Ninety-seven days—that was all it took.
Ninety-seven days, from diagnosis to death.
Chapter Five
Upon landing in Paris, Emma and Rosalyn exchanged business cards.
“I’m sure I’ll see you in baggage claim, or passport control, or customs,” said Emma, urging Rosalyn to go on ahead while she waited for an attendant with a wheelchair. “Sorry to say, none of us is getting out of this airport quickly.”
Rosalyn disembarked to the terminal, stopping in a restroom to comb her hair and splash water on her face. She snuck a look at herself in the bathroom mirror and immediately regretted it. Not that anyone looked their best after a transatlantic flight, even in first class. Still.
The face staring back at her was haggard and wan, dark circles underlining her sherry-colored eyes. Her mother would have been appalled, but then, that was nothing new. The Rosalyn-That-Was would have primped for an airplane voyage; she would have kept a makeup bag close at hand. Today’s Rosalyn wore no makeup to take the edge off. Her dark brown hair was shaggy and badly in need of a trim; she should have taken care of it before this trip, but the thoughtof being trapped in a salon chair while a chatty hair stylist fussed over her had been too much to contemplate.
Now she wished she had toughed it out. Somehow it felt worse to look so unkempt in France, among Parisians known the world over for their sense of style. The women at the mirrors on either side of her were well-coiffed and chic, stunning in spite of the harsh fluorescent lighting. Rosalyn hoped standards might be more relaxed out in the countryside, in Champagne.
She practically fell asleep on her feet as she waited, glassy-eyed and bovinelike, in the swollen line for immigration control. Later, at baggage claim, she spotted Emma.
“Still time to change your mind,” Emma said as she directed her escort to grab her many bags. “Want to ride with me?”
“I really do appreciate the offer, but I need my own car. I’ll be driving all over the region, visiting wineries. And I’m booked in a hotel in Paris for the first couple of days anyway.”
“Well, I can hardly argue with Paris. But Champagne’s a small place,” said Emma. “I’ll be staying in Épernay, which is a ways from Cochet, but I feel sure we’ll cross paths. If not, give me a shout. Honestly, I would love the company. If for no other reason than that it would be nice to speak English over dinner.”
Rosalyn thanked her. On the one hand, she didn’t have the bandwidth for any new “friends.” On the other, as Hugh tried to hammer into her, the wine business was all about socializing. She really should inquire about tasting the wines from Emma’s vineyards, if they weren’t yet represented in the U.S. market. And... she would love to find out what had happened with those letters.
“It was really good to meet you,” Rosalyn said.
Emma stilled, fixing Rosalyn with that disconcertingly direct gaze. “I try to stay away from giving unsolicited advice, Rosalyn, but believe me when I say: You’ll muddle through. Life’s not easy, and itsure as hell isn’t fair. But we’re survivors, you and I. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”
Rosalyn watched as Emma, the wheelchair, and her escort were swallowed by the crowd milling about the spinning luggage carousels. A second man trotted behind, pushing a trolley loaded high with Emma’s matching luggage.
If she hadn’t felt so empty inside, Rosalyn would have sworn that she felt bereft.
Almost as if she had lost her only friend in France.
?Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Emma’s parting words reverberated in Rosalyn’s mind as she progressed through customs and finally departed from the main terminal to find the taxi stand.
This was the same thing her grandmother had told her at Dash’s memorial service, and as far as advice went, it was helpful. Far better than “You’ll meet someone else someday,” or the ever-popular “He’s in a better place; at least he’s no longer in pain.” Much less the exquisitely painful: “It’s a shame you didn’t have children so you’d have someone to remember him by.”
For the past two years, Rosalyn had been putting one foot in front of the other, like a good soldier marching off to war.
The directive had kept her upright and working, with only intermittent sessions on the bathroom floor, gazing at the medicine cabinet. One foot in front of the other kept her functioning while she settled Dash’s estate and came to understand the full extent of her disastrous financial situation. It kept her going while she represented Hugh’s wine selection to restaurants, grocery outlets, and liquor stores; pretended to enjoy an occasional get-together with friends; and now landed in France on a trip most would envy.
One foot in front of the other had kept her marking time. Feeling more and more isolated with each passing day, not only from her life with Dash but from the world as a whole. From herself.
Rosalyn had practiced meditation and breathing exercises and yoga. She had hiked in the redwoods and strolled by the ocean. She had tried journaling but stayed away from art projects—it was too raw, too emotional, to return to the creativity that had once sustained her but now served only to remind her of what it had been like to be happy.
She had stopped going to therapy when the counselor mentioned—tossed off in an almost passing way—that “In this life, pain is not optional, butsufferingis.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”had been the response screaming inside Rosalyn’s head.Suffering is optional?She had rolled the concept around in her mind for a few days but couldn’t absorb the meaning. It felt too much like blame.
Rosalyn canceled her next appointment and didn’t go back.
The truth was that there was no remedy to losing a loved one. No way to reframe it, no matter how talented the therapist. No one could say anything to make it better; nothing could be done about it. It was justthere, hunkering down, a malevolent, unbearable weight she was forced to carry.
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”Rosalyn felt like saying to anyone who suggested she wasn’t coping well. It was just that... mere survival didn’t feel like enough anymore.
