You Have Seven Messages

by Stewart Lewis

  When Oliver comes on, I feel like some stupid character in a romantic comedy. My breath catches and I put my hand over my open mouth. He’s in a dark blue suit, and his hair is the same, which is so cool. I was hoping he’d show it off and not tone it down. He looks nervous, and before he starts, his eyes scan the crowd as if searching for something. His father?

  He starts out a little tentative, but then completely gets lost in the piece, as does the audience. There were no programs left for standing room, but as he finishes, I notice a stray one on the floor. I grab it and open it up to his bio. I read what it says at the bottom and my breath catches again, except this time I actually gasp.

  This performance is dedicated to a girl named Fifteen.

  I try to hold myself up on one of the supporting beams. Did he know I was going to be here? I am so proud of him that my anger goes away for all three songs. The crowd goes even wilder than they did with the Korean boy. I clap so hard my hands hurt a little. I don’t listen to the last piece, because suddenly I need air.

  I get outside and now there’s a different kind of night energy, like anything is possible. I text Richard:

  He dedicated the performance to me!!

  He texts back:

  As he rightly should!

  The big doors burst open and the crowd starts piling out. How I’m ever going to find him is beyond me. I decide to wander around to the side of the building. Sure enough, there’s what looks like a stage door. I feel like a groupie, or one of those paparazzi who wait outside the restaurant when my dad has dinner with someone famous. After what seems like an hour, Oliver comes out with a man I recognize from the picture on his stairway. His father.

  “Fifteen!” He pushes his cello case into his father’s arms and runs over to me. “You came!”

  His father looks completely annoyed. I suddenly don’t know what to say. Oliver motions for him to leave us alone for a minute.

  “Thanks for the dedication,” I manage to say.

  He blushes, and I have to say, he’s more adorable than ever.

  “I miss you. And now that the show’s over, I don’t have him on my back. You don’t even know. It’s like someone lifted a pile of cement off me. That’s why I … Oh man, Fifteen, I have so much I want to say to you.…” He looks back at his father, who seems to be sending an angry text. “When are you going back to New York?”

  “In a week or so.”

  “We’re going to London tomorrow, to look at schools,” he says.

  “A little early for that, huh?”

  He whispers so his dad can’t hear: “The only thing that matters for him is my cello and my grades. The pressure is beyond.”

  “Speaking of pressure, something I need to ask you. Tile said that you know something about—”

  “Your dad. Yes, you know, that kid gets things out of you. It’s nothing, really, but I did want to tell you and never felt it was the right time.”

  “Well?”

  “About, I don’t know, two, three years ago? I saw him kissing someone outside your house, and the only reason it stuck with me was that it was an actress, someone my mother recognized.”

  “He kisses actresses all the time.”

  “Yes, but I think it may have been more than a regular kiss. The point is, maybe your dad isn’t perfect either.”

  I look up at the edge of the building where the paint is peeling. Imperfections. No, my dad isn’t perfect, but he is the only dad I’ve ever wanted, and I feel a desire to stick up for him somehow.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

  The stage door bursts open and out comes the violin kid with an entourage. We scoot out of the way.

  “Look, I said it was probably nothing, I just felt you should know, with everything that’s been going on with you.”

  He looks tentative but sincere. Even though I’m wondering why I had to hear this through Tile first, it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m standing next to Oliver in Paris. After a long, stretched moment in time, his father whistles for him.

  “What, you’re a dog now?”

  “Basically. Okay, Fifteen, see you on CPW? I will explain everything.”

  “Yeah.”

  He swoops down real close, stops, and, noticing that his father isn’t watching, gives me a soft kiss. I boil over with emotion, and my face feels so hot there’s probably smoke coming out of my ears.

  As I watch them walk away, Skater Boy appears out of nowhere and says, “Yes. Music Man is good looks. But what about me?”

  I laugh.

  “You’re cute, but you try too hard. And the hair is too much.”

  He acts out getting an arrow stuck in his heart and says, “Ouch.”

  “But thanks for the help before, really. You rock.”

  I head toward the cab line and Skater Boy yells, “Yes, but do I roll?”

  CHAPTER 49

  AFTERMATH

  Daria’s watching TV in the suite. She jumps up when I come in, revealing her breasts, which are ridiculously perfect. Models are naked a lot, ’cause they’re always changing clothes. But I think Daria is a bit of a show-off.

  “How was it?”

  “Great. He was great.”

  “And?”

  I throw my bag down and grab a Sprite from the minibar.

  “And what?”

  I tell her a fast version of what went down and she says, “So, you’re going to forgive him?”

  “I think so. Think of all the things I will miss out on if I don’t. You should see my uncle and Julian together—it sounds Hallmark, but they complete each other. And even my parents, you know? Most of their life together was filled with love. I know, I saw it. They weren’t putting on a show for me. Well, for the most part. I was just too innocent to look beneath, you know? I idolized them so much I couldn’t fathom doubting them.”

  Daria lights a cigarette and says, “You, baby, have come a long way from the scared girl who walked into Benjamin’s apartment.”

  “Yeah, that feels like a lifetime ago.”

  I take off the Marc Jacobs and wonder if my mother would ever have predicted I’d be here in Paris, hanging up her dress in a model’s closet.

  We watch bad TV for a while, and I sleep really well. In the morning Daria tells me she has a meeting with someone about my photographs. I am thankful I now have JJ to handle it.

  After breakfast, Daria spends an hour in the bathroom only to come out in low-rise jeans and a flimsy T-shirt with barely any makeup on. She looks hauntingly beautiful.

  I call Richard and tell him that after going to the Pont Neuf, I’m coming back on the train. He tells me Julian will be at the other end.

  Daria and I first go to the Bois de Boulogne, a park where tourists and Parisians sit around a small lake reading newspapers, smoking, and feeding the birds. All around the park are buildings that are so elaborate and magnificent they almost look like cardboard cutouts that could collapse from the simple touch of your finger. I wonder why some of the most beautiful things can be so deceiving.

  Daria scrolls through my iPod and I’m surprised at how much of my music she knows. We both agree that Imogen Heap is a goddess and that Kate Nash is way better than Lily Allen. To my great relief, she also thinks Lady Gaga is overrated.

  “What is the deal with the Pont Neuf?” she asks.

  “It was my mother’s favorite bridge,” I tell her. “I’m going to drop her phone off it.”

  “Cela me semble raisonnable.”

  “I thought you were Latvian.”

  “By way of Paris,” she says. “Come, come.”

  We rent these little silver bikes that are all over the city. You just swipe a credit card and grab a bike and return it to another spot where the bikes are. This strikes me as the coolest thing ever, and riding along the Seine with Daria and basking in the sun feels perfect, like everything I have done has led me to this moment.

  The bridge is stunning, bigger and better than on any postcard. There’s a woman sitting on th
e walkway begging, and she smiles at me like I’m the only person in the world. I give her ten euros and Daria makes a weird face but doesn’t say anything. At the center of the bridge we lean over and stare down at the river. A few tourist boats go by, and then, like it was meant to be, I see a single white swan, stark in contrast to the black water.

  “Maybe that’s her, in another life,” Daria says.

  Normally I would think that was a stupid thing to say, but everything is different now.

  “If she were an animal, I think that’s what she’d be.”

  Daria smiles and moves a piece of hair out of her huge eyes.

  “Do you know a prayer, like, in French?” I ask.

  “No, but I know one in Latvian.”

  As I drop Mom’s phone into the river, Daria says the prayer, which is more like a song. I have no idea what it means, but it sounds sweet and soft, like a melody in the distance. I cry a little and so does she, and we stay there in silence, the wind messing up our hair. The phone splashes, making ripples that start out strong but eventually disappear.

  I love you, Mom. You hurt me, but I will always love you.

  We ride our bikes to a café and order Cokes. I think of Oliver, how impressed I was when he ordered in French at the Creperie back in New York. Although I wish I could’ve had more time with him here, maybe it’s for the best. I think of a word my dad loves to use, marinate. I have to let things marinate.

  We return the bikes, and then Daria helps me pack at the hotel and shows me to the train. We make a plan to meet back in New York. She kisses my face on each side, three times total, and even that doesn’t feel awkward.

  I sleep for the whole train ride.

  Julian meets me on the platform in the morning and takes me to a bakery that has no sign, in an alley next to a gelateria. We sit on the dusty curb and I tell him about my trip—Oliver and his overprotective dad, Skater Boy, the Latvian prayer-song, Daria and her mysterious beauty.

  “Sounds like the trip was a success,” he says.

  “Well, the thing is, I think I love Oliver. But I know I’m too young to be in love.”

  “Darling, if you have a heart, you can fall in love.”

  “I guess, but knowing what I know now, I think I’ll take it slowly.”

  “Baby steps,” he says, twirling the little white spoon to get the last bit of yogurt out of his cup.

  “Speaking of baby steps,” I say, “I think I’m letting her go, finally. My mother.”

  “How do you mean?”

  An old man walks by, carrying a bag of pastries from the bakery, and gives me a broad smile.

  “I dropped her phone into the Seine, from the bridge she loved.”

  He looks at me a little funny.

  “I’m going to keep the things Richard saved for me, and I’m eventually going to read her book, but I just want to get out from under the weight, you know?”

  “Well put, and very understandable.”

  “It sucks she had to die. That she lied to my father, that she’ll never look at me like I’m the only thing in the world. But I really just want to live. I want to do my photography and hang out with Oliver and travel more, be a good influence on Tile, and make sure my dad is being creative, ’cause he’s happy when he’s lost in his films.”

  We get up and pat the dust off our butts.

  “Well, I want you to know that I’m very proud of you. Richard is too.”

  “Honestly, this trip has been very eye-opening. I love your friends, your house, everything. You guys are so nice to me, and most importantly, you treat me like an adult.”

  “Yes, well”—he smiles and puts his arm around my shoulders—“things are more lenient in Europe.”

  Julian and Richard go to a friend’s house that night and I decompress by watching MTV Euro and eating lots of dark chocolate. Before I go to bed, I go into Richard’s office and write my dad an email.

  Dad—

  This trip has been amazing. Richard and Julian are so nice, and so are their friends. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but now that I’m back safe it’s beside the point. I went to Paris to see Oliver, and to drop Mom’s phone off the Pont Neuf. I saw a white swan that I’m pretty sure was her, even though I don’t really believe in those things.

  I’m learning that relationships are complicated, and everything isn’t always black-and-white, and that living in the gray area can be okay. I think it wasn’t okay for you, and that in some ways Mom broke your heart, and I know that’s not fair. But in my memories of the two of you, there’s a lot of laughter. I’m not sure how you can really forgive someone who is gone, but I’m trying to. I know she never wanted to break your heart. That wasn’t who she was. And I know you never wanted her to turn away and run into the street that night. What I’m trying to say is, I get it. We lost one beautiful piece of our family, but it’s no one’s fault. It was the way things played out, and now we have to make the best of what we have, which is actually a lot. I love you, Dad.

  Moon

  P.S. Tell Tile I read his treatment. It was perfect.

  CHAPTER 50

  JE REVIENS

  It’s hard to say goodbye to Julian and Richard, but I tell them I hope to return. Beetle gives me her email address and one of her belts. It’s not something I’d usually wear, but I wouldn’t put it past me at this point. The flight to New York is a little harder in coach, but I have my iPod and thoughts of Oliver to distract me. When I finally arrive home my father takes me to dinner and asks me a million questions. Over dessert—his favorite, tiramisu—he tells me something that takes me a second to register in my brain.

  “I’ve gotten you a meeting with Annie.”

  Oh my God. Annie Leibovitz? I almost spit out my chocolate cake.

  “What?”

  “She read your Times article. She called me at midnight.”

  “Wow.”

  “She’s a great person to know. And basically the most legendary photographer of her generation. Any generation, really.”

  I remember when I was a kid, cutting out her photographs and making collages of them. Her portraits are like windows inside people.

  “Duh. She’s so amazing. I actually want to start doing portraits.”

  “Well, you’ll be able to pick her brain. We’ll drive out to her house in the Hamptons.”

  “Cool!”

  As we leave the restaurant, he puts both hands on my shoulders.

  “By the way, Moon, I was the one who put Oliver’s flyer in the package. So it didn’t surprise me that you went to Paris. I just hope Richard accompanied you.”

  “He did.” Then I add, “To the train station.”

  He laughs and ruffles my hair.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  I can’t ask him about the actress. Not now. Maybe Beetle was right—some things are better left unsaid. I know my father, and I’m sure it was just a regular kiss. I’ll ask him about it someday, but I’m learning when to filter.

  When we get home he puts on a movie that he claims he’s never shown anyone. He shot it with a Super 8, on one of the first weekend trips he took with my mom. There are rays of sunshine shooting into the frame.

  “Heaven’s fingers,” he says.

  They’re at a cabin near a lake, and my mother looks really young. She dances on the dock, and my father laughs offscreen. Then he pushes her in, dress and all, and she looks really afraid for a minute, but then realizes it’s deep enough to ease her fall. When she surfaces, hair slick and nose dripping, she looks even more beautiful. You can hear my father sigh, as well as some birds singing. Then it cuts to total darkness except for a single candle. My mother smiles at the camera, lips stained red with wine. Then a shot of my father, half of his face, which looks wild with happiness. The last series of shots is of my mother in the car, singing along to the radio, the trees blurring by in the background.

  When it’s over, we sit in silence and stare at the black screen unt
il my father says, “That was quite a weekend.”

  For the first time in a long while I see light in my father’s eyes, as though in a flash he became himself again.

  We say good night and hug extra-long. I’m happy to be in my own room again. As I close my eyes I hear the faint sound of Oliver practicing. This time I know he’s playing for me.

  In the morning, Oliver’s on his stoop waiting for me.

  “Fifteen!” he yells, and stands up.

  He looks different. Could he have gotten taller in two weeks? I realize my shoes don’t really go with the dress I have on, but who’s perfect?

  “Hey there.”

  I am trying to play it cool, as he still hasn’t really told me about Rachel One. As if reading my thoughts, he says, “You know, I had a huge crush on her when I was thirteen. Our parents knew each other in the Hamptons. She was so mean to me.”

  We head east and get sodas at the little cart. Oliver tries to pay but only has English pounds. All I have is enough for one so the guy gives us the other for free.

  “And then, right before my recital she starts calling me, saying she misses me. And she must have said something to her parents, because even my father was trying to push it. But then I heard about her whole bet with her friends, and I felt so played. It was even worse than her dissing me when I was thirteen. I just got caught up in her game, but only for a couple days. She is so fake. It’s over now. You are the one I always wanted to hang with. And I felt your presence, just before I played, in Paris. This is going to sound cheesy but I imagined … I imagined it was only me and you in the whole theater.”