by Hilary Reyl
“I know it’s my fault about Papa.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Spending so much time with me made him delusional.”
She started crying. Two slow tears down her cheeks. “Has your father ever made you feel like he would change anything about your time together?”
I thought for a moment. Then I shook my head.
“Of course he hasn’t,” she said. “Because he wouldn’t give up a moment.”
“But now he has to pay for me. That’s not fair.”
“I know it’s hard to understand when you’re a kid and it seems like everything is about you, but his crimes were separate from you. You can ask him. He’ll tell you.”
“Are you sure?”
“He was confused about finance. He wasn’t confused about you at all.”
I didn’t quite follow her logic, but the tone of her voice was so sure that I felt forgiven.
“I need to talk this over with Layla,” I said, because Layla knows better than anyone how I feel about Papa.
There were two more tears. “Layla loves you very much, Martin. She doesn’t want you to move on without her. It’s completely natural. But you don’t belong in a bubble with her anymore.”
She put her face in her hands. “Oh, God, I sound so cruel!”
“But I am not only in Layla’s bubble. I’m other places too.”
“What places?”
“Other places. Inside and outside of different bubbles. It doesn’t only have to be one thing. I think other people have this too.”
“You mean, other people have bubbles? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes! That’s it. Like Papa. And me. And you.” I was excited. “People, all people, can be inside and outside them at the same time. So I don’t have to abandon Layla. I don’t have to get a new face. Getting a new face is not the same thing as growing up.”
“No, it’s not. And I love your face.”
I hugged her, and she kept crying. “Mom,” I said, “I think, I think—”
“You think you’re going to be okay.”
“Yes,” I said.
Friday, June 24
10:15 p.m.
Papa has taught me that an inference is an “opinion or idea we form based on evidence and clues, in reading and in life.”
When I told Alice today that Layla wants her to hear our sonata played on The Center’s piano, I was somewhere between an inference and a lie. Layla never said to play her music for Alice. But I wish she would.
This afternoon, at 4:30, Alice got to take her blindfold off, and I decided to show her Layla’s hands on my phone to celebrate. I also brought a big bag of madeleines into the hospital, enough for the whole gang. At 5:30 p.m., we were allowed into Alice’s room. We crowded around her on her bed, drinking Oranginas and eating the madeleines. I said to Alice, “My friend Layla from Los Angeles, the one who draws the moths on my shoes, she sent us something.” I held up my phone for her. Simon and the others looked too.
I pressed the play arrow. After a few seconds of Layla’s hands on the keyboard, Alice’s eyes widened. I was watching her eyes to see if they match up with my memory of them from before the blindfold. They do. They’re the same soft brown. They’re beautiful.
The other kids weren’t as into it as us. The César Franck sonata means nothing to them because they don’t recognize it. It’s between Alice and me. And Layla, of course. Without Layla, I could never have gotten to know Alice. I would not have had enough belief.
After the music, Simon asked if I was happy about going home to California soon. He said I must miss my life in LA, and all my friends and my mom’s Hollywood crowd.
Before I could answer, Alice asked, “When are you leaving?”
“In three days,” I said.
Everyone stared at me. Normally, I’m very clear about timing. But I haven’t said anything about leaving France. Probably because I have been trying to keep it out of my own mind.
“Wow, you could have told us. This stupid town won’t even seem real to you when you go back to your normal life,” Simon said.
“That’s not true at all,” I said. “I’ll remember everything.”
This made them laugh. They made me promise to come back before we all get too old to recognize one another. Definitely before the end of high school. Then they said I probably wouldn’t come back.
They’re not kidding. This moment can’t last. We all get it.
At 6:00 p.m., the nurse made us leave Alice’s room. She’s getting out of the hospital tomorrow morning. Then Monday she’ll be back at school. I’ll go to school too. Then, the next morning, I’ll take a train to Paris, with Elisabeth and Mom, and then we’ll fly home to LA.
On my way out of the hospital, I got this text from Layla: When you get home, how would you like to come over and watch Season Five with me? How about next Friday? The summer session doesn’t start until after July 4. You are coming to the summer session, right?
The Center runs all year so that we don’t regress.
I texted back: I will be there for the summer session. And yes, I would like to watch Season Five together very much. Thank you for asking.
I thought about telling her I am sorry I made her jealous and that her learning the sonata is a big deal, and that I am grateful for the way our brains can touch. I realized I don’t need to say it. What I need to do is go sit with her on the brown couch.
Saturday, June 25
7:00 p.m.
Papa answered my email.
Dear Martin,
Thanks for your picture of the postcard. I love the part in Search about the melody being like a doorway. It’s great to hear from you. I’m sorry it has taken me a few days to write back. As you know, I don’t have access to a computer that often. Twice a week for half an hour, to be exact. I’m happy to hear about Alice Corot. I hope she is okay. I’d love more details about her if you have the time and the inclination. I can tell that you are making great use of Search in its native land.
I’m sure Mom has told you that we have decided to get a divorce. Partly it is to protect assets for you and your sister. I am getting sued by a lot of people, so it’s best to divide up what we have so that your mother’s portion is safe and she can use it for you and Elisabeth. Mom is ready to move on, and I want you to know it is not your fault. You said to me once that you are worried you confused me. You didn’t confuse me. I confused myself. But we are all going to be okay. You say I’ve helped you learn to be happy, and I hope that this serves you well now.
By the time I get out of here, you will be a master baker. I hope you will still bake a quatre-quarts with your old man for old times’ sake. I promise to clean up.
Love you, Papa
When I was a kid and I heard something I didn’t like, I stated the opposite. Like if Elisabeth said she had hurt herself, I said, “Elisabeth did not hurt herself. Elisabeth is okay.” Or if Mom said it was raining, so we couldn’t go to the park, I said, “It’s not raining. We can go to the park.” Or if Papa said he was sad because of something terrible that happened in the newspaper, I yelled, “Papa is not sad! Papa is happy!”
The therapists said these contradictions were not exactly original speech, but they were “something.”
Eventually, they taught me I couldn’t make things the way I wanted them to be. It’s not appropriate to believe in that kind of power once you aren’t a baby anymore. Only it took me until I was ten and a half to stop trying. Even now, if something messes with my vision of reality, I have a hard time. I block painful things, like Asparagus Man and the divorce. Mom’s tried to tell me about the divorce four times. I haven’t contradicted her. I also haven’t said I get it. And I haven’t told anyone else.
Until today.
I went to see Alice. She was sitting outside in a white plastic chair in the yard of her house, which is the same square shape and size as Simon’s yard. She was wearing cut-off shorts, a striped T-shirt, and sunglasses. Except for t
he bandage on her head, she looked the same as before. She was drinking a tall glass of sparkling water with dark-green mint syrup in it. She offered me some, but I said no thanks. I don’t like mint. She said she felt fine, and then she asked how I was.
I told her about the divorce and about Papa in jail.
Alice said she was sorry. But she did not seem shocked. She made me feel normal. Then she asked me a question.
“Because your brain works differently, is it harder for you than for other kids to think about your dad and your parents splitting up? Harder to accept?”
“Sometimes,” I said, “I don’t grasp certain things the way other people do. It’s like I don’t live in quite the same world.”
“Okay, I need to say something to you,” she said. She was narrowing her eyes in a way that reminded me of Gilberte even though I’m now completely sure that Alice is not Gilberte. Gilberte would never have a green sparkle from her drink in the soft hair above her lip. “You tell me that you live in this different world because of your Proust book and how your mind works and everything. And you make it seem that all of us here are kind of privileged because we don’t have to live in your world. Like you might be trapped, and we are free. What you don’t get is that you’re rich and you live in America and you hang out with famous people and you don’t even notice that that makes you lucky. You’re gonna go away from here and have a million things happen to you. We’re the ones who are trapped. Not you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, before I could process, because an apology is appropriate when you’ve offended someone, even before you figure out why. Then I had an idea. “Maybe you’re saying we have something in common?”
“No, the opposite. I’m saying we don’t.”
“But we do. We both know the other one is lucky.”
We talked for another ten minutes, but we didn’t get anywhere. She kept saying my life was glamorous and I would forget her, and I kept saying I could never forget. She started to act like our argument was a game. She was laughing and giving silly examples about how she pictured my “Hollywood life” in Jacuzzis with champagne and movie stars. It was so silly that she relaxed, so I relaxed. We held hands.
I was hoping we would kiss, but Madame Corot came out of the house to say it was almost dinnertime and Alice should come eat. There was a strong smell of frying steak through the door to the house, and it made me hungry. I wanted to stay and eat, but Madame Corot didn’t invite me. So I took a long, winding walk home while the sun was setting.
On the way, I stopped to text Layla. Do we live in a bubble of privilege along with our other bubbles?
She answered, Privilege can be confused with glamour, but it is not the same thing. Do you think our phones are instruments of communication or torture?
I thought about Layla’s parents throwing money at the problem that was her, and about Papa being in jail for trying to solve the problem that is me, and I started to cry on the side of the road. I don’t want so much separation from people. Not from Alice, not from Layla, not from the moths, not from my family.
I was going to text Layla to please give me a song, but before I could, she sent me another link to her YouTube channel. She was playing the Beatles’ “I Will.”
Sunday, June 26
4:00 p.m.
Mom and Asparagus Man have broken up. It happened two days ago. Elisabeth told me this afternoon. She said that she didn’t know why and that Mom didn’t want to talk about it. My first feeling surprised me. It was not the rush of relief and well-being I expected.
When I heard, I called Maeva. She has given me her cell number for emergencies. She picked up even though it was 6:00 a.m. her time, and she did not sound groggy. She was happy to hear from me.
I told her right away that I was worried my mom might be sad. I explained that she and the man she had been dating here had broken up.
“What is he like?” she asked.
“Well, I’m not sure what he is really like, but to me he is kind of a nightmare.”
“So aren’t you glad he’s out of the picture?”
“But it’s not my picture,” I said. “It’s her picture. What
if she is sad?”
“Does she seem sad?”
“No, she seems busy. But Elisabeth said she sometimes hides in her work.”
“How do you think you can find out how she’s really doing?”
“I can ask her?”
“That’s the best you can do.”
6:35 p.m.
Arthur has shaved. I am trying to be cool about it, but it’s rocking my world. I like him. I’ve come beyond identifying him as a tangle of fur with eyes and a smile. Still, he is scaring me with all his skin, like a brand-new creature. It’s a lot at once.
Elisabeth can tell I’m having a hard time with the change. She asks if it’s related to anxiety about leaving Chenonceaux and returning to LA, where everything might not feel the same as it did before we left. Because I might not be the same. These are interesting questions, but I forget all about them when Arthur’s pale white face makes me nervous.
I try to focus on his familiar voice instead of his smooth new skin. It’s late afternoon. We’re taking a walk along the edge of the castle garden, by the river. I’m counting the six arches across the water, and their six reflections, which make six perfect ovals.
Over my steady counting, I can hear what he says. He asks me, “What are you going to do for the rest of the summer, once you get home?”
“Well, I’ll go to summer school at The Center, and also take some classes at a general-ed school to see if there’s any way I could go there next year. I don’t think I want to but I am trying to be flexible. And I’ll swim every day with my team. And I’ll probably cook and read a lot.”
“Are you psyched to see Layla?” Elisabeth asks.
I count all six ovals again before I answer her.
“Yeah, I want her to draw me some more moth sneakers because these ones are worn out. And I am also worried about seeing her.”
“Why?”
“Because you might have hurt her feelings,” I say. “You think you and she understand what happened now. It should be okay but it might be hard.”
Elisabeth does a sharp inhale, as if she is going to say, “Pronoun alert!” She doesn’t say anything.
It’s Arthur who talks. “Are you going to see her?” he asks.
“You can’t not do hard things,” I say.
Before heading to bed, I tell Elisabeth that I’ll be able to look at Arthur’s new face soon. She says he’s going to spend the summer in LA to help Mom edit the movie. So we will see him a lot. I ask what will happen between them when she goes to Stanford, and she says she can’t predict, but not in a sad way. Then she asks if I am going to do something special with Alice to say good-bye. I say my friends are going to come to the train station on Tuesday. Alice too.
Elisabeth doesn’t try to make me say any more about Alice, and I’m grateful. I haven’t kissed Alice since her accident, and all I want is another chance before I go.
Tuesday, June 28
5:30 p.m.
In the last scene of Swann’s Way, Marcel is walking in the Bois de Boulogne, stalking Odette, while all these men are whispering around her. Marcel is two people at once. He is the innocent, starstruck boy who is mesmerized by Odette, the glamorous mother of Gilberte. And he is also the old writer imagining what all the men are saying about the woman he has idolized from afar. Young Marcel tips his hat to the great lady in a ridiculous, romantic way that makes her smile. Then the scene drifts forward in time to Marcel as an old man. He’s still wandering through the Bois de Boulogne. Only the park has lost all of its artful magic and become an ordinary, natural place. Like if the perfect Chenonceau gardens got reclaimed by wild grasses and nobody trimmed the trees anymore. The horses with their carriages have been replaced by cars. The women’s fashions are completely changed and seem strange to Marcel. Instead of elegant little hats with fresh flowers, the w
omen are wearing giant hats with heavy decorations. And instead of the beautiful, structured dresses that made Odette look like a queen, they’re wearing shapeless Liberty-print frocks that look like cheap wallpaper.
This makes Marcel realize something: an image in our heads is nothing but regret for a certain moment. All the things we think exist outside of us, like houses and roads and avenues through the park, are “as fleeting as the years.” They aren’t real.
It is 5:35 p.m. You are sitting in seat forty-five of a train speeding through fields between the Loire Valley and Paris, in a second-class carriage because traveling first class is vulgar. Right now, the fields are sunflower and beet. You are going over images in your head, trying to decide if they are fleeting or not.
Here is a list of the images:
The orange doorways at school. They are no longer startling blurs along an endless hallway. You can now picture what is behind them: the classrooms, the cafeteria, the gym. Alice can be found behind the doorway to French and history. She is also often behind the door to the cafeteria. At your last school lunch, she makes you a surprise, a big slice of quatre-quarts cake with a moth drawn on it in Nutella. She has decorated the wings with banana slices. It is beautiful.
In Simon’s backyard last night, the table has a bowl of chips, some cans of soda, some beers, and a box of wine. There is no techno music. There is a circle of shoes, bodies, faces. Simon, Kevin, Marianne, Georges, Michel, and Alice are your petit clan. You are here with them to say good-bye instead of back on the cottage terrace with the cast and crew. Good-bye is something you haven’t practiced nearly as much as you’ve practiced greeting. It isn’t natural yet. You stand there holding your beer, smiling vaguely in everyone’s direction. You have the will, but you don’t know what to do with it.
Simon says that you are truly cool for a robot. He doesn’t have to ask if you understand he’s joking because you laugh, and you’re not angry at all anymore. And you say maybe there will be a premiere of Mom’s movie in Paris and we can all go be moths together, and he lights up because he’s a moth like you’re a robot.