Chasing Paris

by Jen Carter

  “Score?” she asked.

  “We’re up one,” April answered without taking her eyes off the television.

  Amy continued upstairs, heading for her grandparents’ room. From their doorway, she could see the jewelry box sitting on the dresser. She crossed the room and opened its lid. Grabbing the small black box, she noticed a folded piece of paper under it. Specifically, she noticed a word on the folded piece of paper. Lizzie.

  She picked it up and unfolded it. The longhand was vaguely familiar—narrow and slanted—a bastardized calligraphy. Amy’s eyes scanned the first line. A moment passed before she realized what she had found.

  The following is the last will and testament of Elizabeth Hathaway. I wish that my sister, Eva Knodt, carry out my wishes.

  Amy gasped, her heart suddenly thundering in her ears. She read word after word, but none of them seemed to have meaning. Lizzie’s will. This is Lizzie’s will.

  “Amy, did you find them?” Eva called up the stairs.

  The sound of Eva’s voice tore Amy from her trance. “Yes,” she called over her shoulder, refolding the paper and replacing it in the jewelry box. “Yes, I found them. I’ll be right down.” She snatched the earrings from the jewelry box and headed downstairs.

  “They’re beautiful, Nana,” she said, crossing the kitchen and presenting the earrings to her mother. She hadn’t looked at them, but even with her heart still thundering, she knew what to say.

  “Oh, they are beautiful,” Debbie said. “Did he pick them out all by himself?” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel before taking the box from her daughter.

  “He certainly did. I was shocked when I opened them. I joked that he must have a girlfriend who helped pick them out. He’s never had an eye for jewelry.”

  Amy’s mind raced as her mother handed the earrings back. She wasn’t listening to the voices around her. She could only think about what she had found upstairs.

  “Nana, do you want to put them on now?” Amy asked. “Or would you like me to take them back to your room?”

  “Oh heavens, they’re too nice to wear,” Eva laughed, sitting down at the table. “Would you mind taking them back?”

  “Not at all.”

  Amy turned and raced toward the stairs, unaware that Miles waved as she passed the family room.

  After returning the earrings to the jewelry box, she snatched the will and power-walked down the hall to the spare room where Eva and Aidan kept their computer.

  Again her heart thundered in her ears as her eyes focused on the words staring at her.

  I, Elizabeth Hathaway, being of sound mind, willfully and voluntarily…

  She skimmed line after line, seeing names she recognized and names she didn’t, but with her nerves strangling her mind, she could process none of it.

  She approached the printer sitting next to the computer. Scanning the buttons on the machine, she muttered, “Copy, copy, copy, doesn’t this thing copy?” A moment later she abandoned the idea of copying the will and feverishly patted the pockets of her jeans. “Ugh,” she spat under her breath. “Why didn’t I grab my cell phone downstairs?” Taking a picture would have been much easier. She didn’t dare go back downstairs to get it and chance getting stuck in a conversation with someone. Instead, she grabbed the legal pad at the desk’s edge. Quickly, she took notes with a shaky hand. Not only was Lizzie’s writing strangely angular, but it also was very small, and it covered both sides of the page. Faster, faster, she told herself, cursing her unsteadiness. She would never get the contents down in its entirety—not even with the shorthand she used in college.

  Minutes ticked by. She hoped no one missed her downstairs.

  The backside primarily listed books. She skimmed the list. Huck Finn, The Inferno, Canterbury Tales. The list seemed endless. She recognized most of them and promised herself that she would remember them.

  “Amy! Dinner!” April yelled up the stairs.

  “Coming!” she yelled back. She ripped her page of notes from the legal pad, folded it, and pushed it into her pocket. “I’ll be right there!”

  ***

  The following day after work, Amy let herself into her quiet house and wandered to the kitchen, glancing in the family room along the way to see if her sister was around.

  “April?” she called, dropping her purse on the kitchen table. “Hello?” There was no answer. She walked to the counter where the day’s mail lay. Two or three of the envelopes were bills, and two or three were credit card applications. Next to the mail sat a yellow Post-it note. Amy picked it up and read April’s handwriting. Miles called at five. He’ll be here at seven. Order a pizza. Amy looked across the kitchen at the microwave clock and then threw the Post-it and credit card applications into the garbage.

  “You’re home.”

  Amy looked up and saw her sister walking into the kitchen from the back of the house, yawning.

  “Yeah, I’m home,” she answered, opening a bill. “Were you taking a nap?”

  April nodded. She walked further into the kitchen and lifted herself onto the edge of the counter near Amy. “Have a good day?”

  “I guess.” Amy put the bill on the counter and looked at April. “Except I think I lost a book I’ve been reading on and off. I couldn’t find it at lunch. And I can’t remember the last time I read it, so I don’t know where I might have left it. I thought it could have been at the coffee shop, but when I called them, they said they didn’t have it.” She picked up the bill again and looked at how much they owed the cable company.

  “That’s what you get for wasting money every morning at a coffee shop. If you made coffee here, you’d save money and still have your book. Hey, did you get my little note about your boyfriend calling?”

  “I did.”

  “Super.” April looked at the clock and yawned again. “What’s-his-name is going to be here soon. Have you ordered a pizza yet?”

  “Not yet.” Amy dropped the bill back to the counter and crossed the kitchen to fill a teapot at the sink.

  “I’ll order one. Extra-large pepperoni? I’ll have them deliver it at seven.” She slid off the counter and headed toward the family room for the phone.

  “You’re the best.”

  “Hmm,” April responded, her voice trailing away as she disappeared through the hallway.

  Amy set the teapot on the stove and watched the flames dance around its base. Work had worn her out. Mondays always left her with rounded shoulders and a searing lower back. All she wanted since noon was a cup of raspberry green tea and two Advil. When the water boiled, she made her tea and sat down at the kitchen table. From her purse she pulled the paper she had been thinking about all day.

  Last will & test.

  Me & sis—$ for edu. Any edu—trips, school, books, etc.

  Mom & siblings—divide rest of $$

  Nana—house and furniture. 1800 River Way—Saratoga

  Billy Strath—books listed on back and the accompanying letters

  Me & sis—rest of books

  Marie and Jean Lambert —flat in Paris

  Ashes—to Paris. Lamberts will know what to do

  “What are you doing?” April said, reemerging from the family room.

  Amy pulled her eyes from the paper and smiled at her sister. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  April walked toward the table and sat down. “Uh-oh, you have that sneaky look on your face.”

  Amy considered her sister’s observation. “Well, maybe. But look at this anyway.” She slid the paper across the table to April.

  “It looks like your chicken-scratch.” She slid it back to Amy. “Just tell me what it is.”

  Amy leaned closer to the table as though about to share a secret. “This,” she said, “is better than the plan I originally thought up.” She tapped the paper. “Yesterday when we were at Nana’s, I found Lizzie’s will. So I copied down the key points, and now I’m just trying to figure out what it all means. It’s a good place to start, huh?”

  Apri
l shook her head. “You’re insane. Figure out what it means? It means just what it says.” She snatched the paper from Amy and read, “me and sis—money for education. Mom and siblings—divide the rest of money. Nana—”

  “I know what it says,” Amy snatched the paper back. “I want to figure out what it means. What happened. I want to know why we didn’t know her.” Amy pointed toward the top of the page. “Look, here’s the address of the house that now belongs to Nana. I can go there and see it.” She pointed further down the page. “And here’s the name of two people getting a flat in Paris. Who are Marie and Jean Lambert? I don’t know, but I can do some research and figure it out. They’ve got to be pretty important because her ashes are supposed to be sent to them as well.” She pointed above Marie and Jean Lambert’s names. “And who’s this? Billy Strath? He’s the guy who gets a handful of books from her library, and he gets letters. That must be important. He must be important. I can find him too. Someone’s got to be willing to talk, right?”

  April shook her head. “Do what you want, but I’m pretty sure Mom will flip out if she finds you snooping around behind her back.”

  “She won’t find out.”

  “Why don’t you just talk to Nana? She’s probably not as uptight as Mom about this. Sisters put up with each other’s craziness all the time.”

  Amy glanced at April before looking toward the kitchen window. “Yeah, I know. But I think it’s too soon to talk to Nana. She clearly had a relationship with Lizzie. She even told Lizzie stories about us and showed her pictures. Lizzie’s note to you and me said that specifically. She’s got to be grieving. Right? And at the same time, she’s so close to Mom. She might tell me to let it go—for Mom’s sake—just like everyone else.”

  Before April could respond, the front door creaked open. Amy grabbed her paper and folded it, knowing that Miles had just arrived.

  “Yeah, you better hide that,” April said. “He’s such a kiss-ass that he’ll tell Mom if he finds out what you’re doing.”

  Amy scowled at her sister as they heard footsteps coming down the entryway. She knew April was right.

  FIVE

  LOS ANGELES

  S

  pring quarter was at its finest in the days of late May and early June. The lull between midterms and finals permitted students to relax a little longer on the campus’ green hills between classes, and it gave them the energy to stay out a little longer at fraternity parties and bars after dark. In spring, UCLA’s atmosphere came straight out of a picture book. Elementary schools took fieldtrips to the campus to play among the watercolor trees, staircases, and fountains. Backpack-clad students roamed along the main campus path, lovingly called Bruin Walk, often stopping on brick steps or grassy knolls to chat with friends. People picnicked in the Sculpture Gardens, listened to live music in coffeehouses, and played sports on the intramural field. Beautiful nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one year olds walked around with tanned toes and sun-lightened hair, smiling at each other in their beach-inspired clothes. They talked about last weekend, this weekend, the sneak-preview movie showing in the school’s adjoining Westwood Village, and the get-together that night at Sam’s or Dave’s or Phil’s apartment. Those were the days when life was at its best.

  And it was noon on one of those spring days—one of the last before finals. Lunchtime. Will sat with Chris and their other two roommates on a hill bordering Bruin Walk. They reclined on their elbows, the row of four young men looking nearly identical in their sunglasses, white T-shirts, and black or khaki shorts. They watched students walking to and from campus, eating Korean Barbeque across the way, and ignoring the solicitors who lined the walk.

  Chris took a bite of his Taco Bell burrito and then looked down the row of his roommates. “Hey Will,” he said. “I just got my paper back from Professor Hollings’ class. Guess how I did.”

  Will finished chewing a bit of his own burrito. “I don’t know—how’d you do?”

  “I got a C. Thanks for all your help.” He smirked.

  Brian and Ralph looked at Will.

  “You, the English major, helped Chris with a paper, and all he got was a C?” Brian asked.

  “He was writing on one of Shakespeare’s hardest sonnets, and he didn’t exactly give me much time to help him,” Will said.

  “I don’t think that was the problem, buddy,” Chris said. He crumpled up his burrito wrapper. “The problem was that you were too distracted by the comments written in the textbook, and I was left to decipher your awful writing from the English 151 notebook, which wasn’t very helpful in piecing together a paper.”

  Ralph and Brian looked as though they were watching a ping-pong game, turning back and forth between Will and Chris. Their eyes now settled on Will.

  “What comments in the book?” Brian asked.

  “Why didn’t you tell him what to write?” Ralph asked.

  Will shook his head and looked at Ralph. “I did tell him what to write. My suggestions were shot down. All of my suggestions were shot down.” He turned toward Brian. “And the comments—well, Chris, do you have that book with you?”

  “Yeah.” Chris reached for the backpack at his feet and rummaged through it. When he found the collection of Renaissance poetry, he tossed it over Ralph’s lap to Will.

  “Look at this,” Will said, opening to a random page. He smacked the page with the back of his hand before reading, “‘Are my dreams just ink stains on a page?’ Who writes that in a book?” He flipped to another page. “‘Your eyes are such a troubling blue—and yet I’m drowning in my own silence.’” He looked toward his roommates. “I mean, this stuff has nothing to do with Renaissance poetry.”

  Chris exchanged a glance with Ralph and Brian. “See what I mean?” he asked. “Distracted.”

  “That was the night Sarah wanted you to go down to the bars, right?” Ralph asked. “You should have just gone out with us. It doesn’t sound like you got anything done anyway.”

  “Besides going around in circles with this idiot for three hours?” Will nodded at Chris. “No, I didn’t get anything done. He didn’t like any of my ideas.”

  “The ideas couldn’t have been that good,” Brian said. “He got a C.”

  Will shoved the last of his burrito in his mouth and crushed the wrapper into a ball. “You guys are idiots.” He stood up and tossed the wrapper into a nearby garbage can. “And if I want to pass my classes this quarter, I’ve got to stop hanging out with you fools and trying to help you write papers.” He grabbed his backpack. “I’m going to study. See you all at home.” He pointed at each of his roommates one by one. “Who’s making dinner tonight?”

  Ralph raised his hand. “My turn.”

  “Ah, that means a hearty meal of Spaghettios. Very good.” He held up Chris’ book and continued, “I’m borrowing this.” He shoved it into his backpack.

  As he began the uphill walk toward the north end of campus, Chris called after him, “Why? Are you going to use it to not help someone else write a paper?”

  Before Will could turn around and respond, Ralph yelled, “Hey, the girls want to go out again tonight. You in? Or will you be busy coming up with bad thesis statements?”

  Will decided against turning around. Instead, he waved over his shoulder and kept walking. He hooked his thumbs around his backpack straps and looked at his feet while climbing the hill toward Royce Quad. No wonder it’s hard to stop being a jackass, he thought to himself. I’m surrounded by them.

  Will reached the water fountain at the edge of the quad and scanned the scene. Students milled about, walking across the quad and into the surrounding buildings. Royce Hall and Powell Library, two of the school’s most beautiful buildings—inspired by the architecture of Italian churches—buzzed with the energy of a looming finals week. Along the face of Royce stood a row of arches that students often used as shaded benches for studying, and today was no different. In fact, a student with an open book leaned against every arch, leaving no room for Will. A smattering of student
s sat on the steps leading to Powell’s entrance. Although Will preferred studying in front of Royce, sitting on Powell’s steps would work just as well. He made his way to the library and sat down on the bottom step. Tuning out the chatter around him, he grabbed the Renaissance poetry book from his backpack and opened it to a random page, which, like so many others, was filled with blue writing in the margins.

  Life is just a movement toward—and then away from—one feeling.

  Love.

  He flipped to another page, wondering how these words found their way to the pages of a book like this.

  He lets me cry.

  “It’s okay—it’s okay to feel this way.

  Don’t let yourself be swallowed by silence.”

  So almost silently, I cry.

  “What the hell,” Will breathed. He flipped to another page.

  “Are you still talking to yourself?” The voice came from behind him.

  Will craned his neck and saw a familiar face.

  “Hey Kim,” he said, smiling. “How are you? Long time no see.”

  The girl standing behind Will stepped down and sat next to him. Her backpack landed with a thud at her feet.

  “I know,” she said. “Too long. What have you been up to?”

  “School, mostly.” Will’s smile morphed into a sideways grin. “I’m trying to undo some of the damage I did to my GPA during freshman and sophomore year.”

  Kim smiled, nearly laughing, and pushed a ponytail of long dark hair behind her shoulder. “Really? So all the craziness of the days we were neighbors in the dorms is over? For good?”

  He nodded. “It sure is.” He paused, his grin fading. He looked down at the Renaissance poetry book a moment before returning his attention to Kim. “So, how’s Jocelyn?”

  He knew the question was eventually going to come up. He figured he’d just ask and get it out of the way sooner rather than later.