our already jam-packed schedule.

  “Could we go now instead, Mommy? We could stop at the mall on the way home?”

  I sigh as I think of the dinner to be made, homework to be done, and things to be readied for tomorrow, but when I see the pleading look on my daughter’s face, I can’t help but give in.

  “Well, I guess that’ll be one less thing to do Saturday morning . . .”

  It’s after seven when Charline and I finally get home. For a second, I let myself hope that it occurred to Julien to make dinner, but the apartment is dark and I realize he isn’t even home from work. Looks I’ll be spending yet another evening rushing to get everything done.

  “I’m going to see what’s in the freezer for dinner. While I’m doing that, go get cleaned up and put on your pajamas, okay? And hurry up!”

  I turn on the lights in the living room while simultaneously taking off my ankle boots, almost jumping out of my skin when I hear “Surprise!” shouted in chorus by the fifteen people who’ve been hiding quietly until now.

  My husband, Julien, comes over to kiss me and whispers, “Happy birthday!” in my ear, before moving over to let our guests hug me and wish me well. Charline is laughing.

  “Were you in on this?”

  “Of course! Why else would I have begged you to go buy Louise’s present tonight?”

  I tousle her hair, surprised that my eight-year-old chatterbox managed to keep such a big secret. My parents are preparing hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen. My sister, some longtime girlfriends, a few coworkers, and a couple with a daughter the same age as Charline are gathered in the living room.

  “But you know my birthday’s not until tomorrow, right?”

  “You’re working tomorrow night and Saturday night, so I had to move the party up a bit! And celebrating early isn’t so bad. This way, you didn’t suspect a thing . . .”

  My husband wraps his arms around my shoulders, clearly pleased with his surprise. It’s true that I’ll be at the Bataclan tomorrow and Saturday. In September, my boss at the store cut my hours, so I had to find something else to make ends meet. So now I spend two nights a week working the coat check at the concert hall instead of standing behind a cash register. The good part is that the people there are usually nicer than the customers at the store—most likely because they’ve just spent a fun evening out instead of a couple of hours doing their grocery shopping.

  We have a lovely evening. Everyone goes out of their way to make sure I’m having fun, and for once I feel relaxed—even if in a far corner of my mind, I’m still thinking about everything I have to do before going to bed.

  When it’s time for cake and presents, Julien brings in a huge Paris-Brest—my favorite dessert—with praline pastry cream overflowing down the sides. A four and a zero sparkle atop it in the muted light of the living room. I close my eyes and blow as hard as I can. Charline claps delightedly.

  “Did you remember to make a wish, Mommy?”

  “Of course, pumpkin, but wishes are secret!”

  Actually, I didn’t think to wish for anything at all. I was too preoccupied, trying to remember to call the ophthalmologist in the morning to make an appointment for my daughter. I’ve been putting it off for two weeks, and now I’m sure there won’t be any slots available before spring . . .

  I do my best to put my worries aside and concentrate on the gifts to be opened. My parents give me a bottle of wine, a 1975 Château Margaux that my father
must have been carefully hiding in his cellar for my fortieth birthday for years. I’ll open it the next time they come over for dinner. Julien hands me a small black velvet box. I open it to find a delicate amethyst ring. I look at him affectionately, touched that he remembered how I had marveled at the beautiful piece of jewelry in the window of a downtown boutique. My sister had put together a box with exactly forty different bottles of nail polish. She knows how much I love my nails to match my outfits, and now I’ve got every color under the sun! My friends and coworkers have all pooled their money to buy me a weekend in Venice in February. I’m sure Julien must have helped them with their choice, since he knows I’ve always wanted to see Carnival there . . .

  The last present is from Charline, who’s biting her nails anxiously as she waits for me to open it. I rip off the paper and pull out a green beaded necklace with three strands.

  “I made it myself,” she hastens to add.

  “It’s beautiful, honey!”

  I fasten it around my neck and all the guests ooh and aah enthusiastically.

  The party is still in full force when I put Charline to bed. She hugs me tight.

  “Do you really like your present?” she asks. “I chose four shades of green to make it even prettier . . .”

  “Or course I do, sweetie. I’ll tell you a secret: I think it’s my favorite present of all, because you made it yourself! The time you spent working on it is priceless.”

  Reassured, Charline closes her eyes and curls herself into a ball on her side. I get up and quietly close the door to her room, thinking to myself just how priceless time really is. And how I have got to start a load of laundry before the hamper overflows.

  8

  THÉO

  “First one upstairs wins!”

  Before I’ve even finished my sentence, I’m rushing up the stairs two by two.

  “I’m taking the elevator, Théo! You’ve already lost!” Dad yells from behind me.

  My father’s kidding himself if he thinks he can win that easily. I know I’ll make it to the sixth floor before him—piece of cake. I pause on every landing and frantically push the elevator button, so he’ll be slowed down by stopping at every floor. What a dummy for not thinking of that before he got in!