Just One Day(64)

“I’m not working at Dr. Baumgartner’s, either.”
“Did you line up something else?” Dad asks.
Mom scoffs, as if that’s unthinkable. And maybe it is. I’ve never had a job. Never had to get one. Never had to do anything for myself. I am helpless. I am a void. A disappointment. My helplessness, my dependency, my passivity, I feel it whorling into a little fiery ball, and I harness that ball, somewhere wondering how something made of weakness can feel so strong. But the ball grows hotter, so hot, the only thing I can do with it is hurl it. At her.
“I don’t think your lab would want me anymore, given that I’ve dropped most of my science courses and am going to drop the rest of them come fall,” I say, spite dripping from my voice. “See, I’m not pre-med anymore. So sorry to disappoint you.”
My sarcasm hangs in the humid air—and then, like a vapor, it floats away as I realize that, for the first time in my life, I’m not sorry to disappoint her. Maybe it’s the spite talking, or maybe Grandma’s secret wine, but I’m almost glad of it. I’m so tired of avoiding the unavoidable, because I feel like I’ve been disappointing her for such a long time.
“You’ve dropped pre-med?” Her voice is quiet, that lethal mix of fury and woundedness that could always take me down like a bullet to the heart.
“That was always your dream, Ellie,” Grandma says, shielding me. She turns to me. “You still haven’t answered my question, Ally. What are you doing this summer?”
Mom is looking so fragile and so angry, and I feel my will starting to break, feel myself starting to give in. But then I hear a voice—my voice—announcing this:
“I’m going back to Paris.”
It comes out, as if the idea were fully formed, something plotted for months, when in fact, it just slipped out, the same way all those admissions to Willem did. But when it does, I feel a thousand pounds lighter, my anger now fully dissipated, replaced by exhilaration flowing through me like sunlight and air.
This is how I felt that day in Paris with Willem. And this is how I know that it’s the right thing to do.
“Also, I’m learning French,” I add. And for some reason, this announcement makes the table erupt into pandemonium. Mom starts screaming at me about lying to her and throwing my whole future away. Dad is yelling about switching majors and who’s going to pay for my exchange program to Paris. Grandma is yelling at Mom for ruining yet another Seder.
So with all the commotion, it’s a little strange that anyone can hear Phil, who has barely said a word since the soup, when he pipes up, “Back to Paris, Ally? I thought Helen said your trip to Paris got canceled because they were striking.” He shakes his head. “They always seem to be striking over there.”
The table goes silent. Phil picks up a piece of matzo and starts munching on it. Mom, Dad, and Grandma all stare at me.
I could so easily cover this up. Phil’s hearing aid was turned down. He heard wrong. I could say that I want to go to Paris because I never made it there on the last trip. I’ve told so many lies. What’s one more?
But I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to cover up. I don’t want to pretend anymore. Because that day with Willem, I may have pretended to be someone named Lulu, but I had never been more honest in my life.
Maybe that’s the thing with liberation. It comes at a price. Forty years wandering through the desert. Or incurring the wrath of two very pissed-off parents.
I take a breath. I brave up.
“Back to Paris,” I say.

Twenty-six
MAY
Home
I make a new list.
Airfare to Paris: $1200
French class at community college: $400
Spending money for two weeks in Europe: $1000.
All together that’s $2,600. That’s how much money I’ll need to save to get to Europe. Mom and Dad are not helping with the trip, obviously, and they’re refusing to let me use any of the money in my savings account, from gifts through the years, because that’s supposed to be for educational purposes, and they’re the trustees on the account, so I can’t argue. Besides, it’s only through Grandma’s intervention, coupled with my threat to go live at Dee’s for the summer that Mom has even agreed to let me live at home. She’s that mad. She’s that mad without even knowing the entire story. I told them I went to Paris. I didn’t tell them why. Or with whom. Or why I need to go back, except that I left something important there—they think it’s the suitcase.
I’m not sure what infuriates her more. Last summer’s deceit or the fact that I won’t tell her everything about it. She refused to speak to me after the Seder and then four weeks went by with barely a word from her. Now that I’m back home for the start of the summer she basically avoids me. Which is both a relief and also kind of scary, because she’s never done anything like this before.
Dee says that twenty-six hundred dollars is a lot for two months, but not impossible. He suggests skipping the French class. But I feel like I need to do that. I’ve always wanted to learn French. And I’m not going back to Paris—not facing down Céline—without it.
So, twenty-six hundred bucks. Doable. If I get a job. But the thing is, I’ve never had a job before. Nothing remotely job-like, beyond babysitting and filing at Dad’s office, which hardly fills the spiffy new résumé that I’ve printed on beautiful card stock. Maybe this explains why, after dropping it off at every business in town with a job opening, I get zero response.
I decide to sell my clock collection. I take them to an antique dealer in Philadelphia. He offers me five hundred bucks for the lot. I’ve easily spent double that on the clocks over the years, but he just looks at me and says that maybe I’ll do better on eBay. But that would take months, and I just want to be rid of them. So I hand over the clocks, except for a Betty Boop one, which I send to Dee.