The Paris Library(32)

Without a word, he left the room. A second later, the front door slammed. Maman and I exchanged bewildered glances. Bitsi whispered something to Rémy. He regarded me.

Well? I heard him say.

He waited for me to give my blessing, but all I could get out was, “Don’t…”

There was hurt in his eyes. He’d trusted me to support him.

I didn’t want there to be distance between us. Not now. “Don’t you know how much I’ll miss you?” I said with forced cheerfulness. “We’ll have to make the most of our time together before you go.”

“I leave in three days,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“Papa has contacts everywhere, and I didn’t want to give him time to find someone who’d kick me out of the army before I even made it to the base.”

Maman rose and righted Papa’s chair.





CHAPTER 12

Lily




FROID, MONTANA, MARCH 1984

MY MOTHER’S FUNERAL was on the first day of spring. At the front of the church, red roses smothered her casket. It was hard to believe that Mom was in there instead of at home, perched on our window seat. Dad and I hunched in the front pew, Odile and Mary Louise next to us. My lower lip wouldn’t stop trembling, so I covered my mouth with my hand. Odile clasped the other. I didn’t want her to let go.

Dad looked everywhere but at the casket—to the faded painting of Jesus, to the stained glass windows that wouldn’t let us see out. He resembled someone who’d boarded the wrong train and ended up somewhere completely unexpected. Behind us, I saw Dr. Stanchfield, his satchel beside him like a faithful wife. Robby, between his parents. Mary Louise’s dad with wintergreen snuff tucked into his cheek. Sue Bob swearing under her breath. Even Angel came. So did every teacher I had ever had.

With wobbly voices, women read scripture. Then, one after another, Mom’s friends spoke. Sue Bob said she had the best sense of humor. Kay said Mom was the softest shoulder to cry on. Snot leaked from my nose, spit wallowed in my mouth, grief churned in my gut. Trying to keep it in, I choked and started coughing. Mary Louise hit me on the back. Hard. The pain felt good.

The braying organ signaled the end of the service; its mournful moans ushered us out. The congregation crossed the street to the hall. Usually, men complained about taxes; ladies complained about one another; and freed from the fetters of Mass, kids shouted and roughhoused. This time, we walked in silence. Angel slipped a mixtape into my pocket. Dad’s boss put his arm around his stout wife, as if worried she could be taken, too. Robby drifted over. He wore black Wranglers instead of blue jeans. He held out a handkerchief. I took it. Fists jammed into his pockets, he returned to his parents, who nodded their approval. I guessed they were teaching him how to be a man.

A long table was laden with food. One of the ladies sat Dad and me down; another made up plates for us. Slices of roast, mashed potatoes, and gravy. He hadn’t organized any of this. The ladies, old hands at death, did what was needed, serenely, efficiently. They cooked, they served, they cleaned up. Behind the buffet or in the kitchen, they did all they could to make the worst day of our lives go smoothly.

Around us, people talked, trying to act like life would go on.

“A nice service.”

“So young…”

“What’ll he do about Lily?”

Afterward, Father Maloney, Dad, and I followed the hearse to the cemetery. At the grave site, as Father said the blessing, I was glad that it was just me and Dad for this quiet moment with Mom. A few feet away, a robin pecked at the grass. When Dad noticed, he put his hand on my shoulder, and my tears fell.



* * *




WE WOKE TO darkness. Mom had always been the one to thrust open the curtains, so I’d wake to a kiss on the forehead and sunlight streaming in. Since the funeral, Dad downed his coffee and I ate cereal in a gloomy fog. It simply did not occur to us to let in the light.

Once, our home had felt full and loud. Dinner club. Mom and her girlfriends giggling on Saturday afternoons. She’d always been there when I got home from school. Now I returned to a silent house. When I walked down the hall to bed, no one called out, “Sweet dreams!” At school, in front of the row of lockers, kids stepped back when they saw me, scared that what happened to me could happen to them. Teachers never asked about homework. On Sunday, as Dad and I straggled down the aisle to our pew, God didn’t say a word.

Every day, I came home with so much to tell Mom. I missed her questions about my day, I missed her. I ran my finger along the rim of her cup, nestled in the kitchen cabinet. Afraid to break her best thing, I never used it. I wished I could go back to that last moment. I would say, You were the best mom in the world. I need you. We need you. I loved the way we watched robins and hoped for hummingbirds. I wished we had one more morning. One more hug. One more chance to say I love you.



* * *




I SPENT WEEKENDS lounging on beanbag chairs at Mary Louise’s house. As usual, we complained about the only things we knew, school and family. “Dad can barely open cans of Campbell’s Soup,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Neither can you doofuses,” Angel said as she slipped on her satin jacket.

“If you’re such a genius, why are you flunking math?” Mary Louise asked.