When I wake up the next morning, I lie in bed for a few moments, remembering last night. I conjure Hervé at the door, looking gorgeous and handing me a rose. And then my hand tucked in his as we walked around the gallery. I picture us wandering onto the veranda, the moonlight falling on his face, but try as I might, I can’t block out the next part. That girl. Celeste. I sigh and get out of bed.
I find Mom sitting at the table in our room with a pile of newspapers. She’s rustling through the pages of Le Matin, biting her lower lip. When she hears me enter the room, she looks up.
“Feel better?” she asks. Her gaze drills into me. I wonder how much Giselle told her.
“Mmm.” I’d rather not talk about myself and what happened last night. “Reviews?” I ask, hoping to distract her.
“Yes,” she says, brightening. “So far, so good. The critic for the Herald Tribune was very positive.”
I pick up the newspaper she’s mentioned. On page fourteen there’s a big photo of Aiko, En Pointe with an admirer off to the side. My little feet are once again attracting attention. I skim through the article until I come across my name: “Ms. Cassidy’s art was heavily influenced by the birth of her disabled daughter, Aiko.”
I imagine Hervé picking up this same newspaper, and reading these words. He won’t be able to stop thinking about my disability. But that’s stupid. He’s seen me. He’s seen my hand, and he’s watched me walk. Anyone who took a good look at me could tell that I have a disability. Still, I’m burning with shame.
“Why did you have to talk about me?” I ask, dropping the newspaper onto the table.
She reaches out and strokes my hair. “I didn’t. The reporter must have dug up information about you somewhere else.”
She’s right. It’s no big secret that Laina Cassidy has a disabled daughter. Ever since that first award-winning sculpture, my existence has been part of the public record. And maybe the reviewer was watching me last night. Maybe she made up her own conclusions.
“You know, some people never acknowledge their children with special needs. Have you ever heard of Arthur Miller? He was a famous playwright who was married to Marilyn Monroe for a while. Anyway, he had a son with Down syndrome. The boy lived in a home for many years. That little factoid doesn’t even show up in his autobiography,” Mom says. “Would you like people in the future to think that I was somehow ashamed of you? That I kept you a secret because I didn’t want people to know about you?”
So what about Arthur Miller? Maybe he was respecting his son’s privacy. It’s not like his father could ask his permission to put him in his book. He might not have understood what that meant. Why do you care about what people will think? I want to scream. Why is everything always about you? But I keep my mouth shut because I know what she would say: that as an artist, she has a responsibility to promote social justice. That she is doing this, everything, for me. And besides, she could ask me the same questions. Why do I care what people think? Why do I think everything is always about me?
“Look, I know it’s hard to have a mother in the spotlight,” Mom says, taking my hand. “But here’s the good news. All of my scheduled interviews and appearances are over. We can spend the next couple of weeks being tourists. It’ll just be you and me, no reporters, no photographers. We’ll blend in with the scenery.”
I doubt that. People always notice my mother, and they always notice my limp. But I understand that there is no way at this point to undo Mom’s fame. And I can’t exactly erase the article and its references to me.
“Okay,” I say, wanting to change the subject before she starts to lecture again.
She releases my hand, and then knots her fingers together, pleading. “I’m really sorry, Aiko,” she says, “but I have a meeting this morning. Some guy from last night, a CEO. He’s interested in commissioning a sculpture for the lobby of his company.”
“Go ahead,” I say. I’d rather be alone anyway.
“It’ll just be a couple of hours, I think,” she says. “And Aiko, if it comes through, it’ll be good for us. I’ll put it toward your college fund.”
So now she thinks I’m all sullen because she’s leaving me alone. Better that than the truth. I don’t want her patting my back and telling me that there are other fish in the sea. I don’t want her saying “I told you so,” after she pointed out how flirtatious French guys can be. I’d rather sit here and stare out the window. Maybe eat some chocolate.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I need to catch up on my reading, anyway.” I do, in fact, have a stack of brand new manga waiting for me. After the sulking and chocolate, I may even crack a few spines.
“Thanks,” she says, giving me a weak smile. “Tomorrow, on your birthday, we’ll do whatever you want.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I’m hardly in the mood to celebrate.
I click on the TV and try to decipher French news while she gets dressed and made up. She hasn’t asked me about last night, and for that I am grateful. Maybe she bought the story about a stomach virus. Maybe she thinks that Hervé is nothing to me.
After she leaves for her meeting, I sit and stare out the window for a while. I eat half of a Toblerone candy bar. Finally, I take a deep breath and get dressed. I should go down to the café. I need to apologize. I’m the one who invited Hervé to the opening, and I’m the one who ran away. I’m the one who created this whole big romance in my head. Maybe Hervé was just doing what French guys do—being charming and flirtatious. It’s not like he pledged his undying love. And he’s been really nice to me. We can still be friends, can’t we? We can talk about manga and music and American culture.
I put on a pair of indigo leggings and a black tunic and then I head down. I can see through the window that my usual table is taken. Hervé is standing with his back to me, talking to the girl sitting there. I stop in my tracks when I see that the girl is Celeste. This time she isn’t with her friends. It’s just the two of them. They seem to be having a heated discussion. Hervé’s hands are swooping and diving like wild birds, and Celeste’s mouth is in a pout. Maybe they’re having a fight about last night. Maybe she’s mad that he was with me, the artist’s daughter, instead of her. At any rate, this doesn’t seem like the best time to pop in and apologize.
I hurry away, back to the hotel room. I open my notebook and start to draw.