We hang out in Lourdes for a few more days. We’ve come all this way, so why not? Mom and I go for a walk around the city, stopping here and there to sketch. It reminds me of old times, when we would sit at the table drawing each other. Today my anger is gone. I don’t feel irritated even when Mom puts her hand on my arm to steady me, or guides me through a door.
We find a cool gallery on rue Mozart and stop in to see metal sculptures of dogs, bulls, and birds.
“This artist has a way with the welder, doesn’t he?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, sure does.” I’m a little relieved to see that Lourdes is about more than the lame and the sick.
There are also horses for riding, and a railway leading to the top of a mountain—Le Pic du Jer—from which we can see the village of Lourdes with all its orange-tiled roofs, Bernadette’s old hometown, Pau, and the lush valley below.
Before we leave, we duck into a souvenir shop. It’s full of Our Lady of Lourdes key chains and T-shirts. You can buy coasters and silver spoons, and, of course, containers of water. I remember how moved Whitney was by the story of Bernadette and buy a bottle of spring water for her. There’s a picture of Bernadette on the label, her hands folded in prayer. The lady in white hovers above her.
The clerk looks at my clawed hand and gives me a sickly sweet smile.
While she’s ringing up my purchase, I bite down on my tongue. I want to tell her that the water’s not for me, that she doesn’t need to feel sorry for me, or hope for a cure, but then again, it’s none of her business.
I hand over the money and quickly turn away.
On Friday, we take the train back to Paris.
When we walk into the hotel lobby, I cry out in surprise. “Raoul!”
He’s sitting on one of the velvet-upholstered chairs, reading a newspaper.
“Hello, ladies,” he says without moving. Is it my imagination, or is he suddenly a little shy?
Mom stops still in her tracks and drops her purse. Incredibly, tears are pooling in her eyes. She picks up her bag, and we go to him together. All three of us stand there hugging and kissing in the hotel lobby.
“I was just reading a review of your show,” he says to Mom when we finally break apart.
“I didn’t know you could read French,” I say.
“Un petit peu.” He shrugs. “I could make out some words, like magnifique and radicale.”
“Are you staying here?” I ask.
“Yeah. I got the art deco room,” Raoul says.
“Cool,” I say. “Can we see it?”
“Sure. And then I’m taking you both out to dinner.”
I slip back into our room to get the CD I bought for Raoul. “This is for you,” I say, handing it over.
His face lights up. “Rai! This puts me in the mood for couscous. I bet there’s a North African restaurant around here. What do you think?”
“Sounds great,” Mom says, linking her arm through his.
I nod in agreement. I’ve never had couscous, but I trust Raoul. So far everything we’ve eaten with him has been delicious.
Raoul turns to me and says, “So what’s Gadget Girl up to these days?”
My mouth falls open. Did Whitney tell? Did I leave some incriminating evidence in my room? Did he hack my website? “How did you know?”
He shrugs and looks at Mom.
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” she says. “All of the evidence is there—the eggbeater, the macchinetta. And there was that story about the giant red sea turtle that crawled into Gadget Girl’s camp with a bell on its back. That’s a story from the Shikoku Pilgrimage that I told you about. I thought you wanted people to know it was you.”
I nod slowly. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I did want them to know, underneath it all. And maybe it’s time to come out about my work.
“Gadget Girl has gone global,” I say, no longer able to contain my enthusiasm. I tell them about Hervé’s translation, and about Gadget Girl in chalk on the sidewalks of Paris.
“Good for her,” Raoul says with a wink. “Now about that other project.”
And then I remember that he’s supposed to be babysitting my sprout. I kinda forgot about that when I sent the e-mail inviting him over.
“Oh, yeah. How’s my indigo plant doing?”
Raoul’s face goes a little cloudy. “I think it misses you. I followed your instructions to the letter, but it started looking a little droopy soon after you left. I even played it some Turkish music, but it didn’t seem to do any good. I’m really sorry, Aiko. I know you were counting on me.”
Oh, well. I can’t exactly blame him for almost killing my plant. And really, what does it matter? I was trying to prove myself as an indigo farmer in order to impress my father. What do I care what he thinks, this man who couldn’t open his heart to a tiny, helpless baby, a man who ignores his flesh and blood across the sea? I have nothing to prove to him.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say to Raoul. “There will be other sprouts.”
Mom excuses herself for a moment to ask the concierge for a restaurant recommendation and then leads us out to a cab.
We wind up in a place a few streets away called Le Souk. We’re shown to a low table and seated on cushions. Arabian dance music pulses from the speakers in the corner, and the scent of mint and cooking meat fills the air. A waiter wearing a red fez brings us menus and sprinkles water on our hands.
Raoul brings his fingers to his nose. “Orange blossom water,” he tells us. He peruses the menu, then orders a tagine.
“You’ll like it,” he says. “It’s meat and dried fruit cooked in a special clay pot.”
While we wait for our food, Mom fills Raoul in on our sightseeing activities. She glosses over our trip to Lourdes, and doesn’t mention Hervé at all. That’s for me to tell.
The waiter brings a pot of mint tea and pours us each a cup.
Raoul raises his. “A toast,” he says, “in honor of Aiko’s fifteenth birthday.”
“It’s already over,” I say, embarrassed.
“Nevertheless.”
We clink cups, and then he pulls a small package from his jacket pocket. “Happy birthday.”
I open it slowly, trying to prepare my reaction. I remember all the awful gifts I got from Mom’s previous boyfriend, the effort that it took to appear glad. They are both watching me, which makes it all worse.
But when I’ve unwrapped the small box and opened the lid, I gasp. Inside is a dozen pairs of high heels—charms dangling from a bracelet. These are the high-heeled shoes presented to girls at their quinceañeras. “Thank you! It’s perfect!”
“May I?” Raoul reaches across the table.
I hand over the bracelet, and he clasps it around my wrist.
“And now,” he says, reaching into his other pocket and pulling out another small fuzzy box, “would you have me as your stepfather?”
I look across the table at Mom. Her eyes are filled with tears—happy tears, judging by the smile trembling on her lips. She sees the question in my eyes and nods.
“Yes,” I say. “I would.”
He opens the box. The diamond glitters in the lamplight. We all admire it for a moment, there against the blue velvet, before he removes it and slides it onto my mother’s ring finger. They kiss.
I smile, tears pooling in my eyes as well. “I think this calls for champagne.”
We are almost too happy to eat, but then the food comes, and it’s irresistible. The waiter brings a clay pot with a cone-shaped lid. The lid is lifted, releasing a rich, spicy aroma, and we ladle lamb stewed with pears, almonds, and raisins onto beds of couscous.
When the champagne arrives, I am allowed a sip. It’s not enough to make me drunk, but I feel giddy—giddy enough so that when the other patrons start grooving to the techno-Arabian music, I don’t even resist when Raoul pulls me to my feet. There, in Le Souk, I get my first dance.