Capturing Paris (33 page)

“Of course. But if I can help you, you must tell me.”

“There's nothing. I'll let you know.” Annie couldn't begin to explain her fear for her child, her feelings of helplessness, and what is was like to be a parent. He was incapable of understanding, despite his well-meaning attempt to help her. She promised she would call when she got back. “I will miss you,” she said.

Would she miss him? She certainly wouldn't forget him. She couldn't change what had happened, and she wasn't sure, even now, filled with guilt, that she wished it had happened differently. Like Hélène had said, she must look forward.

Annie had a difficult time falling asleep. The city had quieted, but a heavy rain started to fall, and she listened as the cold drops plummeted down on the bathroom skylight. The sound of the rain reminded her of the line from Verlaine,
“Quelle est cette longuéur qui pénètre mon coeur?”
He must have listened to a similar sound on another Parisian rooftop long ago. The sadness penetrating her own heart was almost too great to ponder. The words of his poem weighed on her as she lay in the dark, trying to shut out her worries and regrets.

Under different circumstances Annie might have enjoyed the taxi ride from Kennedy Airport into Manhattan and watching the magnificent skyline come into view. New York had its own pulse, so different from Paris, and even in her worried state she could feel the energy and excitement of the city. The taxi, the same kind of beat-up yellow car that
she remembered from previous trips, rumbled along through the traffic, avoiding potholes in the roadway left behind by the hard New York winter. She was unable to relax against the slick black vinyl seat. The taxi had an old-car smell despite the pine-tree-shaped deodorizer that swung from the rearview mirror. She was tired, dehydrated from the long flight, and had slept little on her final night in Paris. Everything about her felt creased and stale. Fortunately the driver, barricaded behind a cloudy plastic divider, made no conversation.

The traffic on the Triborough Bridge was heavy and slowed to a crawl when three lanes merged into one. Annie could see no signs of construction other than some stalled machinery and a series of orange cones. She was desperate to reach the hospital. The taxi inched forward. It was like being caught in quicksand, and the driver was powerless to get them out. Annie held her clenched fists to her mouth.

Despite the gray day, she found herself squinting in the glare. She still knew so little. Sophie had fallen ill at work, and her boss, Marla, had insisted that she go immediately to her doctor. Because of a rash and a high fever, she went directly to the emergency room instead. Fortunately, a doctor had recognized this kind of bacterial meningitis. The only treatment was massive amounts of antibiotics, and the key to being cured was treating it in time. Had it been too late? There was the chance of brain damage if the infection went unchecked, also the possible loss of limbs.

Now off the bridge, the taxi picked up speed. Annie clasped her hands together in a kind of prayer, putting all her attention on willing her daughter to get better. She tried to picture the drugs, some kind of powerful liquid, traveling through her daughter's veins, fighting to overcome the hated disease.

Her Protestant upbringing and a pervasive sense of maternal guilt threatened to overtake her. “What goes around comes around,” “Time to pay the piper,” and other tired maxims ran through her mind. What if she hadn't given in, what if she hadn't had sex with Paul? Would Sophie have been so sick today? Annie was getting what she deserved. This is nonsense, she thought. She must stop thinking like a child.

Annie cracked her window open, trying to cleanse herself of these thoughts and ward off the nausea brought on by the cab ride. The
driver had the annoying habit of keeping one foot on the brake and one on the accelerator, lurching the car along Riverside Drive with the speed, but not the finesse, of a Parisian taxi driver. She felt sick to her stomach by the time he slammed on the brakes in front of Saint Vincent's Hospital.

When she stepped out of the taxi, the air was clear and cold and smelled entirely different from that of Paris; it was an edgy metallic smell, the scent of speed and progress. The buildings seemed sharply defined, huge geometric forms that loomed against the late-afternoon sky. A brisk wind whipped down the avenues, typical of New York in late April, when people were totally fed up with the cold and longing for warmer weather that was possibly weeks away. Annie paid the fare and walked shakily into the lobby.

She was greeted by a kind, smiling gray-haired volunteer with a matronly bosom sitting behind the information desk. The woman called her honey, showed her where to check her suitcase, and gave her directions to the Intensive Care Unit. Annie had forgotten the unfailing desire of most Americans to be helpful, and she was relieved to have her questions answered almost before she knew to ask them.

She made her way to the bank of elevators that would carry her to the fourth floor. Annie was unused to the brusque reality of modern American hospital life. She walked down a windowless corridor with highly polished vinyl floors that shone harshly in the overly bright fluorescent lights, the kind of place where there was little difference between night and day. Certainly, it couldn't help the healing process to be cut off from the rhythms of nature.

The hall, smelling of institutional food and the mild odor of antiseptic, made Annie feel uneasy, vulnerable. A heavyset nurse in white jogging shoes appeared at an intersecting hall pushing an empty gurney draped in cold white sheets. Annie stepped out of her way and tried to decide which way to turn. At that moment Wesley appeared a few yards ahead of her.

“Annie.” He walked toward her, pulled her into his arms, and simply held her. At first he said nothing, just pressed her to him as if feeling her there was all that mattered. She rested her head against him, felt the soft wool of his sweater on her cheek, and breathed in the smell of the cot
ton shirt that he'd probably put on that morning crisp and fresh from its laundry wrapper. He felt warm and steady. Some of the worry and tension eased from her body. He felt familiar and comfortable, even in these strange surroundings.

“I'm so glad you're here,” he said, releasing her. He looked in many ways the same—tall, even-featured, in control—the kind man who had pulled her into his arms countless times. She was struck by how fresh, how innocent, how all-American he looked to her. Even under the trying circumstances and with little sleep, he looked able to cope and deal wisely with any situation.

Annie was overcome with relief and hugged him again. “How is she?”

“The doctors think she'll pull through. There's no sign of brain damage. Thank God, she went straight to the emergency room. If she'd gone home, or even to the doctor's office, it would have been too late.” He took her hands and led her to a bench outside the ICU door. “I need to tell you what to expect.”

Annie sat like a child, obediently trying to comprehend everything he said. He explained how meningococcal meningitis is an extremely rare disease infecting mostly adolescents and people in their twenties. It's often mistaken for the flu. The bacteria that cause it are found in the nose and throat, and no one knows why they can suddenly invade the bloodstream or spinal fluid. This disease is far more serious than other forms of meningitis.

Sophie was still on life support. The doctors wanted to wait another day before letting her breathe on her own. She was being given huge doses of antibiotics intravenously. Her wrists and ankles were bandaged. The rash had produced terrible sores, like burns, the effect of poison in her blood. They would heal, he explained, and she would probably have some scarring. It could have been far worse.

“I know it's awful,” he said. “You'll be shocked when you see her.” He squeezed Annie's hand. “But we'll get through this.”

Annie looked into kind eyes, ringed with fatigue. The word
we
sounded sweet in her ears.

She followed Wesley into the Intensive Care Unit. There on a long metal hospital bed lay Sophie, a slender form barely taking up any space.

Her pale, tender arm lay exposed on the sheet, accepting the steady drip from the IV hanging above. Wesley was right. It was a terrible shock to see the unearthly tubes running into her daughter, the machines, the wires, the harsh lights overhead. Annie was filled with renewed terror. Despite the dramatic surroundings, Sophie appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Wesley bent over his daughter, stroked her forehead, and gently picked up her limp hand. He seemed to be transmitting his strength and energy to her, the healing power of touch. Watching the two of them together, Annie felt a sense of hope come over her.

“Sophie,” Wesley whispered as he bent in close to her ear. “Your mom is here.” At the sound of his voice, she opened her eyes. He took Annie's hand and placed it where his had been.

“I love you, baby,” Annie said softly. She felt the flutter of movement, her daughter's hand in hers. She leaned down and kissed Sophie's forehead.

Annie took a sip of coffee from the blue pottery mug. It was warm in her hands, and it felt good to sit on the terrace and watch the day come alive. They had taken Sophie to Madeleine's house in Connecticut to recuperate. And there, bit by bit, Annie imagined the threads of their family life knitting back together.

The lawn was greening up, and a stand of forsythia blazed yellow against the blue sky. A cluster of small brown birds chirped merrily and darted in and out of a feeder just beyond the fence. Aunt Kate had been a bird-watcher and had always kept her binoculars on a peg by the back door of their house in Vermont. As a little girl, Annie loved to watch for birds and always hoped to spot the first robin in the spring. In Paris, at least in the center of the city, there were only pigeons, unremarkable and gray like the streets where they waddled, too lazy for flight.

Sophie was still asleep. She slept hungrily, as if she couldn't get enough of the elixir, but it was a restorative sleep, and each day she stayed out of bed longer and her color improved. She was off the antibiotics, and the sores on her wrists and ankles were healing. The doctor said that rest would continue to cure her.

“I bet you're wishing you were in a sidewalk café in Paris right now.” Wesley had emerged from the old stone house to join Annie on the terrace. “You're probably the only person in Connecticut having coffee outside at the end of April.”

“I'm not wishing that.” She shook her head and stared into the distance. “I do wish I'd see a robin.” She smiled up at him. The sun glinted off his glasses, and he wore a green canvas jacket lined with plaid flannel. It was new to Annie, something he'd bought without her. He bent down and kissed her forehead. A sleek gray bird on the wall carried a piece of dried grass in its beak.

“You're not cold?” he said.

“No. The sun's warm. Have a seat.” She pulled the chair next to her closer, and he sat down beside her, stretching his legs toward the wall. “I think he's building a nest.” They watched the bird sail off toward a tall pine in the field below them. The sun warmed their backs.

“The air is so much cleaner here than in Paris,” Annie said. She smiled, thinking of the French who would be outside on a day like today to savor a little sun and watch the world go by. Paris seemed very far away.

“Clean, yes, but a little dull. Not the lively scene you're used to.”

“The peace and quiet of the countryside are exactly what we needed,” Annie said. “Madeleine has been so dear to take us in.” She looked back at the little stone cottage where Madeleine had lived for many years. While the house was small, the big white barn had been just the space she'd been looking for when she moved her business out of New York.

“This place is a little like God House,” he said, “only a barn full of folk art instead of French antiques.”

“It feels very different.”

Wesley shrugged and looked out across the fields. A silence fell between them.

“We need to talk about Daphne,” he said finally.

Annie set her mug on the wall. The coffee had cooled. “I haven't been back to God House. I'm sure you understand.”

“Annie, I'll never forgive myself for letting it happen.”

“You mustn't say that.” Guilt swelled in her throat. She too had let things happen, had wanted things to happen. She too had done the unforgivable.

He turned to look at her. The gray bird was back on the wall, hopping intermittently and watching the garden bed at his feet. She could feel Wesley's eyes upon her, a cool, fresh blue like the April morning. She drew her arms across her chest and turned away.

“Please—I want to explain,” he said. “This winter has been terrible.”

She bent her head, ashamed and sad, knowing how she had betrayed him.

“After the firm closed I sort of fell apart. Everything changed for me. It was like we both became different people. My career was failing. I was failing. Meanwhile your creative life took off. When I got this chance to start over, I wanted it at all costs. I was angry with you when you didn't see it my way. I thought you'd be willing to drop everything and start over too.”

Annie didn't dare look at him. She felt like the guilt was all across her face, her affair with Paul there for anyone to read. Telling him would only hurt him. The end of their marriage was her fault as well. She shook her head, wishing he would go back inside, wishing this conversation didn't have to take place. “Wesley, I've been wrong too. I've changed.”

“No. Wait. What I'm trying to say is that I want you back. I want whoever you've become. I can see now that writing those poems for the book was the best thing for you.”

“But Wesley—”

“Annie, listen. What I really came out here to say was that I want your forgiveness. I'm sorry about what happened at God House. But beyond that, I never should have shut you out. I hate myself for closing down like I did. I'm sorry.”