What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  She pictures him in the dark brown parka, a hood pulled over his head and a portfolio of sketches tucked beneath his arm. He laughs and says, Even an artist must eat. The picture is clear in her mind, but where he goes now is still a mystery.

  On sunny days he would go to the Quai Branly beside the Seine and watch for tourists. Often he unfolded a pad to sketch as he waited. It was a way to entice the passersby to stop. Parisians ignored him; a dime a dozen, they’d say and keep walking. But the tourists stopped. And they often bought.

  The price was whatever Julien thought the person had in his or her pocket. For some it was ten euros; for others the same sketch would cost one hundred euros. He had a way of knowing a person’s worth. It was as if he could see into their wallet.

  Max brushes a bit of gloss on her mouth and decides.

  Across from the Quai de la Tournelle there is a long stretch of shops and alcoves. More than once Julien ducked into one of those places escaping the cold or wet weather. He could easily enough charm a shopkeeper into allowing him to sketch their likeness or a clever replica of their front window. Then when a crowd gathered to watch, he sold a few drawings.

  Max again dresses in layers. She doubts any of them will be removed on a day such as this, and the layers are warmer. She pulls on jeans, a long-sleeved tee, a wool sweater and a blazer, then covers it all with a hooded poncho. The poncho is bulky and unattractive but will keep her dry. She tosses the folding umbrella in her bag. If the wind dies down she may be able to use it, but this also is doubtful.

  Instead of taking the metro, she walks. If she hugs the buildings the wind is less, and there is always the chance she will see a familiar face.

  Because of the weather, only a handful of people are on the street and the few she passes rush by hidden beneath hoods or wearing hats pulled low over their face. No one looks up, and peering from beneath her hood Max herself can barely see the faces of those she passes.

  This morning La Petit Pontoise has taken in the tables that usually line the sidewalk. The few customers who have braved the elements sit inside. Max joins them, ordering coffee and a croissant. She drops a single sugar cube into the coffee and stirs. The coffee is black and stronger than what she is used to, but she downs it quickly then orders a second. While she is inside she pushes back the hood of her poncho. It is good protection from the rain, but with it pulled over her head it is like seeing the world through a peephole.

  As Max leaves the bistro she hears the bells of Notre Dame. It is ten o’clock. She turns toward the river and continues on her way. Her stride is purposeful at first then she slows her step. Every waking moment has been spent in search of Julien, but the bells remind her of Sunday mornings when she and her mother would attend church together. Afterward they would stop at the coffee shop and talk.

  She can still remember the sound of her mother’s laughter. At the time she was thirteen years old. Unlucky thirteen; the same year her father ran off and left her mother to die of a broken heart.

  Instead of turning on Tournelle, she crosses the bridge then turns left toward the front entrance of the cathedral. The Mass is half over by the time she arrives, but today the crowd is thin and there is plenty of room. She slides into a back pew and listens. The Mass is said in French but not truly understandable. It contains too many words that are unfamiliar.

  Max listens and for a short time feels at peace. She is not thinking of finding Julien; she is remembering her mother. Remembering the good days, not what came after.

  By the time she leaves the cathedral the rain has slowed to a drizzle but it is still windy, too windy for the umbrella. She hooks it onto her wrist, then pulls the hood over her head and makes the return trek across the bridge.

  On Quai la de Tournelle there are small clusters of people, tourists mostly. Those who pass her headed east are most likely on their way to see Notre Dame, and those who follow the path she walks are on their way to visit Invalides or the Museum d’Orsay. Three blocks after she has turned onto Tournelle, she catches sight of the figure coming toward her.

  A boy on a skateboard. He speeds up. She moves a step to the right trying to get out of his pathway. He then zigs to the left. A second later he slams into her, knocking her to the ground as he throws a chocolate milkshake in her face.

  This is not an accident. It is intentional. The liquid splatters in her eyes, and she is momentarily blinded.

  Before she can wipe the goo from her face and gather her senses, the boy is gone. Max’s hand flies to her face and she feels the sticky mess on her skin. Already she can sense the taste of chocolate on her lips. “Dear God,” she moans.

  Suddenly she feels it—from behind a man reaches beneath her arms and lifts her to her feet. He shoves a hankie into her hands.

  “Use this to wipe that stuff off,” he says.

  His voice is soft, thick with compassion and familiar enough to cause her heart to flutter.

  Without looking, Max takes the hankie and starts dabbing at the thick goo around her eyes.

  He speaks again. “A lad doing such a thing is disgraceful…”

  Now more than ever she is certain. After two quick swipes across her eyes, she is able to force them open. She lifts her head and sees it is as she thought.

  She gasps. “Julien!”

  He has the look of a man who has touched his hand to lit coals. He steps back, wide-eyed and fearful looking.

  “It’s me, Maxine!”

  “Maxine?” he says. “How could I not have recognized you?” He makes the words sound as if he is glad to see her, but his expression is one of agony. He hesitantly moves forward and places his hands on her shoulders. He holds her at arm’s length and makes no move to draw her to him.

  “Mon dieu, Maxine, is this not fate?” he stammers.

  A young woman is standing alongside of him. She is a tiny thing with big eyes, stringy black hair and the fragile look of a waif. Max has no idea what the girl’s relationship is with Julien. Is she a friend? A sweetheart? A wife perhaps? Although she is standing back a bit, Max glances at her hand. No ring. Probably not a wife. She is too young anyway. She is only fifteen or sixteen. Certainly no more than seventeen.

  A thousand times Max has envisioned their meeting, and it was never like this. The words she’d planned are now useless, and she stumbles around searching for the right thing to say.

  “I was in Paris,” she finally says, “and hoping I’d run into you. I thought maybe—”

  He cuts in with another repeat of her name. “Maxine…” The sound of it is foreign and lumbers haphazardly across his tongue. “I wouldn’t in a million years expect…” He makes no mention of their past. It is as if she is little more than an old friend, a classmate or perhaps a neighbor.

  She tries to smile, but it is impossible to smile when your face is crusted with chocolate milk and your heart is breaking. This may be the only chance she has, so she takes it.

  “We have so much to talk about,” she says. “Do you think that maybe we could—”

  In a pretense of brushing the milkshake from her poncho, he leans in close. “This evening at the café,” he whispers. There is no need to say which one. It is understood that it will be the café in Rue Cler, the one where they met.

  The young woman moves closer. She bends to pick up the umbrella and bag Max has dropped then takes a wad of tissues from her pocket and wipes the bag. With the bag still looped over her arm, she pops open the umbrella and shakes the drippings from it.

  Moments later she tells Julien, “Hurry up, we’ve got to get going.” Her voice is sharp and riddled with the sound of agitation.

  Using Julien’s handkerchief, Max takes one last swipe at the front of her poncho then hands the soiled hankie back to him.

  He shakes his head and says, “Keep it.”

  She sees the tears in his eyes. “Julien, it’s not too—”

  The waif gives an impatient huff, then turns on her heel and starts down the street.

  Julien hesit
ates a moment. He looks into Max’s eyes and once again says, “I’m sorry; so very sorry.” His voice is thick and choked with emotion. Before she can answer, he turns and follows the waif.

  With the handkerchief still in her hand, Max tearfully gives the poncho a few more swipes. When she looks up they have both disappeared.

  Max

  I felt like a fool standing in the middle of the street bawling my eyes out, but I couldn’t do a thing about it. It was as if the heartache and tears I’ve held back all these years suddenly spilled over. Once they began, there was no stopping them.

  I was broken enough to cry, and when that happens you have to keep right on crying until the brokenness is out of you.

  It was more than just Julien. It was my entire life I was crying over. All the stupid things I’d pushed to the back of my mind for God knows how long. I missed Mama, was considered a failure because I didn’t have an office, had wasted three years of my life loving a man who didn’t even recognize me and was standing there covered in a sticky gooey mess.

  It seemed as though some giant hand reached down from the sky, smacked me in the head and said, “Well, Max, now you’ve done it. You’ve royally screwed up your life.”

  The sorry thing is I’m not even sure whether that’s true. A lot depends on what Julien has to say tonight. I can’t imagine what happened after I left Paris, but I do know that today when he looked at me he remembered how it was with us. If he remembers, then he’s got to feel as I do. If not, we can start over. Let it be as it was in the beginning.

  On the plane I pictured the moment when Julien and I would meet again. I could see a slow smile sliding across his face and imagine the way he’d walk toward me and take me into his arms as he used to do. I knew after three years there was a possibility he’d met someone else, but I never expected she’d be with him when we saw each other again.

  The thing is, he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at me, and he had tears in his eyes. My bet is that she’s just a friend or maybe a casual date.

  I doubt it’s possible he can love her as he did me.

  The Long Wait

  When the tears subside, Max leaves Quai la de Tournelle and walks back to the hotel. She stops at the front desk long enough to pick up her room key then hurries upstairs.

  A quick glance in the mirror shows her poncho is in worse shape than she thought. She pulls it over her head, rolls it into a ball and stuffs it into the wastebasket. There are additional splatters on the blazer and jeans, but these are small enough to sponge off. Once that is done she peels off the remainder of her clothes and steps into the shower. She stands directly beneath the showerhead and lifts her face.

  The dried milk is caked in the corners of her eyes, beneath her fingernails, at the edge of her ear and in her hair. Using a washcloth, she scrubs her face over and over again until it is bright pink and tender to touch. She then shampoos her hair three times. Long after the last trace of the milkshake is gone she still feels the slime of it and lathers her body for yet another time. When she finally steps from the shower Max is spent, both emotionally and physically.

  Julien said the café this evening. That means seven, six-thirty at the earliest. Three hours to wait, and she is so very tired. Max pulls a bathrobe around her and climbs beneath the comforter. In almost no time she is sound asleep.

  ~ ~ ~

  This time the dream is about her mama. It starts with the ominous sound of a warning. Be careful what you wish for, Eugenia Martinelli says. I wished for your daddy, and he’s what I got! The voice is familiar and yet it is different, sorrowful and heavier than Max remembers.

  Once again she and her mama are sitting in the red plastic booth at Bean’s Coffee House. The church bells are ringing; they should be crossing Main Street by now. In a few minutes the services will start, and they are still nine blocks away.

  Three times Max says they’ve got to get going, but her mama doesn’t move. She sits there dabbing her red-rimmed eyes with a hankie and picking at a loose button on the front of her blouse.

  “This isn’t an ordinary Sunday,” she tells Max. “When we get back to the house your daddy won’t be there. He’s leaving and never coming home again.”

  “That’s silly, Mama,” the thirteen year-old Max replies. “Even when Daddy goes away for work, he always comes home.”

  “Work?” Eugenia gives a sour laugh. “Baby, you’re a fool to believe what he says. He’s not working. He’s playing house with his other family.” Tears fill Eugenia’s eyes.

  “No, he’s not,” Max says. Her small hand reaches across the table and holds on to her mama’s. “Daddy doesn’t really have no other family. He was just saying that ’cause he was mad.”

  Eugenia dabs her eyes again. It’s too late. A tear falls and splashes against the brown Formica tabletop.

  “It’s unfair, Maxine,” she replies. “I know it’s unfair. Unfair to you and unfair to me. But your daddy has another wife and another baby. He wants to be with them more than he wants to be with us.”

  “You’re wrong, Mama,” Max argues. “Daddy loves me, and he loves you too.”

  Eugenia shakes her head, her face a rumpled mask of tragedy. “Believe what you want, but the truth is a man like your daddy doesn’t love anybody but himself.”

  “That’s not true!” Max shouts. “Daddy loves me! He said he loves me!”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Eugenia says. “If you start listening to the lies of a man like your daddy, one day you’ll end up with one who’s just the same.”

  “No!” Max screams. “No, no!”

  ~ ~ ~

  When she pulls herself from the dream Max is trembling and soaked with perspiration. For several minutes she lies there trying to convince herself it was only a dream. It somehow seems too real, too close. She wants to move on, away from the dream, but the words keep running through her mind.

  You’ll end up with one who’s the same.

  She glances over and checks the time. Five o’clock. Although pieces of the dream are still clinging to her, she climbs from the bed and takes another shower.

  For now the rain has stopped, but the wind is still going strong. She dresses in jeans, a sweater and her leather jacket, then drops the umbrella in her bag and heads out the door.

  Tonight she will take the metro. It is almost six o’clock, and she has had enough of walking for this day. At the corner station she descends the stairs and passes through the turnstile. It is Sunday evening, and only a few people are waiting for the train: an elderly couple, a group of young women and, at the far end of the platform, a boy carrying a skateboard. When Max looks up the electronic timer says it will be two minutes and thirty-seven seconds until the next train arrives.

  The skateboard boy moves toward the center of the platform, closer to where the elderly couple stands. Max watches. Already she feels the queasiness spreading from her stomach to her chest. This boy looks taller than the one this morning, but she can’t be sure. He is wearing the same type of dark hooded jacket. She tries to picture the face of the boy coming toward her, but it is impossible. His image is nothing more than a speeding blur.

  One minute and seventeen seconds until the train arrives.

  Max feels the thump-thump-thump of her heart, but her eyes never leave the skateboard boy. If he lowers his board to the ground or moves closer to the couple, she will scream a warning.

  The electronic sign flashes zero, and the train roars into the station. Still she watches. The doors whoosh open. The elderly couple and the chatty group of young women climb aboard; the skateboard boy remains on the platform. A split second before the doors close Max steps onto the train. She is in the same car as the elderly couple. As the train pulls out of the station Max catches a closer glimpse of the boy. Now she is certain; he is not the same person.

  A different boy, and yet the pounding of her heart continues. Be afraid, it warns. Be afraid of everything and everyone!

  There are empty seats on
the train, but Max stands and holds to the metal pole. It is like an anchor holding her in place. She needs to hold on to something, to steady the trembling of her hands.

  She reminds herself that the incident of this morning is over and done with; there is nothing left to fear. It was a bad experience, but now it is time to let go and appreciate the good that came from it: finding Julien. Wanting to ease the pressure in her chest, she takes several deep breaths and tries to move her thoughts forward.

  It too late; the fear has already settled in.

  Three stops later she exits the train at Ecole Militaire. The Café du Marche is two streets down. She crosses over in front of the post office and turns onto Rue Cler. Although it is no longer raining, the air feels raw and damp so she hurries along. Already it is six-thirty.

  The tables at the café are still outside, but they are empty. The customers are inside where it is warm and much cozier. For a moment Max considers this, but she worries Julien will pass by and not think to look inside. Too risky. She sits at an outdoor table under the awning, the same one he was sitting at the day they met.

  The waiter comes and she orders coffee. It will be something to warm her. She will only be outside for a short while; once Julien arrives they can move inside, perhaps to one of the intimate back tables nestled in the corner. The one behind the pole, she decides. They have much to talk about, and it is quieter at that partially hidden table.

  When the coffee comes she lifts the cup and holds it with both hands. The warmth of it feels good but lasts only a few minutes. By the time she finishes it the coffee is ice cold.

  Max checks her watch. Seven-ten. Julien will be here any moment. The coffee did little to warm her, so she now orders red wine.