Paris by the Book(85)

As two minutes sitting before the computer turned into twelve and then twenty, I began to wonder: is this what happened? That a block finally came to afflict Robert, and when it did, its effect was total. That he’d peered over the wall one day and found nothing, nothing of value whatsoever. Robert would quibble with that “of value.” If there was such a thing as writer’s block, it was simply perfectionism by a clumsier name. Words were words. Creativity was creativity.

But I was more sympathetic to Robert’s antagonists than his admirers on this point. There are days that a mess of words must seem irredeemably that, a mess.

I typed: Do you remember the contretemps over writer’s block?

I deleted that and typed, Contretemps—it’s hard to remember now what French words I used back home and which I’ve acquired here. But do you remember the contretemps over—

And I paused, because I no longer gave a fuck about writer’s block.

Over students’ use of profanity in their papers, and—

I didn’t care about that either. I was stalling. I was writing and blocking at the same time, all because I wanted to write, do you remember the whole raging battle about sleep, about SIDS, about “Back to Sleep,” and how we were supposed to put baby Ellie down on her back, but then a nurse whispered to us late one night—so early we were still in the hospital—“put her on her side” and you nodded, and the nurse left, and then we tried it, we went over to the layette where the nurse had just laid Ellie on her side, and Ellie was—she was just a peanut then, a slip of a thing, and she wobbled and rolled straight over onto her face. And you snatched her up, and she awoke crying, and it felt like hours later she fell asleep on your chest, facedown of course, burrowed into you, and we looked at each other, and I swear we both had these eyes full of tears, ready to cry, but then one of us—was it you? It would have had to have been you, I was so tired—started laughing. Just the tiniest little laugh, but then both of us were, and try as you might, you couldn’t hold it in, and you laughed and that bucked her awake, sweet girl. And she didn’t cry then, she just opened her eyes wide and stretched an arm, the way you do when you’ve had yourself a solid little nap, and you said something like “that can’t be a bad thing, waking up to laughter.” And it really wasn’t. I don’t remember ever waking anyone up that way again or being awoken that way myself, but I remember that moment there in the hospital, every last atom of it. I remember you had been so nervous about whether we should even have kids, and I remember you holding her and saying, “you were right.” I remember her and you and the almost-dark and the punch-drunk laughter and thinking, saying, “I give it all up. Whatever wonders were due me in life, whatever peace, I surrender them because I have known this.” And you said—god, when did you say it?—“no, Leah, don’t give any of it up.” I remember the whispering, that you whispered it. So maybe it was there in the hospital. Our baby sleeping and you saying don’t give anything up. And I remember thinking that you were right, that no supernatural bargains should be made involving our daughter and I remember thinking you were wrong, that I would sacrifice anything for her, everything, whatever the cost. And years later, when you left—left me, all of us, while we were sleeping—I wondered if the bill had finally come due.

I lie unasleep now, an ocean away from that life, and marvel at that bargain, how readily I struck it, how long it held. And I wonder if I can yet again mortgage whatever good I have coming to me. Because I want to, I want to say it, I want to say once more that I give it all up, just to get you back, to get us back, to get our family back to whole and your life back to what it was with us.

I do so want to meet you. But if we do, know I will ask: what could I have done? Because our children—they still make me laugh. And Ellie is still beautiful when she sleeps and sleeps only on her stomach.

And Paris conjures magic enough to confound whatever, whoever might come collecting.

I paused.

If you thought we couldn’t change, we could—we did—we will.

And then I wrote, have you?

And then, nothing.

And then: come back—just say how. Just say when.

I don’t get interviewed about writing, but if I did, I would say that what writers need fear most is not writer’s block but writer’s knives, some hammered and sharpened against that selfsame block, able to cut through anything.

Was I wrong to cut everything but the last six words of what I’d just written?

Everything. I cut the story of Ellie, of laughter, of wagers, of magic. I cut “Dear Robert” and “Love, Leah.”

I cut “come back.”

I cut everything until I was left with this, which I sent:

Just say how. Just say when.





CHAPTER 16


After a minute passed with no reply, I distracted myself by texting Eleanor: sent word, awaiting word. She immediately called and wanted details, and I told her there were none. I’d not proposed a meeting place; I’d asked him to. Eleanor began to lecture me on negotiations, how women too often fail at them and how they can and should succeed—the thrust seemed to be take the initiative, so I did and hung up on her. I felt bad and texted apologies. She texted back: this is what I mean, she said. Never apologize.

I checked my inbox again—the French term bo?te de réception is so fussy, and so lovely—nothing. The bell over the door rang. I clique’d on my bo?te de réception. Rien. Nothing. I wished that I’d shut the store while I sorted this out.