Hidden In Paris Part 29

Something felt odd, hollow. What now? Something was missing all of a sudden, but what was it? It occurred to her that she had in fact, for all intents and purposes, been stuck in that van ever since that night, that she had been sobbing inwardly for three long and lonely years. And she had been angry. So angry. But suddenly a long forgotten sense of lightness was emerging out of thin air. What was this? Something was not there anymore?

It took several minutes for Annie to understand that what was strangely missing was her pain.

It was past bedtime. She pictured the kids, their faces pale with exhaustion. The sandy eyes. This was mommy time, and they were piled up in Lucas's apartment wondering about going home. Lucas. Johnny's friend. Lucas knew about Johnny and that woman, but had never said a word. He had tried but she had not let him and now she knew why. By not letting him speak, she didn't have to let him, or anyone, know what she knew. By not telling anyone she could keep Johnny intact, their story intact, for the children, and maybe, also, for herself. Lucas had let her keep her secret. A secret about being unlovable, carelessly tossed away. A secret much too heavy to carry alone.

Pain for the boys had come the morning after. Unfathomable pain, but a pain of a different nature. A pain possibly easier to digest for them, one day, than the trauma they would have experienced had Johnny been able to carry out his plan to abandon them all. As long as she would have a say in it, the memory of Johnny as a loving father and husband would be preserved. Not for Johnny. No, not for Johnny, but for the boys. So that they would continue to feel loved by him.

She turned the key in the ignition. "f.u.c.k you, Johnny," she wailed in the garage. "f.u.c.k you, a.s.shole, disgusting liar, cheater, coward, selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You were right, loser! We didn't need you after all!"

Annie started the engine and stormed the car out of the garage. She drove as the sun went down, radiating a red glow on the stones of the buildings. Music and warm air flowed through the van's open windows, and her hair floated wildly behind her. She drove the van through Paris to take her boys to a weekend at the beach. She drove the van through Paris to meet her lover.

Jared waited for the nurse to leave his room to rip the IV needle from his arm. He stumbled out of bed and had to hang onto the wall not to fall, but by the time he reached the closet and found his clothes neatly folded, he was able to stand almost normally. When the nurse came back into his room, he was gone.

Minutes later he was riding a cab through dense traffic. The purple glow of sundown and the last of the day's light reflected on the Seine, transforming it to a river of pure silver. The deep green sycamore leaves were almost black against the cobalt blue sky. The act of breathing alone was exhausting and his vision was still altered from the drugs he had taken and those they had given him in the hospital.

Tonight was the Fete de la Musique, he realized. He rolled up his window to protect his throbbing head from the discordance of competing music that came from every street, every house and every room in every apartment. The interior of the silent cab became a pocket of quietness that floated through the city like a bubble. The carved stones of buildings gleamed in the street lights, every light was a blurred star. The statues seemed alive, churches like giants in helmets and coats of armor, the wooden doors of century-old buildings like gaping mouths.

Had Althea been with him, he would have showed her the restaurants filled to capacity, people dancing and drinking at cafe terraces, awestruck tourists wondering where they had landed, wild kids zigzagging through traffic on their mopeds, hair in the wind, lovers walking hand in hand along the streets, body against body, kissing, waiting for the night, for pa.s.sion. If Althea had been with him in the cab, he would have put his head on her lap and let her caress his hair until he drifted to sleep. But Althea was not with him and he needed to find her. The cab drove on boulevard Richard-Lenoir and suddenly, a hundred people on roller skates surrounded the car like a school of fish in the dark ocean. A girl tapped at his window and flashed her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. An instant later, they were gone.

Time away from Althea was wasted to him. He hated that she was fragile, and needy, and sick. But as fragile and needy and sick as she might be, he was going to find her despite the nurses making excuses, saying she had been transferred to another hospital they couldn't disclose.

Sitting across from him, in that French Chinese restaurant, Lola had settled into her chair and had an air of contentment and serenity that maybe did not mean she was serene or content, now that Mark thought of it. There had been nothing to indicate she was unhappy with him the very day she left. Or so little.

Lola was even more breathtaking as a blonde, and he wanted to tell her that. It was strange to be in Paris, a city he had trouble understanding. People were still arriving for dinner at eleven at night accompanied by their dogs. This was a city where heteros.e.xual men dressed gay, where s.e.xy women of all ages danced in the street, where waiters ignored you and your empty plate, where Chinese restaurants had few recognizable Chinese dishes on the menu, and where the preferred modes of transportation were roller blades and mopeds. In Paris, music was everywhere.

Lola removed her jacket. She was luminous. He loved the soft caramel color of her skin, the roundness of her lips, the washed green of her eyes without makeup. Lola's face was calm. Lola was always calm. Her calm had allowed him to act out his rage at the world with impunity. He wanted to tell her that, too.

It had been a while since the private investigator had given him Lola's address in Paris. Mark had kept the address in his wallet and had looked at it several times a day to remember what he was doing and why he was doing it as he went through the work. Therapy, it was called, anger management cla.s.ses where he had faced the depression and the rage. The depression, especially, seemed like a bottomless pit. Once he saw a problem he was not the kind to shy away from it. He tackled it head on, and methodically. Hired the best, gave it his best. He had taken the drugs they gave him and refused to lie to himself. He had done the group thing too, and had not needed more than that session to recognize himself in those men around him, out-of-control bullies guilty of emotionally battering their woman. Those were not facts he wished to advertise at the moment. He wanted to win Lola back as the new him. Besides, he wasn't sure much would be gained from Lola learning he had turned into a wimp who cried himself to sleep.

Watching Lola, it was difficult to not display the emotions that overwhelmed him. Then he remembered what the shrink had said: To the contrary, he was supposed to be feeling the emotions, not bottle them in, which might have caused the problem in the first place. How to feel the emotions and not bawl like a six-year-old, that he had not figured out yet.

Lola drank her wine with small sips, her skin caressed by the balmy night air. "How did you find me?" she finally asked.

"Well," he chuckled, "it was a bit of a challenge, but when you throw enough money at a problem, the problem usually disappears."

"Not all problems, though," Lola said, and she looked at him intently.

"No, not all problems," he said.

The waiter removed Mark's untouched appetizer and Lola's empty plate, and brought their entree. Mark was unable to swallow a bite, and here she was, eating happily, her head swaying faintly with the music.

"When did you find out where I was?"

Mark hesitated. "About a month ago."

"A month?" Lola looked pained. "That's a long time," she said reproachfully.

Mark hesitated again. "I had stuff to take care of."

"What kind of stuff?" she asked.

He watched the tip of Lola's chopsticks go to her plate, expertly grab some food, and gracefully come to her mouth. "You know... stuff. I think what we need to talk about is what's going on now and come to some kind of understanding about the future."

"Things cannot go on the way they were, Mark," she said, looking upset. "I've changed. I simply can't go back to the old me."

Mark shrugged. "You changed a long time ago. But you didn't dare tell me, for some reason."

Lola put her chopsticks down. "Some reason? And what reason might that be, in your opinion?"

Mark didn't respond. They both knew the reason. Instead, he said, "I could have reported you. I could have sent the police after you dozens of times, and you know I didn't. Obviously I care about you. I'm not some kind of monster. I gave you the s.p.a.ce you needed and all. And I'm here to solve whatever little problems we might have."

Lola's voice became sharp. "Except they are not little problems, Mark. They're huge problems. I don't know that we can solve them."

"I'll tell you what. Nothing's going to get solved between us as long as you're in France."

"I'll come back to L.A., of course. I owe it to you and the kids. And I need to make changes in my life."

Mark relaxed. "Yeah, you need a life. I get it. You want to work. Do your yoga, right?"

She shook her head. "I don't think I can come back to that house."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "You want to move?"

"I won't go back to the marriage."

Mark didn't look at her. He was trying to hide the apprehension, the drop in his shoulders. "What do you mean?"

"I'll come back to California, but," she looked down at her plate, "I'm sorry Mark but I'll rent a place somewhere."

"Come on, Lola! I know that we both have our grievances. It's not the end of the world!"

"No, Mark! It is the end of the world," Lola said with such force that Mark hardly recognized her. Her eyes shone with anger. He'd never seen her openly angry. "How can I say it in words that you will finally understand? Especially if you refuse to hear me out."

"Why do you think I came all the way here if it wasn't to hear you out?"

Lola looked at him. "Very well, then. You say things changed after we had children. Well, that's because you were just fine as long as my world revolved around you!"

Mark opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. Lola pointed her chopsticks at him angrily, her voice never rising as she spoke. "Do you realize how much of myself I've given up to be with you? And how much more I give up daily to meet with your approval? It's always about you-your nice little shirts, your stupid house, your business trips I have to endure with you instead of being home with the kids. It's about your ideas on entertaining and decorating, which by the way suck." She whispered that last word, but she might have well been screaming it.

"I get it Lola. I get it. I'm an a.s.shole."

"I'm saying that if you don't change, I will divorce you."

Mark took a large gulp of his drink and said, "What kind of changes do you want me to make?" They both let those words, incongruous in his mouth, float between them for a long minute.

"Huge changes, Mark," Lola shook her head. "I don't know if you'd be up for the task."

"I can change."

Lola snapped. "Then why don't you start right now, by apologizing for your uncontrollable anger? The yelling, everything you have put me through, and I..."

"I apologize," Mark said.

Lola looked at him stunned.

"I apologize," Mark repeated. He held her gaze now. "I've been everything you just said. I can change. I need to change. I've started to change."

"You would need to see someone, a professional, about your anger."

"I have already started. That's the 'stuff' I was talking about. I've been going to this kind of program. I... I'll do what it takes."

Lola opened her eyes wide. "A program?"

"A program. Anger management, spousal abuse," he smiled apologetically, "the works."

"A program?" Lola said again, seeming completely shocked by his revelation.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Lola had stopped eating. A musician had set up a few feet away from their table and was playing something like flamenco on the guitar. They both watched the man's fingers float over the strings. Of course Mark should have said more, but what? You can't make someone love you. The dice had been thrown. It was out of his hands.

"All right then, maybe," she finally said.

"Maybe?"

"Maybe if you're willing. And able."

His throat tightened painfully. "I'm willing. And I'm definitely able."

"Maybe then," Lola said again. She looked at him and had a soft smile, but her smile froze when she saw the tears well up in his eyes. He tried to hide them but it was too late.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Mark stretched out his hand, and after a few seconds, Lola finally stretched out hers. They did a slow motion high-five, but Mark did not let Lola remove her hand. He entwined his fingers in hers and began weeping in plain sight in that Chinese restaurant in the middle of Paris.

Chapter 29.

Lucas felt like a human being at last. The children were watching a movie and he had finally shaved, washed and changed clothes, all the while rehearsing how he would give Annie a piece of his mind for leaving him to fend for himself with five children. But when Annie arrived at his door, her face washed with tears, so distraught that she immediately threw herself into his arms, he thought she'd just been beaten or worse. Had Mark attacked her and then murdered Lola in a fit of crime pa.s.sionnel? She stayed there against his chest, sobbing for a full minute he guiltily enjoyed. To hold this body in his arms felt so right and wonderful. Finally she gathered herself, dried her eyes, and to his silent interrogation she responded, "I don't want to talk about it."

She ran to his bathroom and emerged having washed her face and applied lipstick. She was strong again, or at least had decided to appear that way for the children. She peeked into the salon, which at the moment bore no sign of his afternoon ordeal. The children were piled on the sofa, all eyes riveted to the television set, except for the baby who had fallen into the deepest of slumbers two hours before. Maxence saw his mother, jumped up from the couch, and turned off the television, which seemed to raise her suspicion.

"What were you watching?" she asked as a form of h.e.l.lo.

"Nothing," Lia and Laurent said together.

"Arachnophobia,," Paul screeched.

Annie turned to him reproachfully. "You let the kids watch horror movies?"

"They-they said they do," Lucas stammered. "They said you let them. All the time."

"I sure would have expected better of you," she told Maxence coldly.

To the news that they were leaving for a surprise vacation, the children jumped up and down crazily. "We're giving your mom a lovely weekend to herself," Annie a.s.sured Lia. They did last-minute bathroom runs, and turned off the lights. Lucas put sleeping Simon over his shoulder. They shut the front door and stepped into the elevator. In the street, they reached the van. Lucas fastened Simon into the car seat without him ever waking up, and the children piled in excitedly after.

The city was enthralled by the Fete de la Musique. The citywide party atmosphere affected the children in no time. They wanted, begged, to get out of the car and "see the music." Annie simply said "not a chance," and they stopped asking. How did she do this? He drove the van through Paris and Annie let the children open all the windows wide. The streets were closed to traffic in so many places that he wondered if they would ever find their way out of the city. Maxence and Laurent began to terrify Lia with imaginary tarantulas and her screeches went through Lucas's brain like swords. Meanwhile Annie sat next to him in the pa.s.senger seat, her hands in her lap, lost in her thoughts. Now, how did she do that?

"I didn't see your bag," she finally said over the children's screams. Her first sentence in the twenty minutes since they left his apartment.

Lucas pondered what she meant, then said in amazement, "Why, I believe I forgot to pack for the trip."

"What?" Annie buried her head in her hands. "You forgot? How could you forget to pack?"

"This was a stressful day."

"It sure as h.e.l.l was, but look at me, I'm perfectly prepared."

"You'd think you have nerves of steel when I see you with children, but the slightest little irritation coming from me..."

Annie made a quick turn, faced the children, and yelled, "Shut up!" The children went quiet instantaneously. They drove toward a huge moon. The city was far behind now, and the sky filled with stars. One by one, the children fell asleep. They seemed alone on the highway, aside from the occasional car that pa.s.sed them at breakneck speed and made the minivan tremble.

"So how are you?" he asked tentatively when the children's eyes were closed.

"Shh."

"They're sleeping."

"Not Maxence. Not until he snores," Annie whispered.

Soon they entered the Departement de Normandie. Aside from the loud rumbling of the engine, the darkness and silence were almost complete. Lucas sensed Annie's body beginning to relax. Her breathing became more peaceful and he felt his own stress dissolve with each of her breaths. He moved one hand off the wheel and reached for her hand, which was still in a tight fist on her lap. He brought her tense hand to his lips and kept it there until it became soft. This made Lucas very happy, happy to be here with Annie, at night, in the car, with five sleeping children in the back seat. Like a family. His family. No matter how messed up other people's lives around him were, his was just starting to make sense.

He drove through the sleeping town of Honfleur, then slowed down and followed the small road he knew so well. He stopped the van in front of the property's wrought iron gate, left the engine on, got out, and pushed the heavy gate open, got back inside the van and drove on the gravel driveway for a hundred yards under the bright moon. The night was clear and warm. Tomorrow would be a gorgeous day.

Annie's eyes opened wide when she saw the small house, the dark half timbers alternating with white plaster that glowed in the moonlight. "Lucas, this is too perfect! Look at the climbing roses going all the way up the roof. It reminds me of Nantucket!"

"What's that?"

"Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket, Islands off Cape Cod."

"This is much better," he said.

Lucas parked the van by the house. Annie was out of the car before he even turned off the engine. The children were so deeply asleep no one noticed they had arrived at their destination. Annie was walking away from the car toward a dark expanse ahead. Lucas got out of the car and walked after her. A fresh breeze smelling of ocean, sand, and seaweed swallowed them. Annie pointed at the ocean. "You never said your house was on the beach! Right on the beach!"