Paris by the Book(71)

I didn’t know what I would say if I caught him.

Why’d you go? Why’d it take us so long to get to Paris?

And then what? Glad you’re back?

Good-bye?

That’s why I didn’t want to hear what Eleanor said. That’s why I didn’t want him to be dead. Not anymore. If he was dead, I couldn’t leave him. If he was dead, I might fall in love with him again. I just wanted him to be back. For the girls’ sake. For Eleanor’s. And maybe—if I could have that boy and his books and his smile and his eyes and his Paris and his Wisconsin map of the world—for my sake, too.

But more than anything, I wanted this to be something I determined. Not the police. Not Eleanor. Not even Robert. If I wanted to see him in the pages of a book, or the grainy background of a video, then I would.

Because I had.

I had the benefit, or burden, of being the last person who saw him alive, that last night he was under our roof in Milwaukee, when Robert said no, he hadn’t bought the tickets to Paris to research that guidebook, he didn’t think he could stomach it, the project, there wasn’t much he could stomach right then, and . . .

And I told Robert that if he didn’t get his act together, off the page, on the page, I was leaving.

As in going, gone, and not coming back until he’d figured out a way to get better, with or without medication, with or without a therapist, with or without a career in writing.

I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, as Eleanor now did, he rose and climbed the stairs without a word.

As Eleanor disappeared, I decided that Robert’s unfinished manuscript didn’t suggest a work in progress, but a work interrupted. The problem was not that we’d lived a life out of, or in, Robert’s manuscript. It was that we were running out of pages.



* * *



—



The next morning, Paris shook itself awake, swept clean its gardens, sent water coursing down its gutters, peopled its streets, polished its storefronts, and pretended that nothing had happened the night before, that I hadn’t just heard that my husband had died, that I hadn’t just seen evidence that he was alive. Perhaps any city will do this after hidden tragedies, but Paris did it that morning with a particular glint, and ignored me with particular intensity. It reminded me of those occasions—far too many now—when I encountered soldiers in Paris, always in squads of three or four, always with hands cradling weapons, walking up some random street that I was walking down. Expat American bookstore owners are invisible to them. No small feat, as I saw that they saw everything: that parked car there, those shuttered windows there, that van, those men, that bag, that moto buzzing by. Everything but me. On one occasion, I was so incredulous—the street was otherwise empty, and they passed inches from me—that I sputtered “bonjour.” They kept moving and scowled, like they’d momentarily wandered through the frame of the wrong film.

Tfk?

Declan and Ellie had for some time been attempting to teach me SMS French. But I had enough trouble with spoken French, and its SMS variant struck me as needlessly complicated, impenetrable to everyone but teens: tfk, for example, is not something lewd, although when I first saw it flash on Ellie’s phone, I was sure that was the case.

It wasn’t. It only meant what Declan now meant, tu fais quoi, what are you doing, what’s up?

I was up, early, the morning after my talk with Eleanor, and I was wandering the store, having just seen everyone off to school.

I stared at my phone. The few abbreviations I had learned were of no use here: tg, shut up; t où, where are you; mdr, lol. Nothing they’d taught me meant hearing from you, Declan, makes me realize that we need to meet, to talk, and probably take a breather from whatever not-quite-relationship that we’re in, because life’s just gotten really complicated for me. I almost thought to text Ellie “how do you say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?” but it would be no use; Ellie had lately abandoned abbreviations for emojis, particularly ones that denoted eye-rolling.

So I texted him back a single letter, Y, which meant yes, I’m up, at least to me.

A moment later, the phone rang. I looked at it. It was Declan.

“‘Why’?” he said. I didn’t realize he was quoting my text.

“What are you talking about?” I said. “Also, good morning, which is something else I can’t remember the abbreviation for.” My voice sounded odd, like I was impersonating some less troubled version of myself, which I now hoped I was.

“The letter y,” Declan said. “You texted me that.” Then a pause. “Hey,” he said. “What is up? Are you okay?”

“Y meant ‘yes, I’m up, I’m here,’” I said. “But it also means I feel bad I’ve been out of touch. There’s been a lot—too much—going on, and I’m sorry. And I . . .”

Wait, I thought, I’m going to do this on the phone? I needed to meet Declan. Awkward as it might be—well, maybe it wouldn’t be awkward. He was a friend, after all, and a gentler one than Eleanor. I wouldn’t have to discuss the police department’s discovery. Or mine.

“Are you free?” I said. “Just for twenty minutes—an hour? We should meet.”

“Not only am I free—until after lunch—I have an amazing bottle of wine this student’s parents bought me for helping them jump the line at the Louvre.”