Maybe in Paris

by Rebecca Christiansen

  I watch the glow-in-the-dark hands on Levi’s alarm clock turn. He’s been gone for ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen hours now. Fourteen. Fifteen … it’s seven in the morning now and I haven’t slept a wink. With a heavy sigh, I get up to use the bathroom. My foot hits the floor between the two beds but instead of the old carpet, my toes land on a piece of paper.

  I turn on the bedside lamp. Mom’s arm hangs over the side of the bed and this bit of paper looks like it fell from her hand. I pick it up, and as I’m unfolding it, I realize what it is.

  Levi’s suicide note. Mom carried it all the way here.

  I almost drop it again. I almost push it under the bed, out of sight, out of mind. The old me would get up and act like she’d never even saw it. I don’t, though. I dodged it before when I thought I was above this pain, but now I need it.

  Mom, it says at the top, in Levi’s shaky child’s printing. The letter blurs in front of my eyes almost the second I start to read.

  Im sorry I was a bad son. I didnt try very hard. You were nice and did a good job and tried. Its ok that dad is gone because you are a good mom so dont worry about that.

  Tell Keira that shes the best sister ever and I love her. Im sorry I bug her and I think she doesnt like me anymore. You should tell her to go to Paris even if she doesnt want to anymore once I am gone. I think maybe she belongs there and will be happy.

  Bye,

  Levi

  The childish writing, such horrible words. Such small, unhappy words, like a knife to the heart. This can’t be real. These can’t really be the words he chose to leave us with. So weak. So … honest. This isn’t the Levi I know—the sullen, sarcastic Levi. This is a young kid, no calloused outer shell.

  This is Levi, on the inside.

  I force myself to read it again and again.

  I think she doesnt like me anymore.

  In my head, I compose a reply.

  It’s not true, Levi. Maybe I didn’t realize it sometimes, but you’re the best thing in my life. You’re my brother, the only one I have. The only other one who understands what it’s like to be in this family. You’re my partner in crime. You share all my history. Sure, sometimes you’re a raincloud, but everybody is a raincloud sometimes, Lev. If you bugged me, it was only because you were trying to remind me what’s important. I’ve forgotten what’s important, Lev. Boys, foreign cities, adventure … none of them could ever come close to you. None of them is a replacement for you. None of them is even a cheap imitation of you. You needed me—but you still wanted the best for me, wanted me to be happy—and I wasn’t there. Now I know I need you just as badly. Where are you?

  Where are you, Levi?

  Light starts to push past the curtains and birds chirp outside. Not songbirds making pretty noise like in Shoreline. These are harsh crow’s caws and the cooing of pigeons, but it’s all the same. Morning is here and I can only think about Levi, sniffing in the cold, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, wandering the streets. Maybe they’ll find him soon. Who else will be out on the streets at that time? Maybe he’ll be spotted on the metro. Maybe, right now, someone is sitting with him after phoning the police, reassuring him that help is on the way, to take him home. Maybe someone is dialing the missing person’s line right now.

  I start counting the seconds. Surely, if there’s a report that he’d been seen, they’ll phone us right away. Right? Josh will come and pound on the door, shouting for us to wake up.

  But nothing happens as I count un, deux, trois. No relieved voices, no ringing phones. Only Mom’s snores and the faint sound of a TV in another room.

  I grab my purse and sneak out of the room after leaving a note for Mom. I’m restless, on high alert.

  When I push open the bakery door and the little bell dings, I’m greeted by the only thing that could comfort me: the smell of baking bread. I breathe in deeply and I can feel my whole body shudder in relief. Margot sticks her head out of the kitchen and smiles sadly when she sees me.

  “No Levi,” she says. It’s not a question; she knows.

  I shake my head. “Nothing at all yet.”

  “The police will be here soon—they will be working from here.” She disappears back into the kitchen and reemerges with a stack of baguettes. “Do you like our window?”

  The front window is covered in posters, and in the very middle the words AS-TU VU CE GARÇON? are painted in bold lettering.

  “Thank you so much,” I tell her. “It’s amazing.”

  She nods. “Nico is leading a neighborhood search party leaving from here at 9. The people, they are being so helpful. Now, you need a strong breakfast.”

  “A baguette would be good. I’ll take that up to my mom. And um, pain au chocolat pour moi, s’il vous plaît?”

  “Sit, sit. I will bring it to you.”

  I sit at our table, where just a couple days ago, we poured over brochures. My eyes were full of stars and my head was full of possibilities, and Levi only wanted to shoot me down. Why? Why couldn’t he just calm down and shut his mouth for an afternoon? Why didn’t he enjoy those places like I did? We went on a road trip with Mom and our grandparents when we were young, before Josh, and Levi loved The Alamo. He insisted Mom buy him every Alamo-related thing in the gift shop. We still have an Alamo pencil sharpener kicking around in the junk drawer, and Levi still has an Alamo poster on his bedroom wall and a scale model on his desk. Why couldn’t he feel that same reverence for Versailles, Notre Dame, or the Louvre? Why couldn’t he tolerate the things I loved?

  I sit and think, think hard, about where he would go in this city, given the choice.

  Somewhere he doesn’t hate, presumably. Some place associated with Hitler? Somewhere associated with some communist movement in France or something? Was there ever even a communist movement here?

  It’s got to be somewhere he feels comfortable. Or somewhere that interests him but doesn’t threaten him.

  When Margot sets down two buttery, shining croissants in front of me, and lays a bagged, still-steaming baguette across the table, it hits me.

  Levi felt threatened.

  In all the places where he threw fits, he felt threatened. When Levi gets to choose his surroundings, he goes for quiet, solitary places, like his basement bedroom. And quiet, solitary places have been hard to come by on this trip. We’ve been in enormous cathedrals and squares and palaces, and they’ve all been full of soaring, open space. That sets my heart on fire, but it makes Levi cower.

  And then there’s Gable, and Gable basically took away something that always feels safe to him: me. When I was off with Gable, Levi felt that he had to go in search of safety.

  I pull the brochures out of my bag and helplessly paw through them as I chew the flaky flesh of my croissant. He wouldn’t go to any of the places on these glossy brochures. He would pick somewhere out of the way.

  My metro map peeks out from under the brochures and I open it. The colored lines I’ve stared at for years, planning trips in my dreams, are as good a place to start as any.

  There are all the places we’ve been already. The Palais Royale Musée du Louvre stop. Place Denfer-Rochereau. The one near us, the Place d’Italie.

  And then I stumble upon one stop, in the upper left quadrant of the map, across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower. The stop called Franklin D. Roosevelt.

  Levi pointed to it and asked what was there. I brushed it off.

  I wonder …

  I stuff the other, uneaten croissant into the same paper casing the baguette is in and dash out the door.

  “See you later, Margot!” I call over my shoulder.

  She shouts something to me but I don’t hear. I don’t have time.

  I run up to the hotel room. Miraculously Mom is still asleep and isn’t woken by my thundering around the room, getting dressed. I wrap the uneaten croissant in a napkin and shove it into my jacket pocket as I sneak out the door again, metro pass in hand. I might need it to lure Levi, like a stray, untrusting dog.

  It’s a long
ride to Franklin D. Roosevelt. When I emerge from the underground onto the street, I realize I’m on the Champs Élysées. There’s a massive roundabout in the Place de Franklin D. Roosevelt, and then the wide thoroughfare of Champs Élysées continues toward the Arc de Triomphe in the distance.

  If Levi came here, was he disappointed? He was probably looking for some relic of American history, some measure of familiarity in Paris. There’s nothing here but an average block of the Champs Élysées. I imagine him looking up the street at the distant Arc de Triomphe and feeling the same pull toward it that I feel.

  Of course he would have. It’s like gravity.

  The street is empty and the Arc is far, far away. I walk for blocks and it remains a phantom structure, stark against the sky, dove gray in the morning. Finally, the sun emerges and bathes it in glorious light.

  Paris comes to life around me. Shoppers emerge from metro stations like gophers popping out of the ground. Cars swoop up and down the street and fling themselves into roundabouts. A busker plays “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” on an accordion and I toss a Euro into his hat.

  I’m sweating by the time the Arc looms above me, actual and attainable. Tour buses are already parked nearby, visitors crossing the busy roundabout into the Arc’s shelter. People pose for pictures, making peace signs and scrunching their faces up in awkward smiles.

  The Arc de Triomphe is blindingly bright. The sun hits the white stone and reflects off the carved images of Victory. Walking under the arch, into the deep shade the sun hasn’t touched yet, I wonder if my stupid hunch is really any use at all or if I’m deluding myself.

  I miss Levi. Even if he was grumbling and complaining most of the time. And hey, what would the world be if no one looked at it critically? If no one ever pointed out the shitty things in life, we would all just stumble around in a constant state of idiotic admiration. Nothing would ever get done.

  You need a healthy dose of cynicism. And the cynics need a healthy dose of wide-eyed wonderment every once in a while. Levi and I, we work off each other. Balance each other out. We need each other.

  Then I see him.

  Levi sits on a park bench across the roundabout, squinting in the sunshine, hands in his pockets. He hasn’t seen me.

  My mind shuts down. My body takes over.

  I find the nearest crosswalk and wait for the cars to stop. They don’t.

  I can’t lose him. I can’t let this slip away.

  I run. Gallop in front of cars when they slam on their brakes. Double back and go around when a car gets in my way. It’s a high-speed, high-stakes game of Frogger. Or chess, deciphering the way the cars move and trying to beat them. Checkers, when I almost have to vault over the hood of a car that stops directly in front of me. Musical chairs, with all the honking that follows me.

  I lose sight of Levi for a fraction of a second. He’s gotten up from the bench and wandered further into the park, hunched forward and shuffling. My heart lurches—he cannot get away from me.

  A Smart Car barrels toward me, honking, and I jump to the safety of the sidewalk just in time—but my toe hooks on the edge of the curb. I fall.

  I land on my right hand, and I feel something crunch in there. My arms skid along the cement. They tear and bleed and sting, little bits of gravel stuck in the wounds. My knees ache sharply under freshly torn jeans. It takes a minute before my breath returns and I can get up.

  “Ça va?” a voice asks. “Oh, you are bleeding!”

  “Ça va,” I repeat. “I’m fine, I’m fine …”

  I look around for Levi. Fuck, I can’t have lost him again. There’s his bench, that’s the direction he was walking in …

  Oh.

  He’s stopped. He’s staring at me, a squinting, still figure about a hundred feet away, in his T-shirt, sweatpants, and boots. Don’t look away, Levi. Don’t run. Don’t, don’t …

  He doesn’t.

  I get to my feet, brush the gravel off my hands—big mistake, my wrist explodes in pain—and go to him. I’m almost terrified to reach him, but my legs keep moving and now I’m jogging. He doesn’t move a muscle. If this were a movie, the soundtrack would soar to a crescendo. I would run in slow-motion, my face stretched in agony. My momentum would carry me straight into him, and he would wrap me up in a big, brotherly bear hug and say something silly like “Hiya, sis!” The sight of us would warm the hearts of many a passerby.

  In real life, I stop in front of Levi, panting and bleeding. My knees flare with pain.

  He blinks.

  “Did you see me almost get hit by a SmartCar?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’d give it an eight out of ten, myself,” I say, still panting.

  His face remains blank.

  “I’m glad to see you,” I tell him. “I’ve been so worried, Levi.”

  Nothing.

  I turn and look at the Arc de Triomphe, somehow even grander at a distance than when you’re beneath it.

  “It’s pretty cool, huh?”

  Nothing.

  “We should’ve come to see it earlier.”

  More silence. So many questions sit in the space between us and set up camp there. His eyes are hazy and I remember: no drugs. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells.

  My wrist burns on the inside. A droplet of blood drips from my arm. It stains the pavement beside my foot. “Um, I think I need some medical attention,” I say to the droplet.

  He still doesn’t say anything.

  “But first I should call Mom.” I bite my lip. “She and Josh are here, in Paris.”

  Levi blinks. I’m not sure if he heard me. He sits down on the bench behind us and continues to stare at the Arc innocently, mildly, like he hasn’t a care in the world. I sit next to him and hold my hands out in front of me like a zombie to keep from bleeding on my clothes.

  I can’t get out my phone, the way my wrist aches, and I don’t want to break the silence. So I just keep sitting here. Passersby look at us a bit funny. I want to ask for help. I want someone to ask if I’m okay, and I’ll tell them no and ask them to get out my phone and call Mom. Maybe someone will recognize Levi from the posters (please, please, please). I can see his surly face staring at us from a lamp post a few meters away. A dog pauses to pee on the pole and his owner stands there, looking around. I will him to look at the poster and then at us. Poster, then us, please, sir.

  The man’s eyes land on me as I’m staring. The dog finishes peeing and kicks at the ground, ready to move on, but I mouth “Help!” The man furrows his brow and tilts his head. I point, with my bleeding hand, at the poster next to him. His face goes white at the blood, and I keep pointing until he finally looks.

  He puts it together and gets out his cell phone. He calls the number on the poster and has a brief conversation, in French, where I can pick out my brother’s name and the words “Arc de Triomphe avec une fille … sa soeur? Oui, peut-être …”

  He flips his phone shut after giving more directions. I smile my gratitude and he nods. His dog becomes really interested in the grass across the way, and the man throws a ball for the little terrier and keeps an eye on us until the police come.

  When they arrive, talking loudly and ushering Levi and me into a police car, it feels like I’ve finally stepped back from a ledge I’d been standing on for hours, days.

  Levi is safely in our hands.

  That’s all I wanted, this whole time, but when the police come, my new fear is that Levi will freak out. Get angry, frustrated with all the noise, turn on me for turning him in. He won’t understand that I had to do it. He won’t understand any of this. That’s my fear.

  What really happens? Levi cooperates. No fight. No curiosity as to what’s going on. He just clutches my sleeve and follows me. He’s a zombie.

  He rests his head against the window of the police car as we speed off and I notice something clutched in his hand. I carefully ease it out.

  A piece of our hotel’s stationery, with my scrawled words across it: W
ent out for a bit, back around 2—Keira

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  At the hospital, they whisked Levi off and left me in the emergency room where a doctor took one look at my wrist and pronounced it sprained. As a nurse was binding it, my knee started to twinge and throb. The nurse rolled up my pant leg and immediately yelled for the doctor. Apparently my kneecap had taken up residence toward the outside of my leg. The doctor merrily pushed it back into place. I puked into a wastebasket.

  And then they left me while they waited for Mom and Josh. Now, I’m alone with the words:

  Tell Keira that shes the best sister ever and I love her.

  I think she doesnt like me anymore.

  Went out for a bit, back around 2.

  The best sister ever. Levi really must be deluded.

  When they arrive at the hospital, Mom goes to Levi and Josh comes to me in the E.R.

  “Hey, King Tut,” he says, nodding at all my bandages.

  I give him a look and he chuckles his signature Josh chuckle.

  “Just messing with you, kid,” he says. He sits down in the chair next to my bed and exhales probably the longest breath I’ve ever heard. “God, it’s sure a relief to be able to make jokes again.”

  “How is he?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer.

  “Asleep right now, and probably will be for quite a while. He’s pretty cold, couldn’t stop shivering. And he’s getting his meds back into his system. But, eventually, he’s going to be fine.”

  It’s my turn to sigh the biggest sigh known to man.

  “I was so stupid, Josh,” I whisper. “This was—”

  “Don’t let me hear you say ‘this was all my fault.’ It wasn’t.”

  “But—”

  “And I won’t let you say otherwise, Keira. Levi chose not to take his meds. You couldn’t have controlled that, even if you tried.”