The excitement of the day is slowly waning off. Alisha and I found a plaque on the Boulevard Saint Michel that I hadn’t photographed yet. One about Jean Montvallier-Boulogne, a twenty-four-year-old who died in 1944 during the Liberation. Paris has endured so much throughout the centuries; maybe that’s why it seems so resilient. Maybe that’s why it’s so fascinating.
We ate in the small Greek restaurant in the 11th arrondissement, and we talked about the company, about her dreams, about important things but not dangerous ones. Dangerous topics like my past, and my demons.
I didn’t confide to her about my past. I didn’t tell her how much seeing Lucas again scares me, because reality is usually so much more screwed up than all the fantasies in my head.
As soon as I’m back in my apartment, I get comfy: large sweatpants, a sweater from the School of Performing Arts, big fuzzy socks. I take out my cell phone and put it to charge. Right away it beeps with a voice mail.
I sit down at my computer.
It’s almost ten p.m.
Four in the afternoon in the city. I turn on Skype, but my parents are rarely on. Em isn’t either. She’s either taking a power nap after waking up at three in the morning to prepare sweets for their new bakery, or she’s gone to see Nick.
I could google Lucas now. I could check all the stories, check what his past with that girl is, and what happened to his friend, but I don’t. Because I want him to tell me—I don’t want to take away his decision to tell me. And I have a feeling, even though he seems grateful for the spotlight and success, there are a few aspects that destroyed him.
I click on Mom’s profile and call her cell phone. “Hi, honey.” She actually picks up, which has me all sorts of confused. She’s usually busy at this time.
“Hey. Where are you?”
“Running errands. I finished work early and I’m going to surprise your dad with dinner.”
“You sound good.”
“You don’t.” There’s shuffling in the background, honking. “You sound sad, is everything okay?”
“I don’t know.” The words tumble out. I didn’t mean to be blunt. But hearing concern in my mother’s voice is disconcerting and I wasn’t prepared for that.
“Your dad and I have been talking a lot these recent days. And we know it hasn’t been easy for you either. And we know we haven’t been there.”
I’m going to cry at my computer. I’m going to lose it right here and now. There’s so much sadness in me I don’t know what to do with it. “I…” My voice cracks. “I know it was hard for you too.”
“Yes. It was and it still is. And part of us will always miss your little sister. Part of us will always wonder if we could have done anything differently, tried another course of chemo. Anything. But… Wait, honey, let me get in the car.” A door opens and closes. Probably our usual driver picking her up. “What I’m trying to say is that we didn’t forget about you. It’s just we were both grieving in different ways, and part of us didn’t want to bring you down with us.”
“But I wasn’t there.” This time I can’t stop the tears from falling down.
“You were. You were there. You called every single day. We didn’t know that it was going to happen when it did. Baby, you tried everything. You postponed your entry into the ballet company until they gave you an ultimatum and Mia told you to go.” Mom sounds like she actually believes what she’s saying, that she actually believes I’m not guilty of abandoning them.
“I wanted to be there. If I had known…”
“Again, you were there. In every phone call, in every video you sent, in every little thing you did even when you weren’t close by, you were there.” She clears her throat. “You came back as soon as you could. And Mia knew you loved her.”
“I miss her. I miss her so much.” And I continue to cry, tears I haven’t let myself feel in a very long time.
“I know. And I want you to be able to talk to me about it. To me or to your dad. Or to a therapist.” She pauses and I’m not sure if it’s so she doesn’t cry too, or if she’s thinking about the way to phrase her next sentence. “Are you doing okay otherwise? With everything?”
And I know what she’s asking between the lines. She wants to know if I used anything again, if I went down the dark path because I couldn’t cope.
“I’m doing okay. I was thinking about calling Dr. Archer to see if he could refer me to someone in Paris.”
“That could be a good idea. And honey?”
“Hmm.”
“Your dad and I will be there for your next show. And we will call you next week, okay?”
“Okay, Mom. I love you.”
“We love you too.” And she hangs up. And my heart’s fuller than it’s been in such a long time. I don’t know what brought them to talking about the situation more, or how they started working on it, but hearing Mom like this gives me hope that maybe everything will be okay. For months, I was scared they would split up because I’ve read this happens a lot in those situations. People not able to connect and to grieve a child together, and I wondered how they would do without each other. My parents fought so much for their own relationship, they fought so much for my sister, and for me.
Maybe, I can tell Lucas about what happened to me and he won’t freak out, he won’t leave me behind.
Maybe I can take a chance.
But before, I need to write to Dr. Archer and get that referral.