Love the One You Hate

“I understand your grief, Maren. I do. Nicholas’ mom, Judith, was my only child, and she passed away far too young. Being with you reminds me of what it’s like to be a mother, to care for and dote on someone simply because you love them and want the very best for them.”

My chest tightens as tears collect in the corners of my eyes.

I sniffle and try to lean back, but she tightens her grip for a split second.

“You know I adore you. I’d keep you with me forever if I thought it was for the best,” she says, patting my arm and then releasing me so I can slyly turn back to the Seine and wipe my tears with my napkin.* * *Our first week rolls into the second, and we journey out of Paris to explore Versailles and its surrounding gardens. We stay too long, admiring Marie Antoinette’s “cottage” as our guide walks us through what life was like for her at Louis XVI’s court before the French Revolution. At first glance, it would be easy to compare her to Cornelia considering they’ve both experienced what it feels like to have the world at one’s fingertips, but I can’t imagine Cornelia ever acting in line with the late French queen. The guide explains to us that the popular phrase Qu'ils mangent de la brioche, what we know as “Let them eat cake”, isn’t an indulgent anthem, but rather an example of how little regard Marie Antoinette might have felt toward her subjects who were enduring a famine and had no bread to eat. Her flippant disregard for their suffering isn’t at all how Cornelia feels toward the struggles of others, and I’m a prime example of that.

The next day, Cornelia needs to rest, so I stroll through the city on my own, venturing into the Musée d'Orsay early enough that I’m alone in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s haunting self-portrait. His intense gaze seems to pry into me, digging beneath layers as I stand in the quiet room studying him studying me. In other rooms, I stumble upon people with sketchpads and easels, set up in front of famous paintings by Monet and Degas, recreating them in their own way. I wish I had even one artistic bone in my body so I could do the same. It’s inspiring to be in a city like this, and it makes me miss the piano at Rosethorn. I’ve gotten so used to having it at my fingertips whenever the mood strikes.

As I’m leaving, a flash of dark hair catches my attention, and I think for one wild moment that Nicholas is here, at the museum. He’s come to Paris. I whip around to get a better look, lips parted in shock, and then my heart sinks when I find it’s just a man, slightly shorter than Nicholas, whose pale features look nothing like his. My wave of shock gives way to a confusing crash of disappointment. I’m left with residual butterflies that work themselves into knots in my stomach as I walk across the bridge over the Seine, back toward our hotel.

Cornelia and I spend the next day getting pampered at Institut Dior. After we relax in the serenity room, they place us in separate treatment rooms so we can each get a massage and a facial. From there, I’m whisked into the salon so I can get a much-needed haircut. I’ve never actually had someone give me a styled cut. When I was young, my mom trimmed my hair every so often, and as a teenager, I just had Ariana do the same. I’m surprised how long it takes. I guess it takes time when you actually know what you’re doing. When the stylist is finished and I glance up at myself in the mirror, I see what I was missing. My long hair has been trimmed a few inches on the bottom so it looks healthy and shiny, and there are subtle layers to help better accentuate my features.

When we’re done, Cornelia asks me where I’d like to go for dinner, and I tell our driver to take us back to the Mandarin Oriental.

“When’s the last time you put on a hotel robe, ordered room service, and watched a wildly overpriced pay-per-view movie?”

She considers the question with a laugh. “Never.”

“Then tonight will be a first for both of us.”

I know two weeks abroad can’t rewrite who I am. Solo walks in the early afternoons through the streets of Paris and explorations inside landmarks like the Musée d'Orsay and the Eiffel Tower don’t rearrange my biology, but I do feel like the experience has given my self-consciousness a much-needed shakeup. I was a complete stranger in a foreign place and no one cared. No one asked if I belonged there. There was a sense of freedom, and in that freedom, growth. On the drive back home from the airport back in Newport, I realize I’ve never felt more comfortable in my own skin.