A Paris Apartment (41 page)

“There, there,” he said over and over again. “There, there.”

When I finally glanced up, Léon took my hand and gently brushed his lips against my knuckles.

“Hugo would be so proud of you,” he said. “You’ve come so far. You are a beautiful person, your face and soul.”

“Oh, Léon, thank you! That means so much.”

Suddenly I felt
something
look at me from across the way, the sting of someone else’s gaze on my face. I glanced up to see Jeanne, muddied yet still smug, standing a few meters behind Léon. She’d watched the entire scene. What she heard or didn’t hear, I could not ascertain. All I knew was that she was smiling slyly, the corners of her mouth curled up like the devil’s horns.

Chapitre LXV

Sandra Potter’s memorial service was lovely, but only inasmuch as these things were supposed to be exactly that: lovely, tepid, unobtrusive. It included the usual funeral trappings like flowers, weeping, and much talk of Jesus calling his lambs home.

The day was drizzly. A fine mist settled across a city that was usually “so goddamn sunny.” April went through the motions, muddling through the service and all the things she was supposed to do and say. At some point she delivered a eulogy without once looking up from her notes.

After it was over, April stood outside the church with her father and brother, making nice with the nurses and doctors who came to pay their respects. She mumbled robotic platitudes as people scooted through the receiving line. Smiling tightly and hugging strangers or people she’d only met once, April thought of Marthe. At least April knew her mother. She knew her father. She had thousands of minutes with them, minutes to hold on to until long after both were gone.

Jeanne Hugo. What a jerk.

April felt a little guilty. Of all the now-deceased women she might possibly think of on that day, Marthe and Jeanne were not the most logical. But ruminating on the Exposition Universelle kept April from contemplating other things. Namely, what might be in the silvery-white casket at the front of the church. With the “Human Zoo” in mind, April didn’t have to think about mothers. She didn’t have to think about daughters. She did not have to consider why reading about Béa’s birth reached inside her, grabbing at new depths of pain.

Most important, April did not have to ask why her husband was the one mourner who failed to show. They were done, it seemed, the ifs all gone. April had been so angry for so long she did not expect it to hurt like that.

The line seemed to last forever, a never-ending trickle of well-wishers offering only the flimsiest condolences. April grew increasingly annoyed as each successive person told her what a nice patient her mother was, how sweet and docile. Well, of course she was docile! Sandy Potter’s disease turned her mind from adult to infant. She spent her final days in a bed, being fed by someone else, causing no problems, an altogether sweet and pliant being not unlike Marthe’s own Béa.

As the last of the mourners petered out, the haze started to lift from the sky. Brian checked his watch. Even he was weary. Time was short but the afternoon was long. The surf grew choppy as the tide continued to rise. He would not have much time to make something out of that day.

“So, what next?” April said when the line died once and for all. “Dad doesn’t want to go to the cemetery. Tell me what we should do now.”

“Hell if I know,” Brian said. “I guess we go to the luncheon. We all need to eat something.”

“I can’t imagine being hungry ever again.”

April pulled her cardigan tighter, goose bumps spilling over her skin. The casket was now on her periphery. Skinny, sweaty men loaded it into a hearse.

“The ceremony was nice and everything,” April said. “But it all feels so empty and useless. You know what I mean?”

“April—”

“Okay, maybe that sounds a little heartless. I guess I’m the one who feels empty and useless.”

“Hey, April—”

“It’s like … what are we supposed do to now? I don’t mean the luncheon. Mom’s illness has been the background, the white noise in our lives for the last twenty years. Where do we go from here?”

Brian frowned and clapped a hand on her shoulder.

“I don’t think we’re quite done,” he said and then pointed behind her. “We’ve got a few more guests.”

April turned, ready with her now-perfected sad smile. Oh, hello, doctor, thank you for taking care of my mother sometime during the spring of 2003.

But behind her April did not see yet another medical professional coaxed into being there by his boss. She saw Troy Edward Vogt III, live and in the flesh, flanked by his daughters. She almost didn’t believe it was him and had to look to Brian for confirmation. Her brother nodded, then smiled in a way that said, I’ve always believed in Troy. I’ve always believed in the two of you. Brian was like that. He always saw the best.

Mouth open, April stayed rooted in place. Brian pushed at her back. She wobbled forward. He continued to push until April found herself pressed into Troy’s chest, greasy face marring his two-thousand-dollar suit.

“Chloe and Chelsea,” April sniffled as she broke free. The girls. She’d start there. It was somehow less difficult than addressing their dad. “Thank you so much for coming. I know you both had to travel far to get here.”

Troy kept one hand on the edge of her sweater, holding loosely.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Chelsea said, as always speaking for both sisters. Chloe was only partway paying attention and instead watching Brian, as young women were apt to do. “We love you, April.”

As Chelsea hugged her, April felt a thump against her side. When she realized the cause she smiled.

“I recognize the purse,” she said. “Looks great on you.”

“Everyone is superjealous! I’ve worn it every day since it arrived!” Chelsea beamed, then frowned. “I guess I shouldn’t be talking about purses at a funeral.”

“Duh,”
Chloe said, her complete and total offering to the conversation. Nonetheless April hugged her, too.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” she said. “It means a lot to have you here.”

“Hey, bro, what’s up?” Brian said. April saw nothing but Troy’s strong hand clutching Brian’s. “Glad you could make it.”

“I’m so sorry, Brian. This is a rough, rough deal.”

April listened to the sound of man-hugs behind her, the echo of backslapping.

“Thanks, Troy.” Brian stepped back into view and shot April a look she could not interpret. “So, hey, I’m going to see where Allie and Dad ran off to. Chelsea and Chloe, want to come with me?”

The girls nodded in unison, one reluctantly, one with a little more oomph.

“All right,” Brian said. “Troy. April. We’ll catch up with you guys later. See you at the restaurant.”

April stood still, listening to the chipmunk chatter of Chloe and Chelsea grow faint, one accusing the other of scuffing her “favorite shoes.” She closed her eyes and focused on breathing. In and out. In and out. It was simple as that.

“Do you plan to make eye contact?” Troy asked sometime around breath number ten. “Or are you going to keep your back turned on me? I can wait it out. I’ll wait forever.”

It sounded like a challenge, but then April thought of her mom. She thought of her dad and all the sand that fell so quickly through his fingers. Sure, April could refuse to move. But what exactly would that get her?

With eyes squeezed shut, April took in a gigantic gulp of air, pivoted on her heel, and turned to face her husband.

Chapitre LXVI

“Come on,” Troy said. “Let’s walk.”

“Um, what?”

April expected a little more tenderness, at least a condolence or two.

“Move. Now.”

Without checking to see if she followed, Troy started off down the sidewalk, west, toward the Hotel del Coronado, its red cone roofs looming above the nearby buildings. If Coronado was anything, it was that hotel. The Hotel Del was the landmark, the favorite child, its personality so big it was hard for the rest of the island to shine.

“Coming?” Troy called over his shoulder.

April looked at the church. She looked at her husband’s back. She looked at the church again, and then, as if her feet were acting of their own accord, she scrambled after her husband.

“So how was the flight?” she asked, stepping in line with him.

“Peachy,” he grumbled, quickening his pace. When they reached the street, Troy punched the crosswalk button. April waited for him to grab her hand. He did not.

“Why are you acting so testy when you’re the one who—”

“Yes, cheated on you. I know. I couldn’t forget if I tried.”

April stopped on the corner. The green man appeared across the street, blinking, encouraging them on. A group of tourists passed, trying not to look but ears perked by the brewing argument. That right there was an adulterer. An adulterer in a suit when everyone else wore flip-flops. Typical.

“Troy!” she yelped “Stop! Don’t walk away from me!”

He was already halfway across the street.

April was running after him now, breaking into a near-sprint as her heels clicked on the asphalt. When she reached Troy’s side he was standing at the edge of the beach watching the dreary gray surf lap at the sand. April thought of her brother then. The waves were small, angry, unsurfable. Brian would achieve no solace that day.

“Why are you being so short with me?” April asked. “You’re the one who flew out. I didn’t ask you to come. I didn’t even think you would.”

“Once again the faith you have in me is inspiring. You didn’t think I’d come to the funeral? I’d hope, whatever the circumstances, if roles were reversed, you’d come to my mother’s funeral.”

“Sure. Yes. Of course,” April said, vaguely confused. It never dawned on her that Troy’s mother, the lizard queen of Westchester County, could die. She was a cockroach. She survived seven husbands and the nuclear winterizing of her soul. “But you said you’d
try
to come, so naturally I—”

“I need to hear it from you, April,” Troy said as he slid out of his Gucci loafers and dropped them a few feet from a homeless guy. “I need you to tell me we’re getting divorced.”

“I didn’t realize we decided anything. But if that’s what you want, I’m not sure why you’re asking me to say it.”

“It’s
not
what I want!” he said, shouting up at the sky. “It is
so
not what I want.”

“I feel like you’re trying to make me the bad guy.”

Troy laughed, hard and sharp.

“No, I think I have that role all locked up,” he said. “What am I supposed to think? I told you to make a choice. Move past what happened or don’t. And since I haven’t heard from you in—what? A couple of weeks?”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“For a married couple it might as well be years. I kind of thought if our marriage ended you’d give me the benefit of a little notice instead of making me figure it out via your lack of communication and propensity to hide out in foreign countries.”

Troy stepped onto the sand and began plodding across the beach. April glanced down at her own fancy shoes and then over to the homeless guy. With a few curses, she kicked off her heels and trekked across the sand toward her husband, almost ex.

“Real nice,” April said when she finally caught up. Troy was seated, face toward the sea. “You’re talking divorce one hour after my mother’s funeral. Thanks a fucking lot for making this a banner day.”

“I’m only talking divorce because you started the conversation. In your April sort of way. And your mom? Don’t act as if this is a huge shock. You’ve treated her as dead since the day I met you. That she was actually alive and not long since expired of some unnamed illness was the biggest revelation I’ve ever heard on a fifth date.”

“You’re not being fair,” April said. Then she thought of Luc’s words. “You told me she already died.” Maybe Troy was right. Maybe both of them were.

“I don’t disagree,” he said. “On some level I’m not being fair. But neither are you.”

Troy shook his head as April continued to stand above him, wind tossing her hair, arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

“What am I supposed to think?” she said. “First you cheated. Then you act like you’re a superswell guy for admitting it. Then you were in London, a train ride away, with the mistress in question at your side—”

“She was hardly a mistress.”

“Sex buddy. Whatever. You were with her in London and refused to come see me. How else would a reasonable person interpret the situation?”

“I didn’t make an effort. I can’t dispute that. But what about when you were a breakfast table away? A couch away? In the same bed? You refused to see me in New York, too. You were right there, but you might as well have been in Paris.”

“What did you expect? You made this huge confession that left me questioning whether I knew you at all. Because
my
husband is sweet and loyal and would never do anything like that. You didn’t even tell me in person. You picked up the phone and started firing away, emptying your chamber before I had a chance to catch my breath.”

“Fair enough. It would’ve been better in person—”

“Yes.” Or better still not at all. “And on top of this you later admit, whoops, I also cheated on my first wife! Which, I get it, has nothing to do with me. Except everything. Because now it’s a pattern of behavior. And patterns are what make the person.”

“I never should’ve told you about Susannah.”

“No shit,” April mumbled, the surf and sky burying her words.

“But you did ask. And you can’t compare the two relationships. My first marriage was over before it started. I remember standing at the altar, sweat pouring off my face, thinking, all right, exactly how quickly would Susannah’s mob-adjacent family have me murdered if I bailed? You know my entire marriage to Susannah was shorter than the length of time you and I dated, right?”

“Really?” April said as she dug her toes into the cold, damp sand. “I don’t think I ever knew that.”

“Susannah and I were married exactly long enough to produce two daughters fifteen months apart. The first time Susannah served me with divorce papers, the first of four total instances, she was seven months pregnant with Chelsea. She pulled the papers each time, but doubtless there would’ve been a fifth process server tracking me down had I not grown the balls to end it myself.”