Hidden In Paris Part 28

Annie came back a few minutes later and discretely put a scribbled note in her hand. "Picking up kids and Lucas with van and taking them to ocean for weekend (he-he!) if that's ok with you??? You 2 go out to restaurant so I can pack."

So Lola suggested that maybe she and Mark could go out and talk just the two of them. Annie made a big show of asking if she was absolutely sure that is what she wanted to do, and should she come along. Dinner in a restaurant was agreed upon.

Lola was still wearing yoga clothes, an outfit that seemed perfectly good a few hours ago. She had felt very much a woman in it. She had seduced Gunter in it, but now it felt all wrong. She asked Mark for time to change for dinner. She asked him, she realized.

Mark waited in the living room while she ran up the stairs and rummaged in her tiny closet, her cheeks burning. Mark had dropped everything and flown thousands of miles just for her, just to find her. The only decent clothes she owned were the pants and turtleneck she had not worn once since her flight to Paris. She put them on anyway. Mark liked her b.o.o.bs when she wore a turtleneck. Underneath, she wore a silk camisole just in case. Mark hated waiting so she hurried to the bathroom and found all her make-up neatly arranged on the vanity. She applied mascara and peach-colored lipstick, and brushed on some powder foundation. Her confidence rose as the image in the mirror began to resemble more the Lola Mark was used to. There was a violent knock at the bathroom door.

"Open, it's me!" Annie said.

Lola let her in, twirled, and flashed Annie her movie star smile as a joke. "What do you think?"

Annie looked indignant. "Making yourself all pretty?"

Lola frowned at Annie's angry tone. "What's the problem?"

"You tell me what the problem is! We just went through hours of drama, shams, schlepping of the kids, leaving Althea and Jared on their frigging deathbeds, and all this s.h.i.t only to end up at a romantic dinner between you and this schmuck?"

"What do you expect me to do?"

Annie's rage was barely contained. "Certainly not to fall back into his arms like this."

"Annie, I'm sorry. I just don't know how to deal with him."

Annie raised her voice, "can't you see you have to stop trying to please everyone?"

"Shhhh..."

"I'm sick and tired of people doing what's wrong for them."

Lola thought of the children. She thought of Mark, who was probably in a state of advanced agitation waiting for her. She thought of the life she had here that she didn't want to give up. She thought of the life that was waiting for her in Beverly Hills. The soulless mansion, the bleak runs to generic stores, the right shirt always at the dry cleaner. Watching her step. Watching her back. Her breathing was constricted. She felt a strange rush of energy throughout her body. "Why don't you tell me what's best for me then, since you have all the answers," she said between clenched teeth.

"You don't want to hear what I think," Annie barked.

Lola's pulse raced. "Try me," she said coldly.

Annie put her hands on her hips and said, "How about you end the charade and tell him the truth. Tell him you want a divorce."

Lola felt a heat wave engulf her. Who was Annie to give her orders on how to run her life? Who was she to talk to her as though she were a little girl? Despite herself, she raised her voice. It was entirely unlike her to raise her voice. "How can you be so sure?"

"It's so obvious!"

"You don't know him at all. You're not in my shoes."

"One life! We have one life! And if you go back with him you know what your life is going to be. It won't change mine. You ran away from him. You disappeared. You hid for months. Can't you remember how bad it had to be for someone like you to do something that drastic? You were in h.e.l.l! Your life was horrible!"

Lola paced angrily from the tub to the door and back. It was so ridiculous, this fight in the bathroom. "No matter what, I'll have to go back and live in the States. Otherwise, you know what he'll do? He'll go after the children. I kidnapped them. I could go to jail!"

"Ha! You realize that now, after all these months?"

"And the children...And Mark still loves me. He said so. He said he missed me."

"Ha! Famous f.u.c.king last words! He loves to own you, haven't you noticed?"

Lola had noticed. She tried to resist the volcano brewing inside her. "No, I did not notice!"

Tears flew from Annie's eyes. She didn't even bother wiping them. "Fine, I'm out of here. I'm very f.u.c.king disappointed in you."

Lola erupted. "Stop saying f.u.c.king! And I'm not here to make you happy! You want me to stop pleasing him so that I can please you? Trade one tyrant for another?"

Annie opened her mouth in shock. "I have zero invested interest in your decision!"

"Stop fixating on my life, okay? Why don't you start working on yours if you're so evolved...and leave me alone."

"Fine! Let him use you as a rug. You love it!" Annie wiped her tears, all anger suddenly out of her voice. "Am I still taking the kids to the ocean?"

"Yes! Take them to the f.u.c.king ocean," Lola yelled. It felt good to yell. So good.

Annie raised an eyebrow, as though she wondered what Lola was so mad about, shrugged and left the bathroom.

Lola sat on the edge of the bathtub, shaking. Mark was still waiting downstairs. He would have to wait. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw pure rage. She barely recognized herself. Her hands were folded into tight fists. If Annie hadn't left, she would have whacked her, she knew she would have.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Annie peeked in. "Okay, honey, keep in touch with the anger. It's good, excellent!" and she closed the door.

So this was how it worked? Lola ran back to her room and nearly ripped her clothes off. She replaced them with an old pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. She wiped her lipstick with the back of her hand. She kept her fists tight. She was ready for Mark.

It was an eerie feeling to be walking down the steps of Annie's house and in the streets of the sixteenth arrondiss.e.m.e.nt of Paris with Mark. Her heart was beating hard. How had she managed to push away the thought of him? Now that he was here, he filled all the s.p.a.ces in her head, and unfortunately, in her heart. He wore that lavender aftershave she liked so much, and that did not help. It was irrational of her, but she was just thrilled. It was as though his presence in Paris was a sign that he loved her. It wasn't like this at all, of course, but she so badly wanted this evening to be romantic. Had he taken her in his arms, would she have buried her head in his neck, or would she have been able to resist? But Mark only walked and did not try to take her hand. Thank goodness he didn't take her hand.

The sun was slowly setting. They walked in silence, neither of them managing small talk. They pa.s.sed all the familiar shops closed for the night. She would not be able to show him the jewelry-like spread of pastries behind the window of the boulangerie, the quaint cheese shop. She longed to share the marvelous Parisian sights and experiences with him. But now, glancing at his profile, the strong angle of his jaw, watching him hurry through the streets as though lost in his thoughts, she doubted he would be the kind to enjoy Paris at all. She was catching herself remembering Mark as she wished he would be, as opposed to how he really was.

They advanced toward rue de Pa.s.sy in search of a restaurant. There was the building where she taught Yoga. There was rue de l'Annonciation, where she bought peonies and fromage de chevre. Here was the very mailbox where she dropped the postcards. Over there at the end of rue de Pa.s.sy was the metro and the city beyond. Between the centuries-old buildings, the sky was deep blue with streaks of pink clouds. Mark marched without looking and she walked along without sharing, her heart tightening with each step.

As they walked, she also began to sense something different in the air that had nothing to do with Mark's presence. The streets were unmistakably livelier than they usually were at this time on a Friday evening. The neighborhood, polished and upper cla.s.s did not usually attract the kind of Parisians who party at night. But the more they advanced, the more she saw men and women, couples and groups of teenagers everywhere. Was it music she heard? There was a sense of antic.i.p.ation and excitement in the air she did not recognize.

It wasn't until they were halfway up rue de Pa.s.sy that she remembered. Today was June 21st. Summer solstice. Tonight was the yearly Fete de la Musique. This also meant that tonight was the third anniversary of Johnny's death. No wonder Annie was a basket case.

Bands were setting up, and Parisians were flocking out of buildings and onto the streets. Small crowds were beginning to gather around musicians, and many were already dancing. Was Mark noticing any of this? Paris was en fete and she was stuck with her own personal party-p.o.o.per.

They slowed their pace as they pa.s.sed restaurants dressed in long white tablecloths and flickering candles on diminutive tables set right on the sidewalk. At the terraces, couples gazed at each other over stiff menus. The rainstorm of the day before and the heat of today had turned the evening warm and balmy. The quality, the texture of the air reminded her of the Hawaiian breeze of their honeymoon. They had made love on the lanai for days. They had lived naked for a week and had fed each other mango and pineapple, drunk with each other's touch. She closed her eyes and thought she smelled the salt of an improbable ocean.

Mark came to a stop and pointed up to a restaurant sign. "What about here? Chinese?" A Chinese restaurant? In Paris? Mark always chose the restaurant, and there was a time when she would rather not have made that kind of decision. Already Mark had entered the restaurant, but she surprised herself by not following him inside. She remained standing by a table nudged between the wall and the sidewalk, a table set for two with a small bouquet of orchids in the center.

Inside, Mark was speaking to the maitre d' in a boisterous English that was clearly getting him nowhere. Lola watched him through the gla.s.s window. Had he noticed she had not followed him inside? Her body was filled with the kind of energy that could have launched a rocket, an energy that rushed through her arms and acc.u.mulated in her fisted hands. Mark finally turned to speak to her, and seeing that she wasn't there, stormed outside. When he found her standing by the small table, he looked so flabbergasted that she almost laughed. "You're not coming?" he asked, and there was a tinge of despair in his tone.

She waved in the direction of the white tablecloth "I want to eat right here."

She marveled at how easy it was to state this simple fact.

Mark turned on his feet; returned inside, spoke to the same maitre d' who hurried outside with him, menus in hand. As they sat down, Mark did not seem upset, as though what had just happened was of no significance. Could it be this easy? Simply ask and you shall receive?

Mark, with much arm movement, ordered a scotch. The waiter had to be playing dumb, squinting and shaking his head emphatically in incomprehension. Lola found it very amusing to watch his Majesty Mark the Great, Ruler of All He Saw, struggle with a society for which the American's concept of "service" is seen as humiliating subservience. Clearly, Mark had rubbed management the wrong way by bullying his way to a table. This meal would be fun to watch. Paris would chip away at Mark's arrogance real fast. Lola couldn't hide a smile.

"Anything you can do to help here?" said Mark, not amused.

"Bonsoir, pourrais-je avoir un whisky pour monsieur et pour moi un verre de rose, s'il vous plait," she said. The waiter beamed at her "bien sur, Madame," and left.

"I guess you speak the native dialect. You learned fast."

"I took French for years."

"Didn't know that."

"Don't know much about me, do you?" she said, surprised at the animosity in her voice.

Mark seemed taken aback by her confrontational tone. "Please spare me the att.i.tude," he said.

What would Annie answer to that? Lola looked Mark straight in the eyes. "If I were you, I'd put the diplomatic gloves back on," she said.

"Diplomatic? You're the one who disappeared." He paused, looked away. "You took the children with you. You left me. I think you owe me an apology," he paused again, "and remorse. Don't you think it would be appropriate, now that your pitbull friend is not around? And..." Mark stopped what had sounded like the introduction to one of his tirades and studied his menu. Lola didn't respond. If it weren't for her pitbull friend, she would have had no time to regroup and things would have taken a very different turn. Right now, she felt strong, stronger than she had ever felt. She waited for an end to Mark's sentence, ready for a fight, but the end of the sentence did not come, and Lola wondered again about the strange discrepancy between the way Mark looked at the moment, weary, almost una.s.suming, and the way she knew him to be.

Chapter 28.

As soon as the door to the house closed behind Lola and Mark, Annie rushed about the house, grabbed a couple of duffle bags, and hopped from room to room gathering clothes, pajamas, soap, toiletries, teddy bears. She found the umbrella in the attic, the suntan lotion in the bathroom, water guns in the garden. Within half an hour, she was ready to go. She pushed and shoved the duffle bags and the umbrella down the garage stairs. The kids would be surprised to go on a trip. The weather was perfect. They would have a blast. They'd make a fire pit in the sand and barbecue there. She and Lucas would have ice-cold beers. Beach and beer mixed great. She felt twenty years old. Or fifteen. She had been riding this crazy adrenaline wave all day and she still felt pumped! Thinking of her night with Lucas, she laughed. What in h.e.l.l was this all about? Was she actually having an affair with Lucas? She dropped the content of her arms on the garage floor by the van and climbed back upstairs to fetch her razor and cellulite cream. She ran back down to the garage, back to the house for the car keys, and again to the garage. She had a vague recollection of Althea, and Jared, and Lola, and Mark. The h.e.l.l with them all! She opened the trunk, stuffed it with bags, towels, and beach b.a.l.l.s. She walked around the van and put her hand on the door.

There was a strange hollow feeling in her stomach. She opened the door, climbed in and sat on the cold leather of the front seat, the van as familiar as the palm of her hand, yet so alien. The smell of the cold car, the dust on the dashboard, even the broken toys, her sitting in the driver's seat, everything so terribly unchanged since that night exactly three years ago. She put the key in the ignition and the engine started. She rested both hands on the wheel and had the creepiest of sensations throughout her body. She quickly turned off the engine, put her hands back on the wheel, and tried to breathe.

Something awful was taking hold of her chest. Her fingers. All of a sudden she wasn't sure she recognized her own fingers. Her vision blurred. Cold sweat sprang from the nape of her neck and her hands began to shake. The flu? Something she ate? A heart attack? Does a heart attack come with an abominable sense of dread? A scream threatened to come out of her, but her lips refused to open. She had the urge to jump out of the van and run! Run out, now! But she was powerlessly stuck, unable to feel her arms, her legs, her body, unable to move. She had enough presence of mind to realize what was happening to her. This had happened before. She knew what this was. The events of the day, the van... She was having a panic attack.

How could he? How could Johnny do this to her?

She waited. It would pa.s.s. She would die or it would pa.s.s. It had pa.s.sed before. Where was Lucas? She needed him now. Cold sweat and shaking, nothing could be done about it. She waited, waited, waited. She wanted to scream but even that was impossible. And then, abruptly, it stopped. Her body stopped shaking. She could breathe again. She sat panting, her hands on the wheel. Sweat streamed down her face, and suddenly, tears sprang, bitter tears. Tears of rage.

Johnny had robbed her. He had died like a coward. He had died without explaining. He had quit. And she would never know. She would never find out who she was-the woman Johnny was leaving her for.

She began sobbing, each sob like a laceration in her heart. The children had been spared by Johnny's death. But she hadn't been. In the darkness of the garage, the scene unwrapped before her eyes. The lie, the reality she had created for herself and the children practically the moment when she saw Johnny's corpse in the cold room. She would never tell a soul that Johnny was leaving them. The children would never have to know.

Three years ago to the day. Summer solstice. Fete de la Musique. Something was off that night, uneasy. She had spoken continuously in the car. He said he wanted to go out with her to discuss something important. She hadn't let him. He said he wanted to go out to dinner. Did he really know her that poorly? She was far more likely to have a scene in a restaurant than at home where the children could hear.

She had felt close to him that night, that entire year, but it was the wrong kind of closeness, born from unrequited pa.s.sion. Her parents had pointed it out early on in their marriage: Wasn't Johnny a bit too handsome? It was a mismatch. The mismatch, so obvious to everyone, herself included, was apparently of no concern for Johnny. He had wanted to marry her, he had said. He had loved her. He had chosen her.

Then, just like that, ten years and three children later, Johnny had dumped her. In a van, in the middle of Paris, just like that. The words from that night seeped into her brain, invaded her heart, taking hold deep in her soul. Those malignant words of his, so carefully buried within her for three years. She had been driving the van through Paris while Johnny sat in the pa.s.senger seat, trusting her.

"Annie, I met someone."

"Someone who?" She said as she drove. She was not going to understand easily.

"A woman."

The dread had come upon her. It had to be a misunderstanding. She turned right at the light, any light. What street they were on, which city, which country, she could not have said. "What kind of woman?" she asked.

"A woman, Annie. I fell in love with someone." He added, "I'm sorry."

"Who is she?" She hadn't wanted to hear the answer. Johnny said her name, but Annie didn't know her.

"How old is she?"

It mattered without mattering. They had been together for two years, he said. In love, behind her back, a joyous, carefree betrayal. Tell her the prognosis. Cut the c.r.a.p.

"We want to live together," Johnny said.

We? A new we that did not include her. The cancer of his words was aggressive, spreading fast. Annie's life as she knew it would never be the same. The horror of another woman jumped at her, filled her with poison. She drove mechanically as Johnny spoke in his warm reasonable, charming voice. You could not be mad at Johnny. No one could be mad at Johnny. Everyone loved Johnny.

It did occur to her to stop driving, every part or her still intent on going out on a date with him, only with a shattered heart. She had only allowed one thought to echo in her mind: she could, she would, win Johnny back from that b.i.t.c.h whoever she was.

"Annie, I want a divorce," Johnny finally said.

The words barely registered. So she would have to fight harder. Johnny was smitten by this woman but he would not break up his family over her. But then he told her the terrible truth.

"We want to start over in Australia. She's from over there. She can't stay here, professionally and legally."

There was Johnny, in the car, letting her drive, trusting her completely. Her man. Her funny, charming man. Her love, her best friend. He'd obviously had plenty of time to get used to the whole idea because he spoke with patience and compa.s.sion. He was putting himself in her shoes. To him, the news had been digested. He had become comfortable with the idea, with the logistics of abandoning her and the boys.

"But the boys?" she screamed. "Australia?" This couldn't be. He could break her heart all he wanted. But her babies' hearts?

The heat of the rage that followed was memorized in every cell of her body. How she had wanted to slam on the breaks to send Johnny flying through the windshield. How she had wanted to pierce his heart like he was piercing hers. How she had pictured gla.s.s shards deep in his chest. It would have only been fair. How else could he have felt the abject pain, the abandonment, and the battleground of their souls for the years to come. Instead, she had stopped the van in a street near Avenue Victor Hugo, any street, put the car in park and put her forehead on the wheel. He didn't love her.

Johnny foolishly put his hand on her arm. "I realize I'm doing something s.h.i.tty to you guys. But you'll be fine. The kids need you more than they need me."

"But that's not true," she yelled, yanking away from his hand. Johnny had the uneasy smile of the one who knows that s.h.i.t would soon and inexorably hit the fan. "You have to live near them," she cried out. "You can't go away that far."

But she had known he absolutely could. He had done it before, in fact. He had left his own family in order to move to France. He never called his parents. They called France and complained, and she'd be the one to shrug impatiently, the phone nudged between her cheek and her shoulder as she changed a diaper or cooked dinner. Couldn't they just get over him, already?

She was the one who called Johnny's parents with news. She was the one who remembered to send gifts, letters. She remembered birthdays, apologized, covered for him, protected everyone's feelings the best she could. Johnny couldn't be fenced in; couldn't they see that?

In the parked van, somewhere near Avenue Victor Hugo, she began to scream, sounds that were not human. Her strength had not been human either. She punched him in the shoulder. "Leave! Get out! Out! Get out of my f.u.c.king car!" She watched powerlessly as Johnny got out of the van, and walked away on the boulevard, away from her, and toward his fate.

His fate happened two hours later, when Johnny was at the wheel of his brother's car and drove it to his death. The very night she thought she would die, Johnny had ended up killing himself.

Oh, she had ma.s.saged that night over and over in her head. Every night of the last three years and almost every day. Was it her fault, this accident, since she kicked him out of the van? Or was it his fault? Had she killed him or had he killed himself? If the boys knew, would they blame her? Would they hate him? Would they hate her? And again and again for three years: He didn't love her.

Now that the panic attack subsided, a strange calm swept through her. She'd survived that one. She was alive and sitting in the driver's seat of her van, which was still parked inside her garage. She breathed with relief, dug in her purse for a Kleenex, and wiped her eyes and nose.