The Last Dress from Paris(104)
I want to ask her, but I can’t interrupt such sweet reflection. It isn’t a sadness or loss I’m witnessing, but a deep, satisfying love I hear in the low gravel of her voice. Whatever memories she has of the past, it feels as if they have been eclipsed in this moment by something more enduring. Any pain has long since receded, shifted into perspective, way back beyond the bigger issues she has had to face. Maybe now she can look back as the woman she is to the woman she once was and see there is just as much good as there was bad? I think she might have an admiration and respect for Sylvie that she never had for Alice.
Only once she has allowed the dress to fall slack across her lap again do I step back into the room. There is so much more I want to ask her. I offer her a cup of tea, but she waves her hand, and I know she won’t drink it. I place it on the ottoman at her feet in case she changes her mind, return the dress to its hanger, and start to gather my things.
“The story isn’t quite finished, darling. I know you have more questions, and there is more to tell. Will you come again tomorrow, and we will finally get there together? Can you do that for me, please? I need to rest now.”
“I’ll be here, Granny, of course I will.”
* * *
? ? ?
It’s getting late, but as I leave, I call Veronique and tell her some of what I now know.
She is leaving tomorrow to return to Paris, and I know she’ll be wondering how the story ends, what Granny had to say after our discovery at the V&A. We arrange to meet briefly tomorrow in Wimbledon Village for coffee before I return to see Granny and she heads for the Eurostar. Despite the excitement of my impending job interview, which I have yet to thank her for, I know our time together on this journey is coming to a close, and I feel an emptiness in my chest, a sadness that is surprisingly sharp. Not even the thought of Leon, waiting patiently for me back at my place, can soften it.
28
Alice
SEPTEMBER 1954, PARIS
Alice isn’t sure when exactly she makes the decision to leave.
Is it in the blur of semiconscious tiredness, the ghostly hinterland, when her mind slips between two worlds? The one where her aching and still-sore body is heavy on the thin mattress, feeling the coiled wires protrude into her flesh every time she moves? Or when she is pacing the floor of Anne’s shrinking apartment, the baby bent over her shoulder, flexing her lungs with such vigor that Sébastien removes himself and Anne takes over again, settling her much quicker than Alice seems able to?
Or did the decision come in the early hours, when it feels like the rest of Paris is still sleeping, and her baby is pressed tightly to her breast? When above the sound of the child’s satisfied muffle, she can pick out the voices of Anne and Sébastien through the wall, arguing about money, the lack of it. How Sébastien’s income alone cannot stretch to support the four of them.
Maybe it was sooner. Right back when Patrice’s delivery arrived and she unpacked the remains of her unwanted life into the cramped confines of her new bedroom, forced to revisit the dresses, her notes, memories of a time when her heart was so full of hope, when she felt understood.
* * *
? ? ?
It’s early morning and Paris is waking up.
She can hear deliveries arriving at the shops on the streets below, loud voices unconcerned about the hour and who they might be disturbing. Far too much normality.
Alice is up, dressed, and sitting at the side of her daughter’s small wooden cot, allowing her to furl a strong finger around her own, watching the hands on the bedside clock tick far too quickly. With every minute that passes, she can feel herself harden, building a wall around her own heart. A heart that is slowing, shutting down, switching off, and preparing itself for the break to come.
She said her goodbyes to Sébastien last night, watched as he tried to steady the lump in his throat, knowing the wave of sadness that was crashing onto them was nothing compared to what is coming this morning.
She’s been a mother for a precious six short weeks, felt the fury of a love so strong she’s not sure how her body contains it. Today she will package her love up. Leave it with instructions. Somehow quiet her heart and allow herself to be led by the glaring, unavoidable practicalities.
She looks down into her baby’s busy little face, her eyes wide, darting around the room, soaking in every detail she can. How will those eyes make sense of tomorrow, when they open and it’s not her mother they see first? Will she cry? Will she hold her delicate arms aloft, searching for her somewhere she won’t be found? Alice rests her head against the cot, forcing the tears back down inside of her. She will let them come tonight when all this is done. When she is settling into another bedroom, alone this time, but determined to map out a future where money won’t stop her being the mother she’s promised to be. For now, she won’t let her final hours with her baby be sad ones. Alice won’t let that be the memory she leaves her with.
She keeps her voice light, knowing how receptive her tiny daughter already is to her tone. She’s given herself the time she needs while it is still just the two of them. As sunshine splinters through the curtain, coloring the room with an orange glow, Alice takes her daughter’s hand in hers, draws her face closer to the soft white blanket she’s swaddled in, and sends her breathy words down toward her pretty, unknowing face.