Lives Paris Took

by Rachael Wright

  “Don’t go down that road. It will only lead to more pain. We must all answer for our choices one day. I am glad that I can leave this world knowing that I took as good of care of you as you did of me.”

  David looked at the floor, with its worn linoleum with its cracks and ground-in dirt. He was abandoned; by Gilbert, Catherine, his father, mother, and now Georges.

  “You must make good choices, David.”

  David wondered whether Georges knew. Whether Catherine had contacted him. Whether Georges knew about Zoya and what he had said to the only woman he had ever loved. The thought of Georges knowing all this made him ill. David swallowed bile, and held his tongue, not daring to nod.

  “I heard some unfortunate news. It came in a letter right before Gilbert kicked me out. Pierre St Claire has died. It was quite sudden. He left the Université de Paris two years after you and his health declined over the years. His wife sent the letter. He left instructions to notify you. I am so sorry, David.”

  David fell back against the hard chair in shock. “I never thought,” he said, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

  “No. We never do,” Georges said, nodding. “When are you leaving?”

  David looked back at his suitcase.

  “What, did you think I wouldn’t notice?” Georges asked with the all-familiar twinkle in his eye.

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “Didn’t want to what?”

  “I’m not sure. Worry you. Disappoint you. Leave you.”

  “I am an old man. There is not much left for me to be disappointed about.”

  “Georges, I’m so sorry. I never meant it to end this way,” David said.

  The tears came quickly, pooling against David’s eyelids.

  “Nor did I. But that does not mean that we didn’t have a good run. You’ve been a good friend to me, David. I won’t forget that.”

  “I haven’t been good–not to everyone,” he said, feeling like a child brought before his father for a lecture.

  “Nor have I. And we must all carry those mistakes to our graves. Just don’t let them weigh too heavily on you.”

  “Visiting hours are now over,” a loud barking kind of voice said over the intercom.

  “That’s kind,” David said with a snort.

  “Imagine being mid-nap and having that go off! It’s annoying. I miss my rifle from the last war. It could have taken the thing out at two hundred yards,” Georges said with a hearty laugh, causing him to cringe in pain.

  David gave the older man a stiff stare, and Georges desisted.

  “You mustn’t be late for your plane,” he coughed

  “I can stay a few more days.”

  “I don’t want you to have to wait around at an old man’s bedside, waiting for him to die.”

  “Georges.”

  “I don’t want you to stay. I am in good hands here. There won’t be a funeral. I don’t have family left for such a gathering.”

  “All the more reason for me to stay.”

  “You must leave. I will think of you often. The nurses will send you a letter when I’ve passed if you leave your address.”

  “But Georges.”

  “Visiting hours are over,” the same barking voice echoed again. A nurse poked her head around the corner, her lips pressed tightly together.

  “He’s just leaving,” Georges said, smiling sweetly at the sour woman.

  “I’m sure he is.”

  David turned to look at Georges as the nurse let the door swing shut. The old man gripped his hand and smiled.

  “You’ll be just fine. Remember how happy you’ve made me these past ten years.”

  David closed his eyes, fighting back the howl of misery that clung to his throat. He let go of Georges’ sweaty palm and put his fingers through the cracked leather of the suitcase handle.

  Georges smiled and waved at the door as he had done so many times before when David lingered in the office too long. It was almost as if they were only saying goodbye for a long holiday and would meet refreshed in a few weeks’ time.

  David rushed from the room without saying goodbye. He ran through the halls, pushed past annoyed nurses, and flew out of the doors of the hospital. Against the side of the building, in the warm mid-morning sun, he put his face in his hand, and sobbed. Passersby stared at him but David was unaware. He was drowning in pain and misery and nothing could break through.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rachael - March 2017

  I HEARD THE PIPES gurgling, the wind howling outside, and the shifting and settling of the house. To me it was horribly unsettling. I made tea. I thought about soaking in the bath. I wandered the house, opened the door to the refrigerator, went for a walk, and came back, knocking my feet against the door to get rid of the spring mud. Jared had taken our daughter on a short trip with him. I was lost in the freedom of time.

  In the end I turned on the TV; the history channel was playing a special on Cesar: The Ides of March. It was comfortable on the couch with a thick plaid wool blanket tucked around my legs and the fragile teacup in my hand. I settled into a comfortable position and blew the steam over the top of the cup.

  It wasn’t the most historically accurate program they’d ever shown. They sensationalized so much and then boiled down the situation out of it’s intricacies and left only the sensationalism. My mind drifted back to David, back to his story. All of my papers were in a thin manila envelope. All of David’s life. Catherine. The baby.

  But he left. He left Paris only just after Zoya was born. He could have stayed, if they had meant anything to him. He left and Catherine died just six years later, and the girl she was so little. What had happened to her?

  I looked up at an old photo on the wall opposite the TV; my little daughter only two years old looked out impishly at the world. A tidal wave rose inside me; the wave that rises during sappy songs, when my daughter sleeps, when I look at old baby photos. I thought of her, all grown up, graduating college, telling me she’s getting married, holding her hand during labor. I thought of her looking to me for love and comfort and I think of the pride that courses through me whenever she does something new. I thought of the rise of tears to my eyes, the expansion of my heart.

  How did David let go? How on Earth did he fly away from Paris? How could anyone do that? But my heart went to someone else. To the woman who was my mother. But she was gone. She’d left and hadn’t talked to me in two years. How could she do that? How could she walk away? Why would she leave me?

  I touched the envelope and thought back to that day, all those months ago when I found that old letter. Why hadn’t my grandparents tried to find who David intended it for? Why had so many people failed? David, my grandparents, my own father? Shouldn’t they have tried … shouldn’t they have done something? Why did everything have to be so complicated?

  The TV droned on. Commercials about diapers and vodka played in the background, and I stared out the window. What was it? Why was I searching? David was dead, Catherine was dead–so what did I hope to accomplish? There wasn’t a family to put back together. Not like my own ruined one.

  I dropped my head and curled into a ball on the couch. I wanted to cry for the terribleness of it all; the waste. Why did parents have to leave? Why couldn’t love just ever be enough? Why did the world have to be so cruel?

  But I wasn’t David and David wasn’t me. David had been through different traumas. In a way his choices were predestined. He had to act a certain way. Didn’t he? I sighed. The phone rang and then went silent after three rings. My father. I wondered whether he dialed me on purpose and then lost his nerve. I wondered whether he was curious.

  I turned off the TV and walked over to my computer and flipped it open. I went through my email and deleted all the junk mail, frustrated that even though I’d unsubscribed three times, annoying ones that continued pouring in from Disney, egging me to spend thousands on another vacation.

  And there it was, not more but a much anticipated email
from of my dad’s cousins–cryptically titled: Answers. I stared at it. The screen went fuzzy, and I just couldn’t bring myself to click on the email. Something so easy–so simple. Why couldn’t I take that final step? My dad’s words came back to me. What if I didn’t want to know these answers? We aren’t ever guaranteed a happy ending, and in this case, I knew that no one got one.

  If I opened the email it would all be over. Perhaps that was it. I wouldn’t have anyone else’s problems to fix. I wouldn’t be trawling through archives or talking to anyone in France. I’d have to go back to the wreck of my family. I’d have to actually think about my own mother’s abandonment.

  I jumped to my feet and turn off the laptop.

  November 1979

  AFTER TWENTY YEARS, THE flight over the Atlantic Ocean hadn’t improved. It was cheaper, but the seats were a hideous shade of orange, and teens everywhere lugged around Sony cassette players with large headphones permanently attached to their heads.

  The plane taxied into the Chicago O’Hare airport; the fellow passengers grew fidgety as the wait lengthened. David, however, fell back against his seat and closed his eyes, stale cigarette smoke circling around him. He had no desire to leave the plane, and even now he could hear the sounds of Jeanne’s restaurant seeping through the floor of the apartment, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the clink of the stacks of dirty dishes the waiters carried to the kitchen.

  “Sir?” a sugary voice called just above his shoulder.

  David, startled out of his Parisian memories, looked up at a twenty-something stewardess. There were dark bags under her pale green eyes, which even her thick makeup couldn’t conceal. David stared around the cabin as the stewardess smiled vacantly. The clamor of passengers, their angry voices and the scuttling for bags, no longer echoed around the plane. He jumped up, grinned sheepishly, and left.

  Masses swarmed the airport like ants, yet without any sense of order. David walked by joyous reunions, patiently waiting spouses, and tear-streaked goodbyes. No such welcome awaited him. Without a sideways glance, David pushed through the crowds, held tight to the handles of his case, and walked out, into the Illinois evening air.

  After a short cab ride to a cheap hotel off the highway, David dropped his bags onto the stiff bed. Chips crunched under his feet, a thick layer of film lay heavy on the bathroom counter, and the shower was caked in mold. A massive television took up half of the small room. David plucked at the orange coverlet and grimaced. Half of the stitching had come undone and it reeked of urine.

  How was it that’d he’d been walking the streets of Paris just yesterday? Back here, again, back in Illinois. It was as if Paris didn’t exist. That it never existed. But a bang came from the floor below and in a moment, the smell of croissants and the espresso soaked floors rose up to overwhelm his senses. He closed his eyes and let the conjured images and sounds of his usual nights flood his memory to become a hazy reality. Visions of busy streets, Catherine’s face haloed by morning light, and the crisp bite of cold champagne at Black Paris danced through the corners of his mind. He fell into dreams, dreams that blurred the line between two worlds.

  The morning came slowly and David hurried from the hotel before the sun had really risen. The train station where he had won his first victory over Bertie Phillips, twenty years ago, it was a different country. So used to the cosmopolitan and refined nature of the Parisians, the rude and bumbling nature of his fellow Americans shocked him. Children pointed and laughed, and adults barely concealed snickers.

  It was a relief to board the train and escape the crowds who pressed in at every corner. He stepped off the train in Bunker Hill, kicking up dust, which settled magnetically in the grooves and stitching of his loafers. The city was dreary beyond compare. The land stretched out for miles uncounted, barren field after barren field.

  “David!” a bright voice sang out from a sun bleached blue car parked across the road.

  A tall woman with the broadest of smiles stepped out. She wore a thick black coat, belted around a waist that was thicker than he remembered.

  “Doris,” he said, allowing her to hug him. “Thank you for coming.”

  Doris flipped open the trunk, heaved his suitcase in, and shoved him toward the front seat.

  “Has it changed much, Bunker Hill–the US?” she asked as they wound their way out of downtown.

  “No, not really. Maybe the clothes.”

  “Yes, the clothes have changed.”

  “Yours haven’t,” he said with a smile.

  “Why would they change? These are much more comfortable than anything you see girls wearing these days, besides I’m much too old for a fashion change. I’m stuck in my ways.”

  “So what is it, comfort or aversion?”

  “I’m a woman. It can be both, a combination, or neither, at the same time.”

  David laughed. He enjoyed this reminder of their old banter. It was comforting. It was familiar, like Doris’ love of the old styles.

  “I hope there’s room for me at your house, Doris. I don’t want to impose.”

  “You’re much too old to be living with your sister. We’ve decided that you can stay at Mom and Dad’s while you’re here. No one uses it, except when they are back from missions.”

  David’s heart dropped. It fell deep into his stomach where it felt as though it was being digested by acid.

  “Mom and Dad’s?”

  “Is that all right?” she asked, giving the steering wheel a vigorous turn.

  “It’ll be wonderful.”

  Doris clicked her tongue at his sarcasm.

  “What do you plan to do while you’re here? How long are you here for? Your letter didn’t say.”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Should we get the family together? Have a dinner?”

  “No, thank you, Doris.”

  The farmhouse swung into view. Doris pressed the key into his palm, helped unload his luggage on the porch, and left without saying goodbye. The wheels churned dust in her wake, as though the farmhouse were swallowing her in the mists of its formidable self. He stared at the door, fingered the cold steel in his hand, and plopped down on the wooden steps. They needed to be vigorously cleaned; dirt and leaves laid a half an inch thick on the wide boards.

  David dropped his head into his knees. The smell of Paris lingered around the edges of his mind. The aerosolized grounds of coffee from Madame Jeanne’s had, long ago, burrowed themselves into the woolen fibers of his blazer.

  He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. It was hard to imagine that Jeanne’s restaurant existed, but here was the evidence. If he breathed deeper, meditated longer, it might appear. A speck of dust flew up his nose, lodged in his left nostril, breaking his fragile bubble. He sneezed. This place was forever coming between him and his memories. Paris disappeared, not only the memories but also the feel of the city, the freedom, and the breath it gave to one’s body. The beauty of Paris was extinguished in the shadow of the farmhouse.

  THE SINGING OF BIRDS, chattering in their quick language outside the window–it was a comforting sound, as he lay in the midst of sun-drenched blankets. He rolled over, turning his face to the sun, shining through the thin cotton curtains. Jeanne should be firing up the espresso machines; the sharp whistle of steam and the crisp smell of butter for the croissants would soon be floating up through the floorboards.

  David rubbed his eyes, contemplated where he might spend the day, where to take Catherine to eat. Then, screwing his eyes up as the sun came full in the window, he sat up. The bed creaked under him. The birds became shriller. He blinked in the sunlight. It was not a small room that didn’t smell of coffee, nor was it filled with the sounds of a restaurant. It was musty. An earthy brown odor wafted on the air.

  Was he hung-over? Was there anywhere in Paris that smelled so much of tilled earth? Then, in a moment that sent the world spinning, David realized where he had come.

  Illinois was full of chirping birds. Illinois smelled of freshly til
led earth.

  He fell back against the thin pillow and stared at the painted ceiling. The same rabbit he’d traced in childhood still coursed across the tiles. David screwed his eyes shut, pushing away the invasion of reality. Little Zoya curled on his arms.

  David cursed, and swung his feet over the side of the bed to stand at the small window. Winter hung over Illinois like a thick blanket. Surely he hadn’t been gone for twenty years. Life had continued here as before, as it would for twenty years hence. Nothing ever changed in Bunker Hill.

  With the creaking of floorboards under his feet, he fled the deluge of memories, rushing into the kitchen to find a plate of fruit, loaf of bread, and note on the table from Doris. He picked a plate, knife, and butter from the cupboards and sat down to his breakfast. The bread cut with a satisfying crackle and the apples were only beginning to soften. He ate without tasting, staring at the wall where his mother’s pots and pans still hung Julia Child style.

  The phone rang, belting out a cacophony of sound.

  It was Lois.

  “So, you’re home.”

  “There’s no need to sound so excited.”

  “I’m surprised. I didn’t think anything could remove you from Paris.”

  “Apparently I’ve been extracated.”

  The line went quiet, and David stared at the worn grooves on the floor, grooves made by his father, standing at the phone, haggling prices with vendors.

  “Why are you home?” she asked abruptly.

  “That’s a good question.”

  “You don’t get to play dumb with me. Why are you back in our parent’s house?”

  Her voice rose an octave, as it always did when she was angry.

  “The great experiment is at an end,” David said vaguely, in the belief that it might give Lois just enough to chew on and muddle over that she would hang up the phone.

  “And that’s supposed to answer my question? It’s always the same with you, tricks and diversions and little nuggets of half-truths to stop us from asking too much.”

  “I have no money!” David shouted. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?”