Running Back (New York Leopards 2)
I reached out a hand to Mike, and he caught it. I swallowed and turned to Carl. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “She was my favorite, ta mere. Light and laughter. You must tell her to come back and visit. Tell her she is missed.”
* * *
“Hi, Mom.”
“Darling?” I could hear rustling in the background. Was she still in bed? “Good morning. Oh, no, what’s the time over there? Afternoon?”
I only ever heard my mother’s accent in the first seconds of a phone call. Never in person, and never for more than half a minute on the phone. But for those thirty seconds I could hear a faint, lilting mesh of European accents, based on Russian, smoothed over by French. Then she went back to sounding like Mom. “Yeah, it’s almost four.”
“So what are you doing?” More rustling, like she was getting comfortable. “You’re not working today, are you?”
“Uh, no.” I glanced out our hotel window at the courtyard. I couldn’t see Mike, who I knew was snacking down below to give me privacy, but instead saw the pale green roof and a black cat creeping along it. It stopped to stare at me with unblinking yellow eyes, and I thought of the Art Nouveau poster of Le Chat Noir. Remembered it was a cabernet house from the nineteenth century. Wondered if my mother had gone to any of the clubs up in Montmartre. “I’m actually in Paris.”
“What?” Her voice rose, and I heard a
door open and close. I imagined her moving into the dining room, settling at the kitchen counter, kept impeccably clean by the twice-a-week cleaning staff. “What are you doing there?”
“Well, uh, I told you about Mike, right? The guy who owns Kilkarten? Well, we thought we’d travel for the weekend, so we’re here.” I swallowed. “Actually, we went to your old housing. I met this guy named Carl.”
She didn’t speak for a long time, and when she did, she sounded absolutely stunned. “Wow, Carl. That brings me back.”
In the dusk, the window slowly darkened. My reflection brightened, a ghost before the alley, my strange eyes limned in the glass. “Actually—it’s sort of funny—he did my makeup.” I laughed awkwardly.
Another pause. “Oh, Natalya. You must look beautiful.”
I swallowed. “Well, you know me. It’s not really my thing.”
“I know.”
My ear hurt, so I switched hands, and tried to keep myself from nervously pressing the phone flat against my head. “I look like you. I always thought I looked more like Dad, but I guess a lot of it’s just how you’re made up.”
Her voice softened. “Do you remember when you were little? And I used to take you to Sherri’s and she would do both of our faces?”
“That was weird, Mom. I was way too young.”
She didn’t respond.
I shifted uneasily. “You know what I mean. I didn’t want to do any of that stuff. The makeup or the dresses.”
“I know. I just thought... You were so beautiful.”
“You’re my mom. You weren’t supposed to think I needed makeup to be beautiful.”
“Oh, Natalie. Oh, I don’t.”
“I know. I just... And then it’s so weird here.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.” I pressed my fingers to the corners of my eyes and tried to soak up the water. “And ruin all of Carl’s work?”
“Will you send me pictures?”
“Pictures?” I laughed shakily. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to see you. I bet you look all grown up.”