Paris by the Book(51)
“‘He’s looking for us,’” he said Ellie said.
“‘I do not understand,’” the psychologist said he told her.
“‘You wouldn’t,’” he said Ellie said.
I do not, the psychologist said to me.
* * *
—
Neither did I, not entirely, and so that night, tucking Ellie in—taking advantage, as Ellie had, of an extraordinary event enabling something never to be permitted again—I told her we needed to talk. I’d meant to say the same to Daphne, but hadn’t found a gentle enough way to do so before she fell sound asleep, exhausted by the excitement of the day.
“I’m listening,” Ellie said, lying on her stomach, face away from me, eyes closed. And as her breathing slowed and deepened, as I stroked her hair, as the building creaked its evening creaks and the street outside grew almost completely quiet, but not quite, I listened, too.
* * *
—
I might have sat there all night, in upright sleep, had I not heard the watery tones announcing an incoming Skype call downstairs. I let myself imagine that it wasn’t the office computer but some distant church tower, but the bells came again, and I thought, must be—
Eleanor. Ellie had posted her frogmen photos, and Eleanor, for whom Ellie served as her sole access point to the vast, roiling world of social media, had seen them and wanted to know what, exactly, had happened.
So I told her. Everything. Which, in my version, amounted to nothing. I told her about the tour, the rude guide, Ellie’s declamations, her plunge and rescue. I didn’t mention that a man named Declan had helped us navigate the police station. I didn’t mention that I thought I’d heard Daphne shout something.
I didn’t mention this, but knew I would have to, and soon. Eleanor was her own kind of gravity when it came to the truth, endlessly pulling it toward her.
“You look pleased,” I said, almost angry.
Eleanor sniffed. “I haven’t been ‘pleased’ since Eugene McCarthy won New Hampshire. I am relieved, even delighted, to discover, however, that my goddaughter has learned to so ably navigate the waters of life, metaphorical and otherwise.”
“Eleanor, I can’t—” I said. “Don’t be clever. Not now.”
“Then I’ll be direct,” Eleanor said. “Why did Ellie fall?”
“Speaking of water,” I said. “How are our renters? How is our old Milwaukee house? You’ve been kind to play landlord. With summer coming, they’re going to get water in the basement—”
“Dry as a bone. Unlike Ellie. Leah, what happened?”
“She lost her footing,” I said. Eleanor waited. “Something distracted her.” Eleanor looked at me like she already knew what I was going to say. I don’t think she actually did, but it’s the only excuse I have for crumbling. “Okay,” I said. “Daphne shouted ‘Dad!’ Or what sounded to me like ‘Dad.’ Like she’d seen him. She didn’t say a word about it after, neither of them did, and I was going to talk to them about it tonight, but I lost my fucking courage. Maybe it’s good I did. Maybe I heard her wrong, maybe she’d just shouted something like aaaaahhh—” I stopped. “Eleanor,” I said, “what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “Leah,” she said. “They miss their father.” She paused carefully. “Of course they do.”
“I miss their father,” I said, which was so starkly not something I was planning to say, something I had not said, for so long, that I said not a word more, and nor did Eleanor. I could feel her looking at me, and I could feel myself looking away.
I did miss Robert. Single-parenting was like a single-take scene, so much pressure on that cameraman to not trip over the cables, not knock into the boom mic, not mistake which fever was worthy of a 4:00 A.M. call to the pediatrician and which wasn’t. I thought I’d mastered it back in Milwaukee—we’d readily survived all those writeaways, after all. But I’ll admit, cooking and cleaning and scheduling and scolding and encouraging: it was hard not having help. And here in Paris, it was hard making the dozens of judgment calls that arose each week. Should the girls have allowances, and if so, how much? And paid out of what imaginary bank account? Should we switch to an international school? Should we get a cat?
Should we go home?
You can sit in a four-legged chair that’s missing a leg: it just takes more work, more concentration. And Paris, like a pile of books pressed into service, had served as a replacement leg, at least for a while. Not as sturdy, not as sound, not a permanent solution, but we were holding up. Enough time had passed now that it was possible to forget, for a stray millisecond or two, that he was gone. Thinking him dead had, for the longest time, helped with that. But then someone would come along and rip a book out from the pile, maybe one with I’m sorry scribbled inside, the chair would teeter. And then one of us—Daphne, for example—would shout Dad, and someone would fall. This time it was Ellie. Who would be next?
“I’m going to ask you something,” said Eleanor.
Now I played Eleanor’s game: I said nothing.
“I was expecting to be interrupted,” she said.
I still said nothing.
“Well, this is one benefit of Skype,” Eleanor said. “Anger or agreement, it’s all free. On the phone, silence feels so expensive.”