The Paris Library(11)

“They’ll hire an American, not you,” Papa concluded.

I wished I could prove the all-knowing commissaire wrong. I wished he would respect my choices, instead of telling me what I should want.

“A fourth of the Library’s subscribers are Parisian,” I countered. “They need French-speaking staff.”

“What will people think?” Maman fretted. “They’ll say Papa isn’t providing for you.”

“Many girls have jobs these days,” Rémy said.

“Odile doesn’t need to work,” Papa said.

“But she wants to,” I said softly.

“Let’s not argue.” Maman scooped the mousse au chocolat into small crystal bowls. The dessert, rich and dreamy, demanded our attention and allowed us to agree on something—Maman made the best mousse.

At 3:00 p.m., Paul rose. “Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry I must go, but my shift starts soon.”

We followed him to the door. Papa shook his hand and said, “Consider my offer.”

I wanted to thank Paul for standing up for Rémy, and for me, but with Papa there, I remained silent. Paul moved closer, until he was just before me. I held my breath.

“I hope you get the job,” he whispered.

When he kissed me goodbye, his lips were soft on my cheek, making me curious to know how his mouth would feel on mine. Imagining our kiss, my heart beat faster, like it did the first time I read A Room with a View. I tore through scenes, waiting for George and Lucy—who were so right for each other—to confess their unbridled love and embrace in a deserted piazza. I wished I could flip the pages of my life faster, to know if I’d see Paul again.

I moved to the window and watched him hurry down the street.

Behind me, I heard the glug-glug-glug of Papa pouring a digestif. Sunday lunch was the one time each week that he and Maman indulged themselves in the dark memories of the Great War. After a few sips, she reverently recited names of neighbors who’d been killed, as if each were a bead on her rosary. To Papa, the battles his regiment won seemed like defeats because so many of his fellow soldiers had died.

Rémy joined me at the window, where he picked at Maman’s fern. “We scared off another suitor,” he said.

“You mean Papa did.”

“He drives me mad. He’s so narrow-minded. He has no clue about what’s happening.”

I always sided with Rémy, but this once, I hoped that Papa was right. “Did you mean what you said… about war?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “Hard times are coming.”

Hard Times. 823. British literature.

“Civilians are dying in Spain. Jews are being persecuted in Germany,” he continued, frowning at the frond held between his fingers, “and I’m stuck in class.”

“You’re publishing articles that raise awareness about the plight of refugees. You organized a clothing drive for them, and got the whole family involved. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Right now, you need to focus on your classes. You were at the top of your class; now you’ll be lucky to graduate.”

“I’m sick of studying theoretical court cases. People need help now. Politicians aren’t acting. I can’t just sit home. Someone has to do something.”

“You need to graduate.”

“A degree won’t make a difference.”

“Papa’s not entirely wrong,” I said gently. “You should finish what you start.”

“I’m trying to tell you—”

“Please tell me you haven’t done anything rash.” He’d donated his savings to a legal fund for refugees. Without telling Maman, he’d given the food in our pantry to the poor, down to the last speck of flour. She and I had rushed to the market to get dinner on the table before Papa arrived home so he wouldn’t find out and scold Rémy.

“You used to understand.” He strode to his room and slammed the door.

I flinched at his accusation. I wanted to yell that he never used to be so impetuous but knew that fighting would lead nowhere. When he calmed down, I would try again. For now, I wanted to forget Papa and Paul and even Rémy. Hard Times. I drew the book from my shelf.





CHAPTER 4

Lily




FROID, MONTANA, JANUARY 1984

DAD AND I hovered at the side of Mom’s hospital bed. She tried to smile, but her mouth just quivered. The color had gone from her lips, and she blinked in slow motion. Around her, machines beeped. Why hadn’t I gone straight home after school? Maybe if I had, Mom wouldn’t be here now.

I closed my eyes and took her away from the bowl of half-eaten green Jell-O, away from the sterile hospital stink, to the lake. Inhaling the marshy scent, she and I tramped around, her face flushed from the warmth of the sun. She noticed something in the grass. Moving closer, we found a copse of Coors cans. She pulled a plastic sack from the pocket of her windbreaker and picked them up. Wanting to just enjoy the moment, I said, “Come on, Mom. Forget the trash,” but she ignored me. It was important for her to leave a place better than we found it.

Dr. Stanchfield brought me back. He’d come to translate the specialist’s diagnosis: the EKG showed that Mom had had several silent heart attacks, which had caused extensive damage. I didn’t know how we’d traveled from Mom insisting she just had trouble catching her breath to heart attacks. It seemed like a long stretch of road with no warning signs, no “Falling Rock,” no “Dangerous Crosswinds.” How did we get here? And how long would Mom have to stay?