Dodo, l’enfant do
L’enfant dormira bien vite
I open my eyes. I never really thought I’d find my father based on some meager scraps, did I? It was such a Good Taylor move to hope. Reaching up, I wipe my hand on the towel hanging from the rail and grab my phone, immediately clicking on the Instagram app. On my screen, the city stares back at me in all its splendor. Pictures of half-eaten croissants on tiny bistro tables flanked by wicker chairs. Views of the Eiffel Tower from a bateau-mouche cruising down the Seine. Quaint cobblestoned streets on which chic girls teeter on high heels.
I zero in on one picture, posted yesterday. She’s in a lacy black dress and platform sandals. An outfit that smells new, worn for the first time. @cassieny looks like she’s having a blast: sitting front and center at the terrace of Les Deux Magots restaurant, bent over halfway as if laughing too hard to stand straight, the sun caressing her bare legs, her cat-eyed sunglasses giving her that whiff of celebrity, someone who doesn’t really want to be seen, even though she’s posting endless selfies on Instagram.
Technically they’re not selfies because she has someone to take them.New wifey to Olivier, her Instagram bio reads, her husband’s name along with a French flag after. Then,In Paris for our honeymoon, followed by the bride-and-groom emoji and a heart. We get it, Cassie. Your life is picture perfect.
I flick through a few more pictures, all signs of the perfect French honeymoon. Does it look as good in the flesh as she makes it seem? There’s only one way to find out.
Cutting my bath short, I dry myself and rip the tags off the flowing red dress I bought yesterday. I slip it on and stare at my reflection in the mirror, unsure what to think. It’s so visible, so loud. So not me. I put on the straw hat as well as sunglasses that eat up half my face. The kind of things I’d never wear. When I’m ready to head out, there’s nothing left of Good Taylor. Maybe this is the French version of me, who I was always supposed to be.
Outside, the air is damp and still a little cool for the midmorning. Icheck the latest on @cassieny: her Instagram tells me she’s finishing up breakfast at a café near her hotel. The geotag function is handy like that. It’s a bit of a walk to get there, and as I head south toward the Seine, I make sure to take in everything: the wrought-iron Juliet balconies, the chipped paint of the wooden shutters, and the advertisements at the bus stops, which I try my best to decipher.
The crowd thickens as I edge closer to the water, groups huddled up on the bridge looking at and snapping pictures of Notre-Dame Cathedral. A young woman with brown hair down to her waist approaches me.
“Do you want me to take your photo?” she says, glancing at the phone in my hand.
The woman’s smile seems so genuine that I nod in spite of myself. Afterward, I stare at the result on my screen. I wouldn’t say I look happy, but I definitely feel lighter than I did when I got on that plane. Maybe it’s the Paris effect. I run a quick calculation in my mind. I could move to a cheaper hotel, and then to an apartment. The money might last me six months. More, if I’m careful. I’d keep learning French. I’d find a job. I’d change my name, obviously. There could be a life for me here. Maybe. For now I delete the photo, my heart twitching as I hit the trash can button.
My first destination is on the other side of the river, after a walk down the windy streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Les Deux Magots restaurants is one of the city’s most famous cafés—nothing is too good for @cassieny—but since it’s still morning, the lunch crowd hasn’t invaded the place yet. On a corner of the sprawling terrace, a woman twice my age reads a book with a cream cover and red lettering, a small espresso cup laid out on the table. She looks so chic in a crisp white dress and black suede high-heeled pumps, and oozes enough elegance to eclipse everyone around her.
My stomach twists in a knot as I eye the empty table next to hers. Let’s try this again. Soon a server comes over and drops off the world’s tiniest glass with a water jug that’s not much bigger. Both are streaked and stainedby what must be years of dishwashing. I like that worn feeling; I’ve never aspired to anything too shiny.
I order breakfast—tartines with butter and jam, orange juice, black coffee—and for a while I sit there watching the world go by: people strutting along, talking on their phones, carrying groceries, talking animatedly with their companions. They’re going places, meeting others. Living.
I’ve never had friends, even at school. I was the shy girl who always felt out of place—whowasout of place, literally bounced around many homes until I could be squeezed into another life for good. Trying to make myself as small as possible, I sat in the back of class or in the quiet corner of the lunchroom and only spoke when spoken to. And even then, I was so startled by the fact that someone would willingly interact with me that I would stare at them, wondering why, oh why. My whole life, I dreamed of the day I would havesomebody, someone who wanted to be with me, who would make me whole again.
An anxious glance at my phone tells me that @cassieny is on the move, leaving Le Bon Marché department store with a straw basket in the crook of her elbow—so French of her—and arms full of shopping bags.Back to the hotel to drop these off! And then, heading to the Luxembourg Gardens, she announces as if we should all care. Truth is, I do. I want what she has. I always have, even if I would have never admitted it to anyone. I count my euros—I’m still getting used to the thick two-tone coins and the colorful notes—and get up.
A few minutes later, Cassie’s Instagram history leads me to Ladurée, the French temple of pastel-colored pastries. The window display looks sickly sweet, all fluff, pink, and creamy. The mint-green facade and the gothic lettering feel all too familiar, even though I’ve never seen them before in real life. When it’s my turn to order, I let the salesperson in a black apron pick an assortment of macarons.
A short walk later, I find myself on the edge of the Luxembourg Gardens. It’s big enough that you can forget you’re in the middle of a bigcity, with lots of green metal lounge chairs scattered around a pond. Today is the perfect weather for it: sunny, bright, breezy. I sit down, taking notes of the crowd around me. I’m surrounded by couples. Love on display everywhere. My heart collapses onto itself, like it’s trying to obstruct the view.
I’m munching on a rose macaron when I spot @cassieny lying on one of the chairs, her skirt riding up her thighs as her husband snaps a few more pictures. She looks down at her legs and yanks the dress a little higher. Then, she shifts her Chanel handbag so it’s clearly visible in the picture. She must have gotten it during her earlier shopping spree. Meanwhile, he moves around and even crouches on the ground to get a different angle. Then, she takes the phone from him and studies the screen. A smile forms on her face. He must have gotten a good one, the dutiful husband.
Sure enough, @cassieny has a new photo up a moment later.Almost like being at the beach, but better, she wrote, adding an umbrella emoji. Back in real life, she’s wrapping an arm around her husband’s waist, holding her phone above their faces. I’m too far away to see his expression, but he seems a little tense, his shoulders too close to his ears. As if to prove my instinct, he turns his face to the side, away from the phone, like he doesn’t want to be in the photo. Or not like this. Maybe not even with her.
His gaze turns in my direction and my mouth goes dry. I drop the now half-empty box of macarons at my feet—these things are addictive—then bend down to retrieve it, going as slowly as my limbs can move when my heart beats louder than a marching band.
I count to three, then allow myself to glance up. They’re gone. I swallow hard as I scan the park, each of the chairs, down the alleys, scrutinizing every tree in case they’re hiding behind it, the wifey on her Paris honeymoon and her French husband.There are no new posts on her Instagram. I hit Refresh again and again, my throat closing at the idea that I might not get to know what comes next. I’m not going to let her get away so easily.
I stand up, readjust my sunglasses and my hat, and start walking toward where they were. When I reach the chair she was sitting on, a sigh of reliefescapes me. There they are, walking in the direction of the northern exit of the park, Cassie staring at her phone, not paying attention to where they’re going, and him walking a few steps ahead. It’s almost as if they’re not together.
I fall in step behind them, far enough that they won’t feel my presence, but not so far that I might risk losing them. For a while I feel confident about my chances of not being seen, at least until they stop in the middle of the sidewalk. She says something to him. He smiles but his shoulders are still crunched up. Then she wraps her arms around his neck, hanging off her husband like she wants him to carry the whole weight of her. That’s her thing, isn’t it? To expect the people in her life to just take care of her.
Time stands still as I watch them watch each other. Is this the look of love? Something feels off, but maybe I’m imagining it. In some ways he reminds me of an older, jaded husband, the one who has three kids and a double-mortgage-shaped noose around his neck, along with a two-hour commute to the office. I used to see that type of guy all the time at work. I pitied them, and at the same time, I would have killed to have some of their problems.
But on the other hand, this husband looks like a brand-new boyfriend who’s still not sure how to behave around his girl. Should he hold her hand? Offer to carry her shopping? There’s a tentativeness to his moves. Almost like he worries about what people will see. What they will think.
And while there are plenty of passersby on the street, I’m the only one paying attention to this: his face moving closer to hers, the slight lift of his eyebrow, a question in his eyes. But then he comes to an answer, pressing his lips against hers, pulling her body closer until they are only one, his hands in her hair. I’m several feet away, but I can practically feel the heat emanating from their bodies. The want. The love.Thisis a honeymoon. And as I stand there watching what I’ll never have, I can’t contain the feeling growing inside of me: my life is so still, so insignificant, it might as well be dead in the water.
Chapter 11
Cassie
Now
