“Is. She’s still alive.”
“What about your father?”
“Never met him.”
She gave me a prescription. At least it wasn’t cancer.
I got lucky. I had enough miles to upgrade to business class. I sat upstairs. It was very cool up there. The seats reclined to a horizontal position. I pulled out six books from my carry-on. I knew I wouldn’t be able to read all of them in two weeks, but I liked having options: Krik? Krak!, All Over but the Shoutin’, Breaking Her Fall, Giovanni’s Room, One Hundred Years of Solitude (my third time), Avalanche, and White Teeth. I don’t count the book of French phrases, which was in my purse. I also broke down and bought one of those little translator gismos.
“Warm nuts, mademoiselle?” the flight attendant asked.
I wanted to say, “Yes, but not that kind.” Instead I just smiled, shook my head and said, “No, thank you.” I’m afraid of nuts. I don’t know which ones are good for me. I’m already thinking about what I put in my mouth before I put it in my mouth. Nothing like a little diabetes diagnosis to act as a wake-up call.
It was pouring when we landed in Paris. The taxi driver drove past a cemetery that looked like the kind you saw in old horror movies. Three short blocks from there, he stopped in front of a drab building from the early twentieth century. I thought Thora said it was hip. Which to me meant modern. I pulled my big suitcase into the dark hallway and a dim light came on. This was already too creepy. I was looking for the elevator. No such luck. I had to drag my heavy suitcase up two flights of thinly carpeted stairs. It smelled like mildew. When I heard trash bags falling down an air shaft, I almost lost it.
As soon as I walked inside the apartment, I thought I could have been standing in the foyer. I was trying to get my bearings. I took a few steps past the stairs, saw the kitchen on my right, and realized I was in the living room. Nothing looked the way it did on those fucking pictures Thora had posted on the bulletin board. She must have used a special lens to make everything look bigger. Now that I was at the other end of the living room, I needed to sit down. There was no sofa because there was no room for one. Just two ugly over-stuffed chairs: one was olive green and the other some kind of tweed. The kitchen appliances were probably from the ’80s. They were baby doodoo yellow. The glass coffee pot was brown from not being fully cleaned after sitting too long on the burner. There was only half a refrigerator. The wooden cabinets looked sticky. I didn’t dare touch anything.
I flipped on a few more lights so I could find my way upstairs. The circuit breaker tripped. I had to duck going up the steps. It was hot as hell up there. I didn’t want to concern myself with the thought of air-conditioning. The bed was on the floor. The duvet—or whatever it used to be—was thin and grayish blue. Who would choose such an ugly color? I couldn’t help from turning it back. The sheets looked as if they’d been slept on. I got a lump in my throat. This was also when I hit my head on the damn ceiling. Which sloped. This meant I had to stay close to the wall because it was the only place I could stand upright. Thora had the nerve to call this place a duplex?
Someone obviously loved watching Friends in French, because there were stacks of DVDs sitting on an outdated television set. The bathroom was the only modern thing in here. It was all white. Except only one person could stand in it at a time. The tub was deep and had a hand-held shower. The sink was so small that when I bent over to rinse my face, water splashed all over the floor. I didn’t trust the towels so I used my sleeve. The “second bedroom” was adjacent to this one. There was no door. A twin-size bed was pushed against the wall. An empty desk on the other side. French novels from yesteryear sat on a shelf. A dwarf wouldn’t be comfortable in there.
I ran downstairs and collapsed in one of those chairs. There was no fucking way I was spending a single night in there. The thought of sleeping in that bed was enough to make me itch. Where was I going to find a nice hotel at this time of night? I looked inside a cabinet and found a phonebook, which of course I couldn’t fucking read. Thank God hotel was spelled the same. I was trying to remember the name of the one I stayed at before. Couldn’t. That’s when I remembered I had one of those guides in my purse. I went by the pictures of the rooms. Found one. Didn’t care how many Euros. Yes I did. I could afford it. They answered in French. “Bonjour,” I said. “Un hotel reservation?”
“Votre nom, s’il vous plaît?”
“American,” I said, trying to find my translation book or that little contraption.
“You are American. Do you wish to reserve a room?”
“Yes, ma’am. If you have anything available tonight, I would really appreciate it.”
“We do indeed, madam.”
I pushed my luggage down the stairs using my feet, pulled it out to the street and trudged my way to the corner. I was happy when a taxi stopped in less than a minute. I sat in that backseat and pressed my forehead against the glass. I looked up as we passed lighted apartments. Beautiful apartments. When it started raining again, I didn’t care. The hotel was modern, hip and gorgeous. Right across the street from Radio France, close to the Statue of Liberty. A few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. And a half block from the Seine. All they had available was a junior suite, which was somewhat expensive, but I was worth it. When the bellman opened the door to my room, I felt like hugging him. It was not only twice the size of Thora’s flat, it looked like a page from Elle Décor. The furniture was Italian, dark and smooth. Everything else was the color of straw: the duvet, the carpet, the shades. There was a flat-screen TV that I would not turn on once.
The sun streaming into the room woke me up. I looked around to make sure I was really in Paris. The honking horns outside the window and the smell of coffee and fresh-baked pastry downstairs confirmed it. I was on the second floor. I ordered breakfast: poached eggs, whole wheat toast, a few slices of melon and two shots of espresso. I checked my glucose before I ate anything. Took my medication after I swallowed the last bite.
I dreaded calling Thora, but figured I should get it over with. I rehearsed my upbeat tone in the shower. Thank God she wasn’t there. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Thora. Everything is fine here except I was allergic to something in your lovely flat so I’ve had to check into a hotel. It’s all good. I’ll speak to you as soon as I get back. Thanks much.”
With my map in tow, I crossed over the main avenue and started walking along the Seine. I had to stop just to take this in. I am in Paris, I thought. I wanted to give myself a few minutes to appreciate how I got here. I sat on the grass. Watched the tugboats. The floating restaurants. The charters. I inhaled the scent of river water and fresh air. The cars behind me went silent. I was awestruck looking up at the Eiffel Tower. To my right: the Statue of Liberty. Directly across this river was the Left Bank. It felt surreal, looking at so much history.
I had a history, too. I was raised in a Pittsburgh ghetto. Thanks to my mama, I never felt deprived or disadvantaged. In fact, she had me believing that when I grew up my life was going to be remarkable. Exciting. Possibly even thrilling. She was right. I graduated from a well-respected college, have a great job and love what I do. I married a good man, but one who made me feel as if I was disintegrating inside. I opted out because I was too smart to settle for mediocrity. I don’t care what Sheila thinks. My life didn’t end just because my marriage did. I’ve got plenty of reasons to live, and much to look forward to.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. I didn’t come to Paris to run from myself. I came here to run back to myself. As soon as I stepped off that plane, I already felt like Cinder-fucking-rella except I didn’t have to wait for a prince to find my other slipper. I brought quite a few pairs with me. In my twenties, I used to think people in their fifties were old. Too old to have any fun. I felt sorry for them because their best years were behind them. It was all downhill from there. I beg to differ. I like my life. I’m free. I can do anything I want to. Go anywhere I want and don’t have to depend on anybody to orchestrate it. I’m my own conductor.
I got up, stretched and kept walking. I felt lighter. I must have been smiling because people smiled back. “Bonjour,” they said. “Bonjour, à vous aussi,” I said. Originally, I’d thought about trekking back up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Why repeat myself? I passed over the tunnel where Princess Diana was killed. There were wreaths of plastic flowers everywhere. I couldn’t help thinking how quickly tragedy can strike. This one impacted the world. By the time I made it to the Place de la Concorde, I moved in slow motion in order to appreciate the cascade of those fountains. I headed on down the Champs-Elysees, past all the shops to the avenue of trees. For someone just diagnosed with a life-changing disease, I had energy to spare. As if diabetes was a wake-up call to finally get healthy.
I still took a cab back to the hotel.
I’d been there three days when I decided to call Mama so she would know where I was. “Did you get my e-mail text message?” she asked.
“No. I haven’t checked either one in a couple of days.”
“Why not?”
“Because I haven’t felt like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m in Paris.”
“What in the world are you doing in Paris?”
“Having fun,” I said, knowing this was the wrong answer.
“Did you go with somebody?”
“Nope. Came all by myself.”
“You ain’t been divorced but fifteen minutes and you had to run all the way to Paris, France, by yourself to prove what?”
“I’m not trying to prove anything, Mama. I just needed to get away.”
“Then why didn’t you come to Pittsburgh.”
“It just wouldn’t have worked right now.”
“What’s wrong with Pittsburgh?”
“Nothing, Mama. I needed to go someplace far away. Someplace beautiful and foreign.”
“Hell, Pittsburgh is foreign to you. It ain’t exactly no postcard but you ain’t been here in years.”
“I would like to come home for Christmas if that’s all right with you.”
“I have to see this to believe it. Do you get the news about what’s going on over here in the United States?”
“I’m taking a much-needed break from the news, which is why I’m not watching any TV or reading any newspapers while I’m here. I’m not even going on the Internet, and I didn’t bring my laptop. I’m not checking voice messages—nada—until I get back home. Why?”
“What’s wrong with you, Savannah?”
“Nothing, Mama. The world won’t come to an end while I’m on vacation. Was there a particular reason why you asked?”
“Nope. You go on and do your thang, baby.”
I was thinking about telling Mama about my diagnosis, but something told me to just wait until I got there. “I’m going to have to hang up now, Mama. It’s expensive.”
“A few more minutes won’t break you. Guess what? They dropped them charges against GoGo.”
“Well, that’s good news.”
“That’s one way to look at it. The police violated his Molinda rights or some such mess. Anyway, you have a good time over there and be careful. Don’t talk to strangers.” She let out a little chuckle. “Wait. Do you speak French, Savannah?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then how you suppose to understand them folks?”
“I have my ways.”
“What in the world would you do if you met a nice French man and you can’t understand a damn thang he’s saying?”
“Bye, Mama. I love you.”
“Of course you do. Call me when you get home. And bring me back some French perfume. But not that stinky kind that make you smell like you old.”
Right after I hung up, I ordered a pot of tea. I decided to call Sheila to get it over with. She would be jealous as hell if I didn’t. She answered on the first ring.
“What in the world are you doing in Paris?”
“How do you know I’m in Paris?”
“Because Mama just texted me and said you were.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“GoGo’s been giving her tutorials. Anyway, what in the hell are you doing in Paris by yourself and why in the hell didn’t you invite me to come along to keep you company when you know I’ve got this unused ticket just laying around and it could’ve been applied toward a ticket to Paris? And how much does it cost to get over there? Oh hell, never mind because I don’t have no interest in going to nobody’s Paris, but Rio de Janeiro would be a whole different story. What are you doing over there?”
“Don’t you need to swallow?”
“You go straight to hell. Aren’t you scared, being all the way in Europe by yourself? This is when you need a man.”
“If it wasn’t for shame, I swear to God, I’d hang up this phone right now, but I won’t. Mama just told me the good news about GoGo.”
“Yeah, but unfortunately those bond people don’t give you your money back even if the charges get dropped. They’re nothing but gangsters. Anyway, Paul just found out about some kind of new home loan we might qualify for. Interest only or something. I’ll let you know as soon as we hear.”
“Not to worry.”
“Can you speak French?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Say something in French.”
“Je vous aime à mort mais vous montez vraiment dans mon dernier nerf baisant.”
“What did you just say?”
“I said ‘I’m coming home for Christmas.’ ”
“I don’t believe that’s what you said. And I’ll believe it when you get here.”
“Bye, Sheila. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
“Would you please bring me back a bottle of French perfume but not the kind with that real Frenchy smell?”
Family.
During the rest of my trip, I did everything I said I was going to do. I walked every day, except the two I spent reading in bed. I finished three of the six books sitting at outside cafés and brasseries. Men flirted with me. I flirted with them, too. I felt my power. I saw more black people on the streets of Paris in two weeks than I saw in a whole year in Phoenix. French isn’t a color. I was fascinated watching how these folks used their hands and eyes to tell each other how they felt. They like to touch. I saw so many people of all ages kissing in public places it made me hopeful. Romance isn’t out of the question. And I haven’t given up on men. I’m just not going to act like a hitchhiker on a two-lane highway waiting to get picked up. I’ve decided to take a more pro-active approach. I’m going to start asking men out. All they can do is say no. One monkey doesn’t stop the whole show.
Because I always wanted to see some of the French countryside, I took a two-hour train ride outside of Paris. I saw herds of fat sheep. Farm after farm. Rolling dark green hills. I got off in a small village. I saw a castle. A real castle. I took pictures of it for the girls. I’m going to lie and tell them I went inside, ran up and down the stairs and stuck my head out the window like Rapunzel. On the ride back, I was thinking that there’s a lot worth seeing in this world. In fact, I was trying to decide where I might go next. Venice. Bora Bora. Or Kenya. I’ve always wanted to go on a safari.
I shopped. Ate what I could. And ate late at night. I skipped the Louvre and Moulin Rouge and most of the museums. I wanted to do things I hadn’t done before. So I went to two swanky spas. Had many treatments. There is no better feeling than being pampered. I was glowing inside and out. I always wanted to see the Hotel de Ville. Almost broke my neck looking up at the ceiling. Those breathtaking blues. I sat for hours in the Jardin des Tuileries and didn’t read anything except people. I took a taxi to the Palace of Versailles. Even did the tour. Then I sat on a bench and watched tourists walk through that giant garden.
On my last night, I put on a pair of high heels and what could pass for a sexy dress and went downstairs to the Zebra Lounge. The place was packed. People were sitting on sofas, deep in conversation. Some were whispering into each other�
��s ears. Laughing. Others were dancing to the mellow music the band was playing. I thought about Jasper after I walked out onto the dance floor, found my rhythm for three or four songs in a row, had a glass of wine, then chased it with a double espresso.
Velvet Handcuffs
“I know you’ll never wear this again, Mom,” Sparrow says, holding up a skirt I don’t remember.
“I don’t care if I do or not. Put it in the bag.”
We’re in my closet. It’s a walk-in. We’ve been in here so long we’ve filled up six black trash bags with my clothes and now have two laundry baskets of empty hangers. I’ve got a fan on in the doorway, even though it’s not helping all that much. It’s too bad. Ever since those levees broke in New Orleans, it’s been hard trying to grasp what’s happening. It doesn’t seem real, but it is. We’ve been glued to the television, gasping as we watched the devastation continue to multiply. We’ve stamped our feet on the floor, hoping and praying help would come a lot faster. So far, it hasn’t. What’s taking so damn long?
We couldn’t imagine waking up to this. Sparrow and I had to do something. I started with towels and sheets and blankets we could live without. We emptied out our dresser drawers and put every piece of clothing, pajamas and even socks we don’t need in boxes. I did the same with shoes and purses; some I’ve never even worn or carried. Too much is sometimes just too much. It has made me sick standing in this closet, looking at how much I have knowing so many people don’t have anything. I’ve been a slave to the good life. Which is precisely why I’m taking off these velvet handcuffs.
“Wasn’t that the doorbell?” I ask Sparrow. She’s blasting one of my favorite country songs of the moment, “Redneck Woman.” Romeo and Juliet dash downstairs. I look around my closet one more time. I don’t think I have anything left to give. I take a sip of water. It’s now lukewarm. I wonder who it could be. I go out and peek over the banister.
Getting to Happy Page 33