by Gina Sorell
My hand slipped on the phone. My palms had broken out into a sweat the moment she had identified herself. I wiped my hands on my track pants and sat down on the edge of the couch.
“Um, no. Robins is just my maiden name. I use it professionally.”
“I see. So you and Ted Brennan are still married, ma’am, is that correct?” She sounded young and Southern, and I thought to myself that she had probably been married and making babies all her life. I bet there wasn’t enough space on her desk for all her baby-bragging photos.
“Could you please tell me what this is about?” I tried to sound busy and official, and take charge of the conversation.
“Yes, ma’am, you see, our records show your file has gone dormant but hasn’t been removed, and we were wondering if you and Mr. Brennan were still hoping to adopt?”
My head started to buzz, and I swallowed before I spoke. “Should we be?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“I said, should we be? We hoped for years, without any success. I was just wondering if we should keep on hoping, or if you are calling with some news.”
“Well, uh, that all depends.”
“Depends on what?” I squeezed the phone with one hand and my leg with the other.
“It all depends on whether or not you and Mr. Brennan are still looking, and if there have been any changes in the status of your application.”
She said it as if she believed there had been, and even though she was right, I was angry at her for implying it.
“And if we were still looking and everything was the same? Then would you have news for me?”
“Well, I.…”
“It’s my birthday, Marcy, what do you say? Am I going to get a baby for my birthday? Is that why you’re calling?” I could hear my voice go up in register, and I was aware that I was raising my voice.
“Well, uh, no, I don’t have a baby. But we were wondering if you and Mr. Brennan might like to consider maybe looking to adopt an older child. Now that you yourselves are older.”
She said that as if getting older was our fault, as if it was something we’d done on purpose and without the agency’s permission. I wanted to yell at her that we got old waiting. We hadn’t been so old when we started.
“How old?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“How old would the child be?”
“Um, at least five.”
I removed the phone from my face and held it to my chest as I caught my breath. Five, the age of those children that I first taught years ago. I inhaled deeply and spoke slowly into the receiver.
“And if Mr. Brennan and I are no longer together, how old would the child be then? Could I be a mother to a ten-year-old, or would I still not be good enough? Maybe you’d have a teenager for me, you know, someone who is already grown up and on their way to college.”
“Mrs. Brennan, am I to understand that there has indeed been a change in the status of your application then?”
“Yes, indeedy, Marcy, there has!” I wanted to smack her. Smack her smug-sounding Southern hospitality right out of her mouth.
“I see,” she said slowly, and I could hear her writing away.
“No Marcy, I don’t think you do,” I said, standing up and pacing the apartment. “Because if you did, you might not sound so fucking chipper. It’s not like this is some service call about my cable. You’re not asking me if I want the Sunday Times delivered, you’re asking me if I still have that giant gaping hole in my heart where a child was supposed to go and if you can rip it open just a little bit further, and make me wait and hope for something that you are never, ever going to give me!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs.…Ms. Robins. I’ll make the changes to your application and we’ll close it. Have a good day, ma’am.”
“Fuck you, Marcy,” I yelled, but she had already hung up. I threw the phone against the wall and started sobbing. I moved quickly through the apartment, unable to stand still, unable to stand being in my own skin anymore. I thought about calling Ted, but it was too much. I wished I had someone to talk to. I would’ve even settled for my mother, but it had been years since we had spoken. No husband, no parents, no friends. I had isolated myself with the shame of my failure, and it had worked. I was alone. And it seemed I was always going to be alone. It hurt to cry and it hurt worse to try to stop; every cell in my body screamed out Enough! until it was the only word ringing through my ears: Enough, enough, enough!
“Enough!” I yelled out, grabbing the bottle of antidepressants from the bottom of my purse. I emptied the entire bottle into my hand, shoved all of the pills into my mouth, and downed them with a glass of water. The bitter taste of the medication burnt my throat, then I lay down on the edge of my bed, grabbed a pillow, and passed out.
I must’ve fallen on the floor, because that’s where the landlord found me. In an effort to locate me and tell me my mother had died, Vincent called the last number my mother had on file for me and got Ted instead. When I didn’t answer Ted’s calls, he remembered it was my birthday and, suspecting that I was holed up in my apartment depressed, asked the landlord to go in and check on me.
When the landlord wanted to know what happened, I said I’d read the label wrong and accidentally mixed medications, and then I went to the bathroom and threw up for hours. By the way he looked at me sideways I knew he didn’t believe me, but I didn’t care. When I finally called Ted the next day, I lied about not feeling well and turning the ringer off. He offered to let me stay at his place in Toronto while I dealt with my mother’s death, and I accepted. I packed my suitcase and left the landlord a note giving notice and telling him that he could take anything and everything in my apartment. I wouldn’t need it anymore. Somehow, I knew I was never coming back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I checked into my hotel in Paris’s Latin Quarter and grabbed a map from the woman at the front desk. I did my best to ignore the sympathetic look she gave me when I told her I was traveling alone and didn’t need the upgrade to a queen-size room, an admission I regretted immediately after being relegated to a room with a single bed by the elevator.
“Ah, the spinster suite,” I said as she opened the door for me, unsure if she understood my English or not.
After years of being alone, I’d come to the realization that my being single bothered those around me much more than it did me, and I did my best to ignore the pitying looks doled out to the lone female traveler. Even the taxi driver told me that Paris was the City of Lovers, as if I should make that true to really enjoy my visit. It was also the city of liars and cheats and strange cults, I wanted to tell him, but just nodded as he turned up the radio and did his best not to look at the crazy lady in the back seat who was glaring at him and muttering to herself.
As I wandered along Place de la Contrescarpe, I pictured my mother walking these same cobblestone streets as a young woman, falling in love with the art and the architecture. She would have loved Paris’s overwhelming sense of history, and that it had long been the stomping grounds of great writers and artists. Across from my hotel was a little plaque that marked the building Ernest Hemingway had lived and written in, and farther down the road were the homes of James Joyce and George Orwell. It was surreal to think of all those great writers, and many more, hanging out together in one of the numerous little cafés that I passed. My mother would have been right at home here, seated at an outdoor table, beautifully dressed, her long hair tied in a scarf, arguing passionately about art, philosophy, and religion. It was a perfect fit for her, all of the old coupled with all of the new. I couldn’t imagine what would have brought her back to Canada when she could’ve stayed in Paris.
This wasn’t how I hoped my first visit to the city would be. Who didn’t want to come to Paris on the arm of a lover and roam the streets, stopping only to kiss and gaze at each other adoringly? I must have passed half a dozen couples who were doing just that, fingers intertwined behind each other’s backs as they held each other close against the win
d and warmed their lips on each other’s mouths. I felt a pang in my chest as I thought of Ted kissing me back in Toronto, and I wanted nothing more than to have him here with me doing just that. I undid my scarf and let the cold hit the back of my neck where his mouth should have been, and did my best not to cry. I thought a lot of things would happen in my life, but being alone at thirty-nine wasn’t one of them. How did I get here? And what would I have done for things to have turned out differently? It was a useless form of questioning, and I knew by now it got me nowhere. The answer was always the same. Nothing. Shit happens. Life happens, and we do our best to roll with it.
That’s what I had always told myself, but lately I’d begun to wonder if it was true. What if I could have changed my fate by changing my karma, as my mother had believed? Where would I be now? I had never stopped blaming myself for being unable to have children. I thought of all those times I’d hoped not to get pregnant, looking at women who gave up their careers to be mothers with disdain. I had gotten my wish. It was dangerous for me to think like this, and I needed a drink before it went any further.
I stopped at a little café at the far edge of a fountain in the Latin Quarter. I chose a seat inside at the bar instead of at one of the little tables, made just big enough for two plates and just small enough for couples to hold hands across the table without leaning forward, their knees touching underneath. I thought how the restaurant looked right out of a movie, although whether it was truly Parisian or just tourist Parisian, I didn’t know. The walls were a deep red, and the sconces that lined them were topped with little black lampshades. The tiny round tables had hammered-copper sides, and the café’s name was written across the center of each, surrounded by gold stars. I ordered a glass of red wine from the bartender and then another when he came back with the menu. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I would be when I woke up in the middle of the night disoriented and jet-lagged, and by then it would be too late to do anything about it. I asked for a bowl of soup with some bread, laid out my map and pamphlets, and tried to locate the Wellness Center.
I wanted to go there first thing in the morning. I wasn’t here to sightsee, and since deciding to come, I’d thought of little else. Sadly, the Eiffel Tower had little on Henri and the Seekers.
“Madame,” said the waiter, placing down the food.
“Merci,” I said, covering the pamphlet with my hand. Who knew what reputation the Seekers had. Until recently I’d assumed it was a disorganized group of old hippies that had all but faded away, but now I knew better. My poor attempt only attracted the attention of the bartender, who stopped by my elbow and raised his eyebrow at me.
“Um, do you know where this place is?” I said, in the best French that I could remember from high school.
He picked up the pamphlet, bit his lip, and in fluent English answered, “Yes, it is about fifteen minutes from here. It’s very popular, lots of artists and drug addicts go.” He lowered his chin and peered at me from under hooded lids.
“Oh, well, I am neither,” I said, lifting my wine glass and awkwardly putting it down. “I’m just looking for someone.” I pulled at a piece of bread.
“Someone, or something?”
“Never mind,” I said, pulling the pamphlet closer and avoiding his gaze.
He walked to the other end of the bar and returned with the bottle of wine and topped up my glass. “My ex-girlfriend went there. They helped her a lot. They also took all her money, but then again, I suppose she would’ve just snorted it all away anyway.” He turned the pamphlet over. “This guy. She always talked about him. Like he was Jesus or something.” He pointed at the picture of Henri and shook his head.
Or something.
“And he fixed her?” I asked.
“For a while. She was in love with him, and when he didn’t leave his wife, well, she went back to using drugs and.…” His voice trailed off. “She left them all her money, can you believe it? Not that there was much to leave.” He touched his finger to his nose, and I knew what he meant.
I wondered if the Seekers had expected my mother to do the same. They must’ve been very disappointed to learn she’d left all her unpaid bills and the responsibility of selling her apartment to me.
“My mother was a member,” I said, surprising myself.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. But she’s dead now, cancer.” It was the first time I said it for nothing other than the truth.
“Merde.” He ran his hand over his stubbly chin and shook his head.
He seemed too old to be a bartender, but then again I’d heard that bartending in France was much more of a profession than it was in someplace like Los Angeles, where every server was a model, actor, or aspiring screenwriter. In LA it was the job people did in between rather than the job that people did. His fingers were stained with nicotine, just like Henri’s had been the first time I had seen them, and for a moment I saw Henri standing before me, as he could’ve been.
“I’m sorry they couldn’t fix her,” he said, resting his elbows on the bar and leaning forward. “What with all their vitamins, teas, and special bathing waters. They say they can cure cancer, but you need to be ready for it to be cured; you need to have done the work. If you don’t get cured, they say it’s your fault.” He shrugged angrily.
“You really know a lot about them,” I said gently.
He looked around the restaurant. It was empty except for a couple by the window, who looked like they could use a room but seemed content to improvise with the small table and chairs. No one needed his attention, so he grabbed a glass from above the bar and filled it with wine for himself.
“Your mother was not alone. They couldn’t fix me either,” he said, taking a large drink.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? I am still here.” He smiled, and his tired eyes broke into crinkly paper fans at their corners.
“True,” I said, allowing myself to smile back and take in his long, thin face.
He was about my age, maybe a little younger, but I wasn’t sure that mattered once you were over thirty. I didn’t know. I hadn’t been with anyone since Ted, and what’s worse, I hadn’t even imagined that I ever would be again. It seemed absurd as I sat here, a lonely woman in Paris, that I’d been with only a handful of men in my life, and after my divorce I’d assumed that was it. And it seemed unreal that in the first café I went to, I’d meet someone with whom I had less than six degrees of separation. But I had. I couldn’t ignore it, and I didn’t want to. I took a long drink of wine. I didn’t want the last lips to have touched mine to belong to my ex-husband. I didn’t want my former lover to see me as an old, lonely, divorced woman, even if I was one. I took a deep breath, undid the scarf around my neck and removed my jacket and draped it on the stool next to me. I shook my hair loose from its bun and twisted it in my fingers. I ate my dinner, and ordered another glass of wine, and when it came time to close the bar, I waited. I may have been a cliché, but I didn’t care. I am still here. I had been elsewhere, anywhere, hiding for so long, and now for one night I needed to let someone else look for me.
“You make love like it might be the last time,” said Luc the next morning. Sometime during the night, in between our lovemaking, I had learned his name.
“Oh?”
“It’s a compliment.”
I rolled onto my back, letting the sun that was starting to stream in through the window rest upon my face. I knew what he meant. For the first time in a long time, I felt wide awake.
“And what’s your reason?” I asked, turning my head to see him resting on the pillow beside me.
“I’m French.” He cracked a smile and I laughed out loud. The laughter rippled through my body, and as soon as it left, I felt a cry well up where it had been, and tears start to leak down my face.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
Luc rolled on his elbow and placed his left hand on my chest. “It’s okay. You’re just relaxed. You’re not wearing your armor right now.”<
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“I’ll need my armor later on,” I said, placing my hand on his. “When I go to see the Seekers.”
“No. You’ll need your strength. It’s not the same thing.” He leaned down and kissed my hand. “And breakfast. You’ll need that too,” he said, picking up the phone and ordering us room service.
I couldn’t help but notice the innkeeper’s eyes widen at the sight of the empty wine bottle and glasses next to the dresser, the sheets twisted in a heap in the middle of the bed, and the tall, shirtless French man who took the tray of coffee and croissants from her and thanked her.
“Bon appétit,” said Luc as we sat at the little table by the window overlooking the courtyard.
“Bon appétit.”
I’d only wanted coffee, but it seemed crazy to go all the way to Paris and not eat a croissant. I tore off the end and reached my fingers down the middle of the croissant and pulled the sweet center out, like Lafina had shown me how to do. I’d dreamt of her again last night, the dream of fire returning to me in the few hours I’d slept. The flames had burned brighter this time, and I felt them licking my body as if real, the line between memory and dream harder to discern than ever. This time, when my mother told me to run, I went straight to the outstretched branches of the tree, which wrapped me in its embrace and held me tightly to its trunk. Exhausted, I cried tears of relief, which softened the trunk until it transformed into Lafina’s belly, and for a brief moment, I believed I was safe. And then a chorus of voices rose up from the earth, and Lafina let out a howl so strong it shook the night sky and whipped across the ground. The force of her wailing threw me backward, and when I opened my eyes I saw she had grown large white wings that carried her up and into the flames that engulfed our home. I felt a hand grip my own as I screamed her name. Lafina! Lafina! And I woke up, drenched and shivering from the sweat on my naked body, my hand tightly squeezing Luc’s, his fingers curled just as my mother’s once had, against my palm.