The bells rang again. My watch showed ten to four and for once I knew precisely why and for whom they tolled—my beloved sister and Youssef. Long ago, I’d stopped counting and wondering. I loved the mournful, sweet, ancient sound echoing from high on the hill of the village.
Here, in the garden, now that Magdali and Youssef and the last guests had departed the wedding feast, the doves cooed their contented song, the hedgehog—a few quills peeking from a rustle of fallen leaves near the potting house—napped in the warm shade of the poplar, and Mlle Lefebvre’s huge marmalade cat, tail and whiskers twitching, stood guard whilst she eyed the two boxers with murder on their minds, but cowardice in their hearts.
Lily’s feet, lighter and faster than all others in the house, were skimming the pea gravel. I turned to wait for her.
Sometimes now, late at night, between cycles of sleep, in that haze of semiconsciousness, when dreams become dreams and reality creeps in to examine those old trunks still in the attic of my mind, I notice the old pine floor is swept clean; and all the items are neatly arranged in a pretty pattern. Underneath each polished leather lid are mementos and clothes not of this season, lovingly wrapped in tissue. Never to be worn or used again, they are still part of the fabric of my life, part of me, the once fragile and secret parts now outgrown in an era of boldness.
I am not afraid to look at them anymore.
They are not beautiful, but I love them in all their glorious, hideous imperfection—sort of like the jagged scars I now carry inside and out.
And as I watched my beautiful, glorious daughter run toward me, my throat grew tight with emotion. In that moment, I knew. I knew I was the luckiest, happiest person on this sometimes Godforsaken place called Earth.
“Mom! Mom! They left . . . The major and his children. Didn’t you want to say good-bye?”
She stopped in front of me, panting, her hands on her knees.
“No, it’s all right. I already did earlier.”
She nodded. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it? The wedding.”
“It was.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get the car parked behind the potting house. I’m going to drive to the base of Les Trois Courrones and hike to the top, remember?”
“Right. I forgot. Is anyone going with you?”
“No. I want to do it alone. But don’t worry, I’ll be back by the time darkness falls.”
“Perfect. Can we watch Zombie Apocalypse in French again tonight? Nothing is funnier than French zombies.”
I hated zombies. “Of course.”
She hugged me, and the lovely, natural scent of her warm hair made me want to cry again from happiness. What was wrong with me? I had to get a grip. Didn’t I possess any of that cool, French blood at all? Getting used to a full range of emotions would take time.
“Love you, Mom,” she whispered.
The tears couldn’t be held back any longer. “Not as much as I love you.”
THE DRIVE AND climb to the jagged profile of the lady I always envisioned asleep in the mountains was not as difficult as I feared. There was a small path cutting through the pine trees. The low, mournful tones of cowbells echoed off of the mountain the higher I climbed. Breaking through low-lying clouds of mist, I finally reached the granite top of the mountain. Westerly stood the other peaks that made up her profile.
A gust of wind slid off her massive nose, enveloping me as I stood on her lips. I imagined her gasping and whispering in French her first little words of wonder upon finally coming awake for the first time in a very long time. I was suddenly cold, but alive, dancing inside with the frenzy of the wind and the fast-moving clouds sweeping past me.
I feel everything now.
And yes, it’s a wildly empowering sense of freedom from any kind of fear.
But perhaps that’s what it means to be alive. All the pieces of me are coming back together in a different, more vibrant pattern now mixed with new pieces—and I’m at ease with all that might come my way in its own time. Yes, I was home. And I was awake at last.
The earth trembled. Roots groaned.
I ONCE MET a woman on a night flight to Paris. And in one bizarre instant, I allowed myself a brief moment of intimacy with a stranger. Intimacy is not something most men do well, if you must know. But there was something about this woman that resonated. It was in her expression, her posture, her inability to focus on anything for longer than a minute or two. She was teetering on the edge.
Just like me.
Coupled with anonymity, that made her safe.
And so I asked her. I asked her the question that I’d asked myself a thousand times before I boarded that plane to the Old World. What are the boundaries of family obligation—of one human to another? She was as clueless as I, even if she wore some doctoral badge of professionalism like a Band-Aid on a sucking wound. But I had to admire her for her brutal honesty, whether she knew I overheard her or not. It’s absurd how a brief encounter with a stranger can change a life.
But does anyone really know how to live a good life?
I still don’t know. I only know that the answers in life are different shades than just black or white, and that trying to figure out the best color for any given moment is life’s work and journey; resilience its drive.
The top of this unusual mountain peak on the French-Spanish border I was climbing was a mere forty-five minutes of rough going, tops.
There was a hazy shadow of someone else up there through the swirling mist.
The earth suddenly shook and I grabbed the trunk of a sapling just strong enough to bear my weight. Rebalancing myself, I gazed up.
The figure was gone.