Christophe Normally Prefers to park near the entrance, but the Castorama parking lot is packed that Saturday afternoon and, after driving around for a while, he settles for a spot at the other end.
“We’ll have to walk, sweetie.”
In the backseat, Gabriel is reading a Donald Duck comic book. Christophe has dressed him in too many layers as usual—sweatshirt, puffer jacket, scarf—and the kid’s cheeks are bright red.
“You’re not too hot, are you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, take your scarf off, unzip your coat.”
Gabriel puts his book down and obeys.
He’s eight years old now. His hair is darker these days, and it falls over his eyes, behind his glasses. He doesn’t want to get his hair cut. Anyway, his mother likes it that way.
Every time Christophe picks his son up, he can’t help noticing the changes. Gabriel is no longer that little blond kid with a disproportionately large head and a body made from bits of wood, looking up at him with those innocent, faun-like eyes. Sometimes, late at night in bed, Christophe will scroll through old photos on his cell phone. He stares at the little boy sitting at a miniature table with his friends from day care, all of them in smocks, working hard on their paintings, and he has to admit to himself that he has no memory of that period. He was too busy dealing with all the shit in his life: work, the separation from Charlie, hangovers after partying with his friends. Sometimes he thinks that he missed all the good stuff. Depressed, he gets up and goes out to smoke on the doorstep. That time is lost to him forever, he thinks. Maybe he should delete the photos, condemn himself to the present for good. But he doesn’t have the guts to go through with it.
Gabriel shuts the car door and takes his father’s hand, and the two of them walk toward the store. In the parking lot, people push carts filled with bags of compost, curtain rods, and rolls of wallpaper. They all look in a rush. They wear jeans and sneakers and down vests and talk with strong accents that make him smile. At the entrance, a woman wearing lots of makeup and a paper chef’s hat is selling waffles, and the sugary smell makes their mouths water.
“Can I have one?” asks the boy.
“Maybe on the way out.”
Christophe picks up a shopping basket and, after checking his list, sets off in search of a smoke detector. He forces himself to walk slowly so his son can keep up.
“I wish I had a toolbox.”
“Really? What would you do with it?”
“Home improvement, of course.”
“Well, you could ask Santa for one.”
A roll of the eyes. “Santa doesn’t exist.”
“Oh?”
“Come on, you know he doesn’t.”
“I wish you’d warned me, I could have saved some money to buy presents.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” says the kid.
In the electrical supplies aisle, Christophe picks out two power strips and grabs a two-meter stick because it’s always handy to have around; then he heads toward the gardening section at the back of the store.
“I need to check out the Weed Eaters, see how much they cost.”
“Okay.”
On the way there, his eye is caught by a figure in the bathroom aisle. A tall woman in skintight jeans, a checkered shirt, and Converse sneakers, with a ponytail tied high up on her head. He stops, heart pounding.
“Dad…what is it?”
“Nothing, sweetie, it’s okay.”
Hélène is there, chatting with a salesman. Beside her are a preteen girl and her younger sister, about the same age as Gabriel. He can’t see the woman’s face and he doesn’t need to. The way she stands with her hand on her hip, the way she tilts her neck, the curve at the base of her spine, the straight shoulders, and that prominent, denim-clad butt…he recognizes her in a second, instinctively. A whole world rushes back into his memory, full of light and details.
“Are we going?”
“Just a second, honey.”
Christophe shakes his head and squeezes his son’s hand more tightly.
“Let’s just go home,” he says reluctantly.
“We’re not going to look at Weed Eaters?”
“Another time.”
“What about the waffles?”
“We don’t have time.”
“Why not?”
Christophe gets dragged into a series of annoying negotiations. He tries to usher his son toward the exit, but Gabriel digs his heels in.
“You’re going too fast!” he complains. “And what about my waffle?”
“Come on, we’re in a rush.”
Christophe glances over his shoulder. Hélène is standing in the middle of the central aisle, watching him flee. He stops then and she smiles politely. They take a few steps toward each other.
“It’s strange, bumping into you here…”
“Yeah. What are you doing in the area? Don’t you live in Nancy anymore?”
“I do, I do.”
Christophe can tell that she’s affected by their meeting too. Her cheeks have flushed pink, as they always do when she’s excited, and the hair on her head is curling slightly. He recognizes the signs. She used to look the same way after they’d made love. He also recognizes her scent—a blend of detergent, perfume, and her skin—which hasn’t changed at all. The children stare stonily at each other. Hélène’s started telling him about her life, mostly out of a fear of awkward silence. She tries to be cheerful, to seem perfectly at ease. She comes off like a TV host.
The house she and Philippe used to own has sold (and sold well, she adds, with a satisfied raise of the eyebrows), so she’s managed to buy a really nice two-bedroom place in a modern apartment building, and best of all she’s found an old farm in the Vosges, near Saint-Michel-sur-Meurthe: a beautiful spot, surrounded by fields, hardly any neighbors, and a great view.
“I’d forgotten how nice it is to live in a place where no one can see you,” she says.
Christophe nods. He’s let go of Gabriel’s hand, and Hélène gives her daughters a ten-euro bill so they can go and buy waffles with their new friend.
“It’s a lot of work, though. I spend most of my weekends fixing it up.”
“How’s your job?”
“I’m not so invested in it anymore. When my little one’s a bit older, I’m planning to start my own firm. I’ve got so many ideas.”
“That’s great,” says Christophe. “So how are you coping with the home improvement?”
“Not too bad.” Then, for good measure, she adds: “You and Gabriel should come visit sometime.”
“Sure,” says Christophe with a smile. “I’d like that.”
He looks at her. She’s beautiful. Beautiful like memories of past vacations, like those familiar faces that flash through your mind at the smell of cut grass, or are resurrected when the afternoon sun filters through the blinds, stirring the memory of a nap in a house where you were once happy. Hélène contains all that shared time. Six months of life in a single breath.
“So what about you?” she asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you still working at the same place?”
“Yeah. And I’m kind of the hockey club’s general manager too.”
“Whoa, that’s great!” says Hélène.
He can tell she is relieved that his life has moved on too.
“We’re aiming to reach the top division in three or four years. It won’t be easy, but we’re building from a solid foundation.”
“Absolutely. You have to believe!”
Christophe gives a little snort of amusement. She hasn’t changed. Nor has he. And yet nothing is the same anymore. He feels his shoulders tense, and he smiles.
“It’s great seeing you again.”
“Yeah. For me too.”
Just then, the children reappear, overexcited and sticky with sugar.
“Oh, fantastic. No, no, no, don’t touch me with your disgusting hands!”
Hélène is standing on tiptoe, eyes wide like someone in a horror movie, which makes the kids laugh. Christophe notices that Clara is giving him a strange look as she bites into her waffle.
“Well…” says Hélène after a short silence.
“Yep.”
They move as if to kiss each other’s cheeks, then back out.
“I’ve got a couple more errands to run,” says Hélène.
“Okay. Well, enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
“Thanks. You too. Bye, Gabriel.”
The little boy gives a thumbs-up before taking another bite out of his waffle. His chin is covered with powdered sugar and there’s a sort of white halo on his chest. Christophe feels his son’s sticky, trusting fingers insert themselves into his hand. They head to the checkout, then out to the car. Before leaving the parking lot, Christophe slows down in front of the store’s entrance.
“Who was that?” asks Gabriel.
“A friend.”
“I remember her.”
“You do?”
“Sure.”
“Are they nice memories?”
“They’re fine.”
Christophe turns to the backseat and sees his son forcing a smile, just as he does for photographs. He is already lost in Donald Duck again. Christophe’s cell phone buzzes. It’s Nadia. He picks up.
“Yes, honey?”
The station wagon sets off on the road to Cornécourt. Christophe looks up at the sky, where a few gray clouds are massing. But he says, yeah, absolutely, a barbecue is a great idea. The first of the year. They exchange a few more words, blow kisses, the call ends, and he steps hard on the gas, his heart in pieces. Behind him, the little boy, surprised by the sudden acceleration, calls out excitedly:
“Come on, boys, let’s do this!”