Page 75 of Across Time

It’s been a week since I left 1938. Henri and Marie are probably used to it now, life without my casted ankle knocking about and my ineptly made bread, but I can’t get used to being gone. I order a burger and look out the window. Paris waits outside for me, but I don't have the heart for it just yet. Will I hold every future trip to this city against the day spent here with Henri? I will, and I’m pretty sure they’ll all fall short.

* * *

The next morning Philippe taps on the door just as I'm finishing my omelet. I’m wearing the black dress and heels because I have nothing else and I feel sort of ridiculous.

"Where are we going, anyway?" I ask.

"First, to get clothes."

I frown. "I need an appointment to get clothes?"

"At the stores Madame Boudon frequents you do."

The limousine drives me only three blocks, which seems silly, although I wouldn’t have wanted to walk them in these heels anyway. It stops in front of Chanel.

My head swivels to Philippe. "I can't shop here. Even a t-shirt probably costs a thousand dollars. Can’t we just go to, like, The Gap? Or whatever the French version of that is?”

"Madame insists,” he says.

Cecelia appears to know something about my future—does all this mean I turn into the kind of woman who will only wear couture? Mark’s mother is, but that has never been the kind of luxury I was after. I just want to be able to pay for my kids’ braces and replace the washing machine when it breaks. I want the luxury of not needing to time travel, not needing to risk lives, in order to meet my family's needs.

I follow him inside. The women working there fawn over me as if I’m someone famous, or wealthy, which just makes me feel worse. I’ve been given the distinct impression from Philippe that I’m not leaving until I pick out something, so eventually I relent and buy one dress and one pair of shoes I might wear at home if I was attending something especially nice.

He relents once we get outside and gives me enough cash to get a pair of sneakers, a pair of jeans and a few t-shirts at a cheap place nearby, all for less than the cost of a scarf at Chanel.

That afternoon I’m taken downstairs to the spa where I undergo the kind of transformation I’ve only seen in movies. Pedicure, manicure, facial. My brows are plucked, my skin is waxed, my hair trimmed. It's as if Cecelia is trying to get me ready for Mark's proposal. Maybe this is part of the future she promised I’d want, but all I feel when I imagine it is dread.

* * *

I spend the next days wandering the streets of Paris. I go to Montmartre, to Trocadero and Les Invalides, the Louvre and yes—the Eiffel Tower, despite how much Henri maligned it. I take day trips to St. Malo and Mont St. Michelle and Omaha Beach. The driver takes me to the Normandy American Cemetery, and I chicken out at the last minute. There are French graves there too. I’m terrified I might see Henri’s name.

I go to Giverny, which is now open to the public. I go to Versailles but spend most of my trip there sitting beside a rectangular pool outside its perimeter. I’m not scared of the water so much anymore, and I guess I have Henri to thank for it. That’s probably why I spend the entire time thinking only of him.

Eventually I end up back in Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Les Deux Magots and Cafe Flore are still there, but they are now packed with photo-taking tourists. The restaurant where he and I dined is gone. But I continue to wander the streets anyway, trying to find what is missing.

26

* * *

When Mark finally reaches Calcutta, he calls me at the private number Cecelia arranged for me. He sounds so happy to hear my voice that I force myself to act as if I’m happy to hear his too.

“My flight gets into Paris on the 16th,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you.”

I bite my lip. I don’t want him to come here to have the I need some space conversation, and I don’t want to have it by phone. And perhaps it won’t even be necessary, because I’ll see him and things will finally feel right. But I’d rather not take any chances.

“If you want to fly straight home to New York you can,” I suggest. “You’ve got to be sick of traveling. I can just meet you there instead. My flight gets in on the 22nd.”

I want him to agree. I want it desperately. “Are you crazy?” he asks. “It’s Paris. And you’re there. Of course there’s nowhere else I want to be. Where should I pick you up?”

I hesitate. He knows I can’t afford the Ritz Carlton. “I’m pretty far outside of the city,” I tell him. “Why don’t I just meet you somewhere?”

And naturally he suggests the one place I don’t want to share with him: Saint-Germain-des-Pres.

* * *

On the evening of the 16th, at the appointed hour, I wear the Gucci dress with the Chanel heels and I insist that Phillipe, my guard for the evening, sit this one out.

“I’m probably not coming back tonight,” I tell him. I wait for him to protest, and when he doesn’t, I grow more aware of a sick, swirling feeling in my stomach, one that’s been here every time I’ve considered what tonight entails.