I walked alone to my car after dinner, eyes upturned to the stars.
“She’s getting married, Mom,” I whispered. “I think you’d agree that she’s the best part of us, so let’s hope she does a better job choosing than we did.”
Raisin met me at the door when I returned. I fed him a half can of his favorite pâté, then changed into my pajamas.
I baked until my level of distraction surpassed my progress. Then I climbed the steps to my mom’s old bedroom. Gone were the clutter and chaos, replaced by open space, lacy curtains, and braided area rugs. A small bookcase anchored one wall. Nightstands with lamps bookended the bed. The space was technically mine, but it was also still hers. Standing in the doorway, I could see her at the mirror, checkingher hair or putting on jewelry. She’d remained beautiful and steadfast in the face of absolute hell.
I aspired to be half as strong.
I couldn’t recall when I first started blaming her for Dad’s mistreatment, but I was deeply sorry for that now. I leaned against the doorjamb for support. Arms crossed and emotions high, I felt her presence in the room and clung to it. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” I whispered. “I should’ve been a better daughter. And when I grew up, I should’ve been a better friend.”
Raisin trotted past me and headed for the windowsill, where he kept tabs on the world below. Moonlight beamed through the gauzy curtains and illuminated the closet door.
I moved into the light and opened the door.
Mom’s walk-in closet was stuffed to capacity with things I’d tucked aside to go through later and boxes of items that had been there long before that. Clearing and sorting the space would take days, but something edged me forward anyway.
I started with a hatbox, worn and frayed along its edge. The weight of it suggested I’d find more than a hat inside. I carried it to the bed and reluctantly removed the lid, and found piles of photos and paperwork. I nearly returned the box to the closet, too tired and weary to start sorting, but the corner of an old report card caught my eye.
I crawled onto the bed and lifted a stack of papers. Every report card I’d earned from preschool through college Mom had neatly organized, chronologically, with great care. Underneath those were poems from my middle school day camp days, friendship bracelets from high school, my first driver’s permit, and certificates for national honors society induction. Loose photos from birthdays and family vacations mingled with band and choir concert mementos and candid shots from local hikes and backyard barbecues.
Wonder stole my breath as I dug more deeply into the box.
“I can’t believe you kept all this.” She really had cherished me and my life.
I overturned the box with desperate impatience and found photos from my parents’ wedding, and from her parents’ wedding. I didn’t know much about any of my grandparents, but I knew they’d lived a tough life, raising kids in the Great Depression and getting by with very little. I couldn’t help wondering if they were happy as I stared at their youthful faces, captured in black and white.
When had the miserable marriages of my lineage begun? “Was it with you?” I asked. Or had it started long before?
A small notebook slipped free from the pile of papers and photos, an Eiffel Tower on its cover. I lifted it for a closer look.
Inside, an image of Mom and Sébastien was stuck to the page with brittle, yellowed tape. The couple clung to one another outside a restaurant called Le Bistro, and the street sign behind them read Rue Pasteur.
I raised the book to my chest and smiled through the window at the moonlight beyond. I’d found a clue to their location. Maybe tohislocation. “Thank you, Mom.”
I held a book club meeting on the following Friday night, eager to show off the redecorated place and hear what my friends had been up to these last few months. I feared no one would come but extended the invitation anyway in the name of bravery.
I created an elaborate charcuterie board and a vanilla tarte tatin that smelled like my best dreams. Beside those, I set out bottles of wine and water. There wasn’t enough time to read a book, so I’d simply sent the invite as a way to reconnect. We could pick the book for next month as a group.
Alicia dithered in the kitchen while I paced nervously in the living room, keeping watch through my front window. “My god, everything looks so good,” she called. “I’m starving, and I want to eat it all.”
I laughed. “Eat, then,” I said. “It’s for you too.”
“No. I’m waiting. I can’t be caught with a mouthful of bruschetta or basil leaves in my teeth when everyone arrives.”
Might not be a problem,I thought, dryly. Who knew if anyone would actually come?
The back door opened, and Ilona’s voice echoed through the first floor. “I brought a cheese ball. Am I late?”
Alicia moaned loudly. “I love a good cheese ball. Bring it here.”
I smiled. “Please help yourself and tell Alicia to eat too.”
We settled in the living room a few minutes later, small plates of goodies in hand.
“How’s the search for your dad going?” Alicia asked.
I’d called her the moment I found the new photo, and together we’d searched until after midnight for a lead on his whereabouts. As it turned out, there were dozens of towns in France with restaurants called Le Bistro on streets called Rue Pasteur.
