I stood in front of my mirror once more, but instead of trying on a million outfits like before, this time I was wearing whatever the hell I was wearing. The clothes that made me feel comfortable. I walked over to the window of my tiny apartment in the heart of the city and looked at the succulent leaves on the windowsill; they’d all started growing little baby plants. I picked up my bottle of water and gave them a small spray. Soon their leaves would dry up completely and fall off, and they would be ready to start their new journeys . . . kind of like me.
I smiled and rolled my eyes. Vicki, Vicki, Vicki, with her planty analogies that made so much sense that it was scary and kind of unnerving. She and I had continued our sessions via Zoom, although she said I was ready to face the world without her and our work together was coming to an end. But to commemorate it, and the work we’d done together, I had a surprise to show her in our next session. I looked down at my arm and rolled my sleeve up, running my fingertips over the echeveria I’d had tattooed on my forearm. It was healing nicely, but damn it had hurt!
Zac loved the tattoo, though. I’d shown him over one of our regular FaceTimes. He was now obsessed with the idea of getting a tattoo and had been drawing stars, snakes, and Egyptian symbols all over himself. He was very much obsessed with ancient Egypt and Tutankhamun now, and was currently making up his own hieroglyphic language. He’s such a genius. I miss him so much, but I think me being gone has been good for him in many ways. He’s learned to be a bit more independent—the other day he was so excited to tell me that he’d taken his water bottle with him all by himself, and carried it the entire time he was out. That might not sound like a lot for some, but trust me, that’s huge for Zac. He’s also started trying different color foods. I was so proud of him.
I was excited and nervous for my first day at university—more excited, though, especially since I’d gotten a message from Thembi the night before saying she was packing her bags and was also on the way to Paris. She’d gotten into fashion school and had finally told her parents. After a big fight, many tears, and a lot of talking about feelings, her parents had agreed she should go and follow her dreams. I was so excited to see her; I’d missed her.
I reread the message I’d gotten from Jake this morning. We’d been FaceTiming every day for hours, and at night had gotten into the habit of watching Netflix together. We were currently watching The Sopranos. His choice. A classic, he said. I was choosing the next show. He’d moved to Stellenbosch already, and was also starting classes soon, although water polo practice had already begun.
JAKE: Anything but JustLori, good luck for your first day, although I know you’re not going to need it. You’re brilliant and beautiful and everyone is going to love you, not as much as I love you tho ;)
Sometimes when I thought of Jake now, I thought of what Thembi once said to me: That maybe humans weren’t meant to be with one person for the rest of their lives. Maybe we were meant to be with a person for a period of time, get what we need from them in that moment, and then move on. Sometimes this thought broke my heart. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the thought filled me with such happiness, because even if Jake and I weren’t going to be together forever, he’d helped change me. Sure, I’d done the changing, too, but he had helped and because of that, he would always be with me in a way.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. On the way I picked my pill up and swallowed it with a large sip of water. I still took my pill every day—anxiety wasn’t something you just got over, it wasn’t something that just went away magically one day. It was a process, and I was still working on it, and that was okay.
I walked out of my apartment and into the bustling streets of Paris. Everything here was completely different than what I was used to. It was so old, so steeped in history, and everything had a story to it. There was an energy in that that was hard to describe, the feeling that you were walking through the pages of a history book every day. I walked down the small cobblestone street, past the little café that I buy Coke Zero and water from. I kept walking, until the streets got even narrower. I still can’t believe people are able to parallel park their cars on roads like this! I failed my driver’s license the first time on parallel parking, and the road had been twice this size.
It was bloody cold here, though, and I hugged my jacket closer. I’d had to buy a new winter wardrobe when I’d arrived because none of my “warm” South African clothes were good enough. The walk to art school took me across a bridge over the Seine; I’d been there already to register for classes and for an orientation day. And every time I walked over one of the many bridges in this city, I stopped and looked down at the water. Although the color was completely different than the sea in Cape Town, or than Jake’s pool, it made me think of him and our last night together. I crossed the bridge and walked onto yet another road dotted with alfresco cafés full of stylish people sipping strong coffee and eating croissants—exactly as I’d imagined it!
I smiled to myself. I still couldn’t believe I was here, even after spending a month settling in. When moving to a new city, there are things you have to get used to that you never imagined before. Like which brand of tampons you should buy when they don’t have the ones you’re used to. Where to buy groceries and what to buy, since nothing is in English. How to activate your new SIM card . . . what the hell to use to even get the blasted SIM card out of your phone? Settling into a new place felt daunting and exciting, all at the same time. And so far I was doing all right.
I arrived at the university and stared at the building in front of me; this was where Monet and Renoir and Degas and Delacroix and all the greatest artists had come. They had walked these very corridors, and now I was here, taking my place among the greats. I wondered if I would still feel them in the corridors, as if they had imprinted their greatness onto the walls. I hoped they had, and that I could somehow absorb just a little bit of that.
But despite that orientation day spent here, I quickly found myself lost and walking in circles, late for my first class. And when I finally found it, I rushed in and everyone turned and looked at me. That familiar prickle of anxiety stirred, but it was washed away quickly when the faces around me started to smile.
“That’s her . . . the street artist . . .” I heard someone say as I walked past.
“Her work is amazing . . .”
“Sorry, I’m late,” I said to the lecturer. “The signs are confusing. French!”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get used to reading in French soon enough.”
I rushed up the stairs and slipped into the only empty seat I could find.
“Welcome to History of Art,” the lecturer said as I pulled out my textbook and placed it on the table in front of me.
“Hi,” I whispered to the girl sitting next to me. “I’m Lori.”
“Eloise,” she said with a smile. “I know who you are, everyone’s been talking about you since we found out you were coming here.” We exchanged brief smiles and I was just about to pull out my notebook, when I felt a strange sensation, as if someone was watching me. I turned and was immediately met by two big gray-green eyes. The eyes belonged to a guy with long blond hair wearing a black leather jacket and a paint-stained T-shirt. We held eye contact for a short while and then he smiled at me and looked away.
Wow. This was so different than my first day at BWH. And it wasn’t because I was across the world in another city, it was because I was so different.
I was Lori Palmer 2.0.
And I was ready for anything.