“It’s not an option, Solange. I want you to move in with Marthe.”
I was incredulous. “But that would be impossible. She would never have me. I would be like a piece of mismatched china or broken furniture in her apartment.”
“You are quite wrong, Solange. I paid her a visit late this afternoon, after I received my letter from the army. And she said she’d be delighted for you to stay there.”
***
My father explained that he could think of no one better than Marthe to make sure I was taken care of while he was gone.
“She has survived at least one great war in that apartment,” he told me. “She’ll surely know how to survive another one.”
“But how did she react when you asked her?” My mind was racing to put together my prior afternoon with her, when she showed me her private letters from her vanity. So many things had happened within the last twenty-four hours, and I was struggling to put all the various pieces of information in order.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have been as hard on her as I was the other day. She seemed different to me when I visited,” he said softly. “I suspect you’re having a beneficial effect on her... That said, I don’t think she’s all too concerned about the war.”
“No, I don’t think so, either...” My voice floated into his.
“As I suspected, she merely reacted as though I was going on a long journey, not understanding I had received orders to report to a hospital for wounded soldiers.”
“That does sound like Marthe,” I agreed.
“I am not one to show my emotions, Solange. You know that about me. But I must say, I’m grateful she’s pleased to have you live in her apartment. No one knows more than I do that she’s not maternal... but she truly seems to have real affection for you.”
I nodded. “I know, Papa. I know.”
The truth was, I had noticed a palpable change in Marthe over the course of my last few visits. She not only seemed more fragile, she seemed to reveal more of an internal softness as well. A sensitivity I had not seen before. I had visited her for over a year and a half, and for much of that time, I felt like she was happy just to have an audience to share her stories. But after my last visit, I felt there was a deeper need for her to share more than just her past.
Outside, a fire alarm wailed in the distance.
“We’re all feeling so vulnerable now,” Papa said.
“Some more than others,” I whispered. I shook my head and thought of Alex and his father.
My father was given less than one week’s notice before he had to report to the military hospital in the northwestern part of France. He arranged for a retired pharmacist to take care of the shop while he would be away on duty.
One week was not very much time to get everything in order, but my father packed very little.
“Unlike me, you can always come back to the apartment fairly easily,” Papa said, “so you needn’t feel that you must take everything with you now.”
I nodded. On the bed, he had folded three white shirts, four pairs of pants, and two small, framed photographs. One taken of me onmy first day of school. And the other, a photograph of my mother in her wedding dress.
I walked over to the bed and picked up the black-and-white portrait of my mother. They had married at the town hall, and she had not worn a veil or headpiece. Just a long, white dress with a high neck, edged in lace that she had made herself after taking apart an old wedding dress she had bought at a secondhand shop. In the photo, she clasped a nosegay of delicate flowers between her hands.
“She was so beautiful, wasn’t she... ,” I whispered.
“Yes.” He picked up one of the shirts and began to refold it, his eyes not lifting as he spoke. “You know, you’re the same age that she was when I first met her, and you look exactly as I remember her at that time.”
Now looking at the portrait, I could see our resemblance more than ever.
My face had changed over the years. The soft face of my adolescence had been replaced by features that were in sharper relief. When I was a child, people always told me I had my mother’s features. We had the same high forehead, a similar slender nose. And although our eye color was different, we shared the same gaze. A look that people said went right through you.
“If you’re not taking the larger wedding portrait of both of you, Papa, may I take it to Marthe’s now?”
“Of course.” He was now preparing his toiletries. In a small canvas bag, I watched him put in soap, a tube of dentifrice, a razor, and shaving brush, all things I knew he had taken from his store.
From his bedside I took the larger portrait of both of them. I had stared at this particular portrait countless times while my mother lay ill in bed. But now, I did not focus on my mother. Instead, I looked at my father in his dark black suit and vest. He was probably close to Alex’s age in this photograph, and it made me look at the portrait with a new perspective. I didn’t just look at them now as my parents,but as a young couple first setting out on their own. Only now could I imagine how full of hope and love they were then.
***
