8
Fiona
By the endof my first week in Paris, Papa had managed to find an apartment with two bedrooms in the Fourth Arrondissement. From the window of the small sitting room, we could see the Notre Dame cathedral as well as the two islands in the Seine River, which separated the right and left banks. My first meeting with Mr. Basset was still a week away, so Papa, Mama, and I spent our time visiting museums and parks. We’d spent an entire day in the Louvre, with Mama staring at paintings for long moments of time. I enjoyed watching her reaction to the biblical scenes more than the paintings themselves. She’d spent at least an hour gazing at Mona Lisa and then all of lunch afterward exclaiming about how small the painting was. “I had no idea it would be so tiny,” she said, eyes sparkling. “And her smile. It’s as charming as they say, isn’t it? I fully expected her to start talking to me.”
We had lunch and dinners in the street cafés, sharing bottles of French wine and watching the Parisians. I’d never seen Mama more exhilarated than she was in those weeks we spent exploring Paris together. At mealtimes, she wrote notes in her journal with details and descriptions of places we visited and the people we saw. “I want to remember it all for later,” she said to me one day at lunch. “To tell your sisters and brothers but also for myself. A trip of a lifetime, isn’t it, darling?”
Papa had nodded in agreement and they’d stared into each other’s eyes as if they were young lovers instead of the parents of seven.
We were at dinner the night before they were to leave for England. Papa had suggested a fancier restaurant, but Mama and I both wanted to go to the corner bistro where we’d shared at least a half dozen dinners. The waiters knew us there by then and showed us to our favorite table.
I thought about her as I sat there sneaking glances at my beautiful stepmother. She was many years younger than Papa. Regardless, years had not stolen the bloom of her beauty. Her brown eyes remained bright and her skin unlined. She wore her hair short now, as most of us did, and it suited her small heart-shaped face. For the first time, I wondered what it would have been like for her to have an opportunity such as this, instead of coming to Emerson Pass to teach in a rustic schoolhouse to the dozen or so of us who were her first pupils.
Sitting here now, I had to wonder—were there any regrets? Would she have liked to study art or literature here in Paris? Or was her simple life satisfying enough?
“Mama, have you ever felt as if you missed out on your youth by marrying Papa and taking on all five of his mischievous children?”
She gazed at me for a moment, clearly surprised by the question. Then she darted a glance at Papa, who watched her bemused and smitten, as he always was in her presence. A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “No, I’ve never regretted one moment. It was my privilege to take care of my mother and sister and then you children and your papa. There were no choices, really. I did what I had to do. And it has all given me the most satisfying life. It’s the small and mundane moments in life—ones we are too busy to notice—they are the ones we look back upon with the most affection. The sound of my children’s footsteps in the foyer as they tumble in from school, for example. I’ve treasured each one, each day.” She swept her hand through the air to indicate the café. “And now look at me. Dining in a bistro in Paris. I’ve been here many times, you know, in the pages of a book. It’s just as I imagined.”
“Do you have any regrets?” I asked them. “Anything you wish you’d done differently?”
“Not me,” Papa said. “Everything that came before led me to this exact moment. Which I wouldn’t change for all the world.”
“Believe it or not,” Mama said, “going out to Colorado was terrifying. I had no idea what to expect the day I stepped off the train in 1910.”
“I can’t imagine if you hadn’t come to us,” Papa said to her. “What would have become of our family?”
“Or of me,” Mama asked softly. “Fiona, my wish for you is simple. I hope you find your North Star as I did. Adventures are good, but home is the most important aspect of life. And home is simply where the people you love live. However, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do all kinds of interesting things. To have the opportunity to do so before you marry and have children is a gift. We’re glad to provide this for you.”
“I’m grateful.” I looked down at my lap. My dropped shirtwaist dress was made of the finest material and with great care, thanks to Mr. Olofsson’s stellar craftsmanship. I would have to tell him when I got home how it rivaled the dresses of the elegant Parisian women. “I am.” My voice wavered. “But I’ll miss you all very much.”
“It’s all right to miss us,” Mama said. “As long as you don’t let it keep you from living every moment here. Life goes so fast, my darling. You won’t believe it, truly, how the days seem to evaporate. Perhaps faster when you’ve been as happy as I’ve been. I want to hold on to you children with all my might, to go back and do it all again. But mother time keeps moving, and so must we.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” I teared up and took a moment before I could speak again. “I’ve been such a lucky girl.”
“You’ve always been a joy, love,” Papa said. “From the very first. Of all of our children, you’ve worried us the least. You’ve always been my sweet little Fiona.”
“Do you know what you said the first time you saw me?” Mama asked.
“No, what?” I asked.
“You thought she was dead,” Papa said. “And that she was a princess. A dead princess.” He laughed. “Can you imagine?”
“Mama, you’re still as beautiful as a princess,” I said. “I’m glad you were only knocked out.”
Mama flushed at my compliment. “I never thought of myself as pretty. I was always skinny and pale. I never felt pretty until I saw how your father looked at me. I want that for you. For a man to look at you that way and for your heart to feel as if it might explode with joy.”
“I want that too,” I said.
“But for now you have your music,” Papa said.
“And Paris.” Mama beamed at me.
If they only knew how I felt, how broken I was. No, no, I chided myself. They didn’t need to know. It would ruin the illusion of this great gift they’d given me. They should think of me as grateful and inspired.
I glanced around the bistro, taking in the artistic and eccentric crowd. Many of the women wore trousers, wide-legged and sophisticated.
Henri, our waiter, brought our steak tartare, setting it in front of us with his usual flourish. “Madam and mademoiselle, good evening. Monsieur, the gentleman at the table in the corner would like to send over a bottle of champagne.”
“Really?” Papa asked. “Which one?”
“There is only one champagne,” Henri said.
“No, I mean, which man,” Papa said, chuckling.