Paris by the Book(63)

“I’m a terrible, terrible mother, George,” I said. “I’m so sorry—I understand if you want to take the twins elsewhere from now on. I recommend you take the twins elsewhere.”

“So American,” he said. “An incomplete apology, a willful misconstrual, and bad advice, all in one go.”

“George,” I said.

“Drink your medicine,” he said.

I smiled, or tried to. “You’re fired up today,” I said. I looked at his drink. “Have you been at your ‘medicine’?”

“Mine’s sans,” he said, waving his cup. “White chocolate mocha with this new vitamin thing added in. It’s better in Vietnam, but then, so are the baguettes. They’ll get the hang of it here.”

“I hope I do,” I said after a pause.

“Please do not be silly, Leah,” George said. “If anything, I—”

“Don’t say you’re the worse parent,” I interrupted. “Because—”

He looked horrified.

“Because I’m not,” George said. “I’m a fantastic parent. I lead a busy life, I don’t always see my children daily, but they are well-fed and cared for, they don’t hate me, and they don’t hate their mother. I take full credit for all of this. I take credit for teaching Annabelle and Peter taste and manners and English as it ought to be spoken. There are plenty of subpar parents in the world. I know one who is married to a sheikh and another, much older, who owns a building that houses a bookstore. But you and I are not bad parents, not by a long shot. Your youngest child is recovering from an illness that was none of your doing. Your oldest child was able to get her sister the care she needed in the dead of night in a bureaucracy-mad country not of her birth. You’ve carved out a life in Paris for yourself and your children and made space for mine. Discount none of this. Leah, you’ve practically made the short list for the World Parenting Awards.” He took a slug from my cup now. “It’s not a crowded field, god knows. But still.”

“But—George, I . . .” I didn’t know what I was going to say; I think I thought that saying something, however, would forestall tears. It did not.

He handed me his pocket square, which I took, and even used, despite the fabric feeling like it cost more than the sum total of everything I owned.

“Moving here—I knew Paris would be hard, but not this hard,” I said. “I mean, not just this, but . . .” I trailed off.

He waited before he spoke. “Did you know? I lived in the States for a while,” he said. “I went to business school there. California. Shocking, yes. Shocked me, too, that I loved it. Life—school—was so easy. I lived two blocks from a drugstore—what was it called? C-V-S—that sold whiskey—and drugs and condoms and basic groceries, not to mention a full line of batteries. Socks. It stayed open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Handy. But in Paris, I live, like you, less than a kilometer from the banks of the Seine. Charlemagne used to stroll here. At least, until he moved the capital of the Holy Roman Empire to Aachen, but that was his mistake. Not mine. Not yours.” He looked up. “Maybe it’s harder here, some days. But it’s better, every day.”

I let him make me smile. I looked at my cup. He gave it back. “Did Charlemagne drink before noon?” I said.

Now he smiled, but spoke softly. “Only after he left,” he said. He raised his cup to toast mine. “To your health,” he said.



* * *



—

It was only after George departed that I finally returned to my phone. United Airlines was telling me what? Something about Eleanor.

Eleanor?

Yes, the phone insisted, and now offered a pent-up series of her texts, truncated, that I’d have to swipe to read in full.

Please call when . . .

Delete.

If you get a . . .

Delete.

Where are you . . .

Delete.

And finally: Leah, I have . . .

I swiped.

. . . news.





CHAPTER 12


Normally, word of “news” from Eleanor would necessitate an immediate call. But I didn’t want to talk to her right then, and certainly not about her “news,” so I precluded hers with mine, via text. I explained that Daphne was in the hospital. On the mend, due to be discharged soon if all went well and—

I know, Eleanor said. I’m on my way.

Ellie had gotten to Eleanor before I had, with news of Daphne.

Eleanor now explained that the “news” she had been so eager to share earlier was that she’d booked a flight to come see us, but as soon as she’d heard about Daphne, she had accelerated her plans dramatically.

The adverb, the implied italics, the drama: all hers. Oh, what she had to do to move that flight! But what else could she do? Where, after all, was she needed most? And so on. Texts and e-mails rattled my phone throughout our hospital stay and continued once we got home. It would have been annoying—it had annoyed the nurses—but for the fact that this brought increasingly bright smiles to Daphne’s face.

Daphne was improving. Maybe it was the prospect of Eleanor arriving. Maybe it was that I’d not left Daphne’s side. Maybe it was the medicine. Maybe the doctor’s coat had been long enough after all.