It was easy to see that her future would be full of disappointment and frustration.
What was worse was that she had accepted it as inevitable. I had to wonder what gave her the strength to get up and face another day. There were times I certainly felt like that. It seemed as if darkness would seep in everywhere forever, but just when I thought the overcast skies would never end, something parted the bruised and ominous clouds to let the sunshine pour through, warming my heart and rebuilding my confidence.
Maybe I was being arro
gant when I thought that I could do that for her, create a new vision of herself and her future.
“Perhaps on your day off, you and I can do something together,” I suggested. “There is still so much about Paris I don’t know.”
She raised her eyes. Her lips trembled into a small smile. “I’d like that,” she said. “If you really want to.”
“Why else would I say it?” I asked with a shrug.
She nodded. “I’m off tomorrow.”
“Then we’re both off tomorrow.”
Her smile was full of brightness and hope.
And why shouldn’t it be? I thought. If anyone knew that, I should.
What word held more promise for anyone than the word tomorrow?
Getting to Know You
“I want to go to this address in the morning, Uncle Alain,” I said, and showed him Denise’s address. “I’m going to meet Denise Ardant.”
“The waitress?”
Maurice had obviously already told him I had struck up a friendship with Denise and probably told him everything about her.
“Yes. We’re going to spend a day together if that’s all right with you.”
“Oui, absolument. Will you be home for dinner?”
“I’ll call you if I’m not,” I said.
He nodded and smiled. “Two old guys aren’t enough company for a beautiful young lady like you, anyway.”
He told me to be careful and stood in the doorway when I left, looking a little more like my mother to me, the resemblances suddenly sharper and easier to see. He was channeling her love and concern. I missed her so much that whenever I thought about her, tears would glaze over my eyes, and I would have to suck in my breath and firm up my posture to keep from bawling like some little girl lost and alone.
I was thankful that there was so much to look at on the streets of Saint-Germain. Shops were opening. Waiters were washing the walkways at the front doors of their restaurants and cafés. The street musicians were already out with their cups or cans, hoping for monetary appreciation. Pedestrian traffic grew thicker, with a mixture of Parisians and tourists from seemingly everywhere. There were tour guides holding up red or yellow flags so none of the members of their group would get lost, and there were short lectures about history and architecture on almost every corner. A myriad of languages floated past me as people passed by. I made a game of identifying the language and country. Asians weren’t as easy as people might think. Besides Chinese and Japanese, there were South Koreans and Vietnamese. My mind was so occupied that I was surprised when I found myself on Denise’s street, a few doors from her apartment building. I hurried to it, seeing I was late and anticipating she might think I wouldn’t show.
“C’est moi,” I announced at the doorway when she responded to the buzzer. The door sounded, and I entered the very small lobby. This was an old building. The elevator looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the early 1900s, the doors squealing and groaning as they closed. There was barely enough room for two people, and of course, my mind went immediately to Denise stepping into it whenever there was someone else in it already.
She was standing in the opened doorway of her mother’s apartment on the third floor.
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry I’m late. It’s not possible to walk quickly in Paris,” I added, and she brightened.
“My mother is always accusing me of daydreaming on my way anywhere.”
“Elle fait,” I heard her mother cry out, emphasizing that she did.
Denise smirked and stepped back. Her mother came from the small living room into the short entryway to greet me. She was tiny in comparison with Denise. She was maybe five feet two, but she had been frozen in a petite body, with dainty facial features and beautiful green-blue eyes. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray but still looked very thick and rich. She wore it pinned back but not severely. Her complexion was fair, with only the tiniest of wrinkles threatening to become crow’s-feet. Her lips were full yet dainty. This was the beauty Denise had drowning inside her, I thought.
“You are the American girl,” she said with a thicker French accent. It sounded more like an accusation.
“Oui.”