Page 85 of One Week in Paris
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IKNOW MOM’S NOT QUITE RIGHT because she’s wearing leggings and a loose sweater. That’s the kind of thing I wear daily, but not her. She normally wouldn’t be caught dead in leggings out in public, especially in Paris.
Funny enough, we’re both wearing black leggings and red tops. “Twinsies,” I cheer. She shoots me a tight smile.
“Come in,” I urge. “I’ve bought some popcorn, but it’s some kind of fancy stuff. I was looking for some plain old popcorn, but no luck,” I tell her as she slips off her boots. “I did manage to find some Diet Coke, but I couldn’t find Twizzlers. I found some French brand licorice which will probably suck.”
We make ourselves comfortable at the kitchen table. “How are you?” I ask, still feeling insanely guilty for being at the root of this whole unfortunate turn of events. But it had to be done. She might be hurting now, but in the end, it will be for the best. I just pulled off the Band-Aid really fast.
She smiles. “I’m good, actually.”
I cock a brow, curious. There’s something she’s not telling me. I detect a sliver of happiness in those pretty blue eyes of hers. But I decide not to pry.
The table’s already set. I add tonight’s dinner; a big bowl of pasta I quickly whipped up, and a charcuterie plate, served with Diet Cokes. “So… movie night. What will it be?” I ask. “Lots of choices.” I walk over to the bookcase by the kitchen; about a hundred movies are lined on the shelves.
Mom says she’s not in the mood for a romantic comedy, so we finally agree on Snatched, a silly comedy with Goldie Hawn and Amy Schumer. We both love Amy, and it’s a mother-daughter comedy — rather fitting.
And I want Mom to laugh.
The movie is funny, funny enough for us to forget about our troubles for two hours. The bowl of popcorn is empty, and so is the bag of licorice. Mom is happy.
“So guess where I’m going tomorrow?” she says.
My eyes grow wide. “I don’t know… Versailles?” I venture, a random guess. She’d mentioned wanting to see the famous gardens.
She smiles. “No… Antoine and I are going to Saint Germain… to the flea market.”
I laugh. “You’re going to a flea market? That’s not really your thing, is it? That’s more my thing.”
She smiles. “I know, but Antoine says the flea markets here are the most real authentic spots in this city. And I thought about you… how you would love it. Why don’t you tag along?”
“Well, I don’t want to be a third wheel. And knowing how you and Antoine get along, that’s exactly what I’ll be.”
She grins playfully. “Why not invite Oscar?”
The thought of Oscar makes me smile. “Yeah… and maybe Corrie too.”
“It’s a date!” Mom says, and I wish this very second could be frozen in time. She’s fine now, but how will she fare when Paris is gone, when Antoine is an ocean away? When she’s back in Burlington, with its pedestrian streets, gloomy late spring weather, all alone. Thankfully, she’s held on to her townhouse despite the fact that she was practically living at Mark’s. Perhaps a small part of her knew it wouldn’t work out.
I kiss her on the cheek when she leaves. She grabs her purse and rushes to go. “Sorry, my driver is waiting.”
“See you tomorrow.”
* * *
I’m in heaven.
Heaven has many faces. For one, it might be sun and a beautiful white sand beach. For another, it might be a snowy mountain. For yet another, it might be a busy chaotic club; sex, booze and drugs. For me, it’s a flea market in Paris — it truly is a feast for the eyes, so much interesting and colorful stuff. Everything tells a story. I pick up an antique woman’s watch, its edges tainted, its hands not moving. I wonder where it’s been, who it belonged to. Is its owner still alive? Was it a gift once, part of a romantic story?
Oscar hands me a silver watch with not as much history. “This one is nicer.”
“I prefer this one,” I tell him, but I’m not planning to buy it. I’m not sure if it works, and I already have about half a dozen watches.
Mom and Antoine are huddled together nearby. He’s telling her something in his charming broken English. They’re both smiling as he picks up an old hat and slips it on her head. She models for him, does a little dance and curtsies for him. It’s all very romantic.
“I hope that hat doesn’t have lice,” Oscar says, ruining it all.
“Ah, Oscar. You’re such a cynic.”
