“Ha ha.” Gabriel kneels down and pets the dog’s head. “He’ll get hair all over everything.”
“But Chloé’s not here anymore,” Geoffrey says without thinking. He bites his lower lip, flustered. “Um, what I mean is . . .”
“You’re right. Chloé’s gone,” Gabriel replies gently.
“His name is Lucky. You can change it, but I’m not sure he’ll understand that you’re talking to him.”
Gabriel and Lucky measure each other up in silence. Maybe it’s a sign that a dog turned up on his doorstep like this, by surprise.
The dog instinctively tilts his head to the side.
Geoffrey can tell it’s a done deal and makes a discreet exit.
EMMA
“Are you sure you don’t want it somewhere a little less conspicuous? Have you really thought about this? I assume you know that there’s no going back!”
“I’m sure. Don’t worry.”
The tattoo artist, a young woman with bright-red hair, nods and shows me the stencil she’s going to use on the inside of my wrist. An eagle with open wings spanning two inches. The design is exactly what I’d imagined: she’s drawn a stylized black bird of prey. Simple and understated, with sleek lines.
While quickly disinfecting my skin, she asks why I chose this design. Probably more to be polite than out of actual interest, but I answer anyway.
“Freedom and sharp eyes. So I don’t forget who I want to be. So I remember to break out of my cage and stay true to my point of view.”
My words sound pretty trite, but I don’t know how else to explain my choice. The tattoo artist offers up an unconvincing “mmm hmm.” She must be used to pseudophilosophical speeches and bogus symbolism. It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that it means something to me.
She concentrates as she places the stencil on my wrist and starts to trace it. I clench my teeth. I knew that I’d chosen a sensitive area, but I wasn’t prepared for quite this much pain. I exhale slowly. I focus on the electric needle; with each passing minute it reveals more and more of the eagle’s outstretched wings.
After half an hour, the tattoo artist wipes my wrist with a piece of cloth, disinfects my skin again, and applies a kind of transparent film. It’s done.
“Don’t forget to apply Neosporin for the next two weeks. And feel free to come back if you need a touch-up.”
The redhead is already thinking about something else. Her next customer is clearly a regular: a walking canvas. I study the blue veins that are visible under the jet-black eagle. The tattoo artist clears her throat to signal that it’s time for me to go. Her day has only just started, and she still has quite a few dolphins, stars, and Chinese characters to inscribe on the skin of various strangers.
I hurry to pick up my bag and jacket, then open the door and leave the tattoo parlor. I have to go to the pharmacy, and then I need to . . .
All of a sudden, something runs into my leg and I lose my balance. I try to steady myself, but despite my efforts I end up flat on my butt. I glance down the sidewalk to see a beige blur moving quickly away.
“Come back here, Lucky! Come back here right now! Luckyyyyy!”
Two legs in a pair of black pants stop in front of me. I look up to see a man in his thirties, looking terribly apologetic as he holds out his hand.
“I’m really so sorry . . . My dog doesn’t listen . . . I’ve only had him for a few days and it’s a lot of work. He takes advantage of every second I’m not paying attention to yank on the leash and run off. Are you all right?”
He helps me to my feet, and I brush off my jeans. I open my bag to make sure my camera is still in one piece. The man is standing in front of me, arms dangling. He rubs the back of his head awkwardly as he subtly glances behind me to where the dog disappeared. He must be long gone by now.
“I’m okay, don’t worry about it,” I say with a polite smile.
He seems relieved.
“You can go now,” I offer.
“Go where?”
“Um, to get your dog . . .”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Thank you . . .”
The stranger suddenly takes off at a run. When he reaches the corner, he doesn’t seem to know which way to go. He turns his head both ways, an undecided expression on his face. The dog is nowhere to be found. After a few seconds, he decides to go left. He looks back a last time to wave at me, as if to say, “Again, so sorry!”
After I stop in the pharmacy to get the ointment for my tattoo, I go back to my place. The days are long; time seems to have slowed down, despite the fact that I’m plenty busy. I finished the project for the tourism office in just three weeks. The first session for the new bereavement group will be held in a little over a week. All my weekends are booked for weddings and maternity shoots. I’ve already erased my fair share of stretch marks and under-eye circles with Photoshop, but a job’s a job for now . . .
I guess it’s because I still don’t know anyone here that time drags on and on. I like being alone, it’s true, but I realize now that I’m not cut out for being alone all the time. Like everyone, I guess.
CHAPTER 6
JULY 2013
CHLOÉ
The first time I ever saw Gabriel, he was standing on the sidewalk outside the Société Générale branch on Boulevard de Magenta. He was leaning against the bank’s glass storefront smoking a cigarette with a pensive look on his face, his right hand in the pocket of his black suit pants. His curly brown hair fell just above his eyes; he reminded me of the singer Mika.
Mika in a suit, I guess. Before he cut his hair.
Anyway . . .
I walked by him at top speed because I was running late for lunch with a friend. A few yards past him, I turned around to look, but kept walking. Not bad. He hadn’t even noticed me. I slowed down without really thinking, then stopped. I hesitated: Sara would not be happy. I could already imagine her pouty face, hurt that I’d made her wait for so long yet again. I quickly pushed that unhappy thought out of my head; I was sure I’d be able to appease her with details about the man I was about to meet.
I casually walked past him again, more slowly, so I’d have time to get a better look. More than not bad. About twenty-five years old, tall and thin, broad shoulders. A five-o’clock shadow he would probably shave the next morning. But beyond all that, he exuded something indescribable, a blend of calmness and nonchalance, a kind of detached serenity. The type of man who doesn’t know he’s attractive and who looks at you with wide eyes when you express interest.
He still hadn’t noticed me; he seemed completely absorbed in his thoughts. Oh well. I decided to take the first step for once.
I was considering what to say to get his attention when he suddenly stubbed out his cigarette, glanced at his watch, and walked back into the bank. My prey had disappeared before I’d managed to say a single word. There was no way I was going to admit defeat. Sara could wait a few more minutes.
I went into the branch and walked over to the pimple-faced receptionist sorting checkbooks.
“I’d like to make an appointment with the account manager who just came in.”
“Okay, to do what?”
“Uh, to open a checking account.”
“I can open one for you right now, miss. You don’t need an appointment for that!” replied the young man politely as he pushed his glasses back up his incredibly greasy nose.
“I’d rather see an account manager. I plan to transfer all my savings, and I need to know what kinds of investments would be best,” I answered more abruptly. The receptionist didn’t need to know that, at twenty-two, my savings totaled about seven hundred euros and were vegetating in a low-interest savings account opened when I’d turned eighteen.
“All right, miss. I can get you an appointment with Mr. Hamon tomorrow morning at nine fifteen. Would that work for you?”
“That’s perfect. That’s the man who just walked in, right?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
The employee gazed at
me with an inquisitive frown on his face, but I decided not to explain myself. I had a lunch to get to.
I met Gabriel—Mr. Hamon—the next morning. I took extra time to get ready and primp. I wanted to do myself up in a way that made me look naturally elegant. A pair of dark-blue skinny jeans, a tailored ivory blouse, and ankle boots.
He invited me into his office at nine fifteen on the dot. He asked for my first and last name, address, etc. He meticulously filled out his file, hardly even glancing at me.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
We talked about checking accounts, debit cards, checkbooks, and sustainable development investment accounts. He didn’t even blink when I told him my fortune only totaled about seven hundred euros.
“Don’t forget the interest!” I added with a laugh.
He didn’t smile.
After about thirty minutes, I’d blown through my stock of relevant questions, and he closed my file with a satisfied look on his face.
“I’ll handle the transfer of accounts with your current bank so you don’t have to, Ms. Vasseur.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to get up, shake his hand, and leave.
“And . . . um . . . do you have plans for lunch today?” I ventured.
The words just popped out, unannounced, the product of my desperation.
“I’ll check my schedule, but you don’t need to make an appointment to bring in the papers we discussed,” he said, clicking the calendar icon on his computer screen.
“No, I meant . . . would you like to have lunch with me?”
I was usually so sure of myself, but I was fumbling. My voice seemed almost shy.
He looked up and stared at me without a word, clearly confused. I had plenty of time to study his surprised green eyes. The silence became awkward, so I stood up and smiled.
“It was just an idea, you know. Forget it.”
I started to make my retreat. He didn’t move. I opened the door to leave, hoping that he’d come after me. I felt so humiliated!
He didn’t say anything.
The door closed behind me, and I rushed through the branch to the front entrance.
“Have a nice day, miss,” said the receptionist.
I stepped through the door and found myself back in the street at last. I sighed loudly as I started down the boulevard without looking back. What a disaster!
My phone rang in the bottom of my purse. Unknown number.
“Hello,” I answered coldly. It wasn’t a good time to try and sell me a new Internet subscription or ask me to answer a survey.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes, I’d like to have lunch with you.”
GABRIEL
“I don’t want to start at the end. I want to tell you about when Chloé was still here, because that’s what’s hardest now. Living without her. I still remember the first time she walked past me. She must have thought I hadn’t even noticed her: I did my best to seem indifferent. But really, I just lacked self-confidence. I’m sure I never would have worked up the courage to talk to her myself. So when I saw her walk into my office the next morning, I was a mess. And when she asked me to have lunch with her, I thought I would turn into a puddle on the floor. She must have thought it was all indifference and nonchalance when in fact it was awkwardness and nerves. She was the kind of girl who scared men off with her confidence. But over time, I think I managed to tame her. I pierced through her shell, her arrogant armor, to find a generous and loving woman. Moody and stubborn too, however, I won’t deny that . . .”
Gabriel smiles. He sees Chloé doing her hair in the bathroom mirror. Her determined expression as she tried to arrange it into the perfect bun, her annoyed sighs every time a strand refused to be tamed. “My hair is impossible!” The way she carefully applied her eyeliner right along the lash line, her mouth slightly ajar. And how she would push him away lovingly—but firmly—when he took advantage of her concentration to kiss her neck. “Just give me five minutes! You’re going to ruin it!” The annoyed face she would make when he ignored her. “Be patient, we’ll have plenty of time later . . .”
We’ll have plenty of time . . .
And her laugh, when she finally gave in, with the contours of a single eye traced in black. Her laugh when she kissed him and he could feel her teeth against his lips. Her laugh when she jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist so he could take her wherever he liked.
Her laugh.
Gabriel absentmindedly clenches his jaw. He’s not looking at anyone; he seems lost in his memories. Then, all of a sudden, he startles back to reality. He looks up and realizes that everyone is staring at him. At least it’s done now; he’s opened up to total strangers. Not the whole story, of course, but he’s started to let them in. He doesn’t know why, but he feels safe.
There are eight of them in all. Edith, who leads the group; a volunteer photographer named Emma; and five other mourners like himself (he hates the word “mourner” but that’s what they say in the group): Gisèle, a woman not far from retirement who just lost her husband; Oscar, a twenty-something student whose mother committed suicide several years ago; Michel, an old bachelor crushed by his father’s death; Laura, a woman a bit older than Gabriel who lost her husband in a motorcycle accident; and Marie-Hélène, a mother grieving her son, who died of leukemia at just seventeen.
Edith explained how the group works at the beginning of the meeting. One session a month for a year, each of which examines a particular theme. The participants commit to attending all the sessions out of respect for the others. Everything that is said in front of the group stays with the group. They are free to speak or not, but they all have to listen without passing judgement.
Emma talks to them about putting together memorial albums, and it occurs to Gabriel that despite everything he’s put away, he hasn’t even thought to go through the photo albums in the living room bookcase.
Next the participants introduce themselves one by one. They briefly explain who they lost and each of them lights a candle, which they’ll blow out at the end of the session. Some of them cry. Others seem to be reciting lines they’ve learned by heart—probably just a different reaction to the stress. Gabriel thought he would say as little as possible, but found himself going back almost eight years to nostalgically tell the story of the first time he met Chloé.
It’s Marie-Hélène’s turn to talk. She’s shaking with hesitation. Gabriel almost wants to hold her hand. The words won’t come out; her emotions are too overwhelming.
“It’s okay,” says Edith. “Take all the time you need; we’re not in a rush. And if you don’t want to talk now, you can wait till you feel up to it.”
Everyone is so understanding and encouraging that Marie-Hélène sighs, as if an unbearable weight has just been lifted off her shoulders, then begins to speak. “Sacha’s been gone for three months already.” She shakes her head and lets out a sad laugh. “When I say ‘gone,’ I mean dead.”
The air grows heavy with the weight of the word.
“After months of treatments and suffering, my first reaction when he closed his eyes for the last time in his hospital bed was relief. I was relieved for him, of course, but also for me. The unbearable wait was finally over. I felt awful . . . And for three months now, it’s like I’ve been underwater. My lungs ready to burst, silence and darkness all around me. I want to scream, and I feel like I’m just letting myself sink, slowly but surely. I keep thinking that I’ll eventually reach the bottom, and then I’ll be able to come back up to the surface . . . But I just keep sinking, deeper and deeper.”
Gabriel looks over at Marie-Hélène, who has stopped talking. The words she’s just spoken could have been his own, and probably those of all the other people sitting around the oval table. He exchanges a glance with Emma, who’s seated across from him. She smiles faintly, but he can see that her eyes are red.
He hears Edith talking again, though she sounds very far away.
“
Thank you all for coming together to create this safe space, for agreeing to listen to each other and share your pain. When you’re ready, you can blow out your candles . . . The next session will focus on memories. In the month between now and the next time we see each other, I’d like you to think about the happiest memories you have of the person who is no longer with you . . .”
Gabriel blows on the flame of his candle, which flickers and goes out. He runs his finger over his wife’s name, written in chalk on the small slate candleholder. He walks out into the cool night air and lights a cigarette on the porch, where he’s sheltered from the wind. Chloé would be furious if she knew he’d started smoking again. There are extenuating circumstances, though . . . “That’s no excuse!” He can almost hear her voice laden with reproach.
The photographer comes out of the room and walks past him, car keys in hand. Then she turns around and says, “So, did you find him?”
Gabriel looks at her, uncomprehending.
“Your dog, did you find him?”
Now he recognizes the young woman Lucky knocked over a few weeks ago.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you . . . Yes, yes, I found him, and, more importantly, I’ve managed to teach him to stay on a leash!”
Gabriel smiles. He wants to keep talking, to avoid being alone with his thoughts, but he doesn’t know quite what to say.
“Your memorial album idea, how would it work exactly? I have a bunch of photo albums at home, but I haven’t had the strength to open a single one. I’m afraid it will hurt too much, that it’s too soon, that it’ll bring back too many memories . . .”
“I understand. The idea would be to choose about a dozen photos of your wife from among all the pictures you have. The ones that mean the most to you. I can work on them so they’ll look good together. And when it’s done, you could present it at a group session. But if it’s too soon . . .”
“I want to do it,” Gabriel interrupts. “I doubt I’ll ever be strong enough to go through all the albums on my own.”
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