In the Bag (12 page)
I turned off the teakettle. Then I took all of Webb’s clothes out of his bag and examined them, article by article, like a criminal psychologist. Unmatched tube socks. (Was he careless or carefree?) Three Speed Stick deodorant stubs. (Manly and sweaty or OCD issues?) Rumpled jeans and shirts. (Typical guy or a red herring?) His dog-eared copy of
Walden
. (At least he’s a reader. But Thoreau? Bit of a slacker.) Plain boxer shorts with the little flap in the front. (Okay, he’s a boy. So he has a . . .)
I ran back to the Internet place so I could reread all of Webb’s e-mails slowly, from beginning to end. With each message I read, I breathed a little more easily.
Need I tell you what my nickname was in elementary school? Charlotte.
With a childhood nickname like Charlotte, he couldn’t be a sex maniac. In fact, he sounded really nice. And funny. And smart. A triple threat, as my friends and I called the nice/funny/smart combo platter. And his plaid boxer shorts were cute.
As I walked back to the apartment for the second time that morning, my mind spun like a kaleidoscope with a dizzying combination of thoughts:
I can’t believe I’m going to have sex tonight!!!!!!!!!!!!! Will it hurt? Will we laugh? Would I cry? Would he secretly think I was fat? Or ugly? Or beautiful? What would I say? Would he be nervous, too? Should I compliment his . . . Hitchcock?
Then a terrible idea occurred to me:
What if Webb was into tantric sex, that hippie style of sex that lasts all night?
Ugh. I just wanted to do it and get it
over
with.
My first real date and my first sexual experience. I’d kill two birds with one stone.
Or wait, that’s rude to birds.
Feed two birds with one meal.
That
was it.
I made a cup of tea and then left the apartment in search of a pharmacy.
I
woke up to the sound of singing. I cursed, thinking the noise was coming from the room next door. Then I glanced at Webb’s bed: empty.
Minutes later, Webb emerged from the bathroom. He was freshly showered and wearing one of the plush terry-cloth robes provided by the hotel. I noted the rare appearance of comb marks through his wet hair.
“You’re up early,” I said. Then I remembered something. “Webb, were you awake in the middle of the night?”
“Uh-huh,” he answered. “I couldn’t sleep. So I went downstairs to check e-mail.”
“Jesus Christ, Webb. Why didn’t you just use my BlackBerry? You can get to your Facebook account or e-mail on it.”
“No can do,” Webb said, smiling slyly. “Privacy.”
“Right.” And with that I heard my BlackBerry buzz. Eight new messages—all from Solange. And it wasn’t even seven o’clock.
I realized I probably wouldn’t have time to return to the hotel and change before the gala, so I hung a jacket, shirt, and tie on a hanger. I felt tired just thinking of all the things that had to be done in the next twelve and a half hours.
“You’re going to wear your new jacket tonight, right?” I asked Webb.
“Yep,” he said with a faint note of excitement in his voice. I was pleased he liked the jacket.
“And you’re going to do a better job keeping in touch with me today, right?”
“Correct,” he answered.
“Great. I’ve gotta get moving. And tomorrow morning, I plan on sleeping in. So no singing in the shower, please.”
“Won’t happen,” Webb said in a happy voice.
He was certainly in a good mood. His color even seemed better. He looked less pale. His cheeks were almost rosy. Then it hit me like a brick to the forehead. It was obvious what Webb’s problem had been the past two days, and why he was suddenly so light on his feet.
He’d been constipated.
I mentally kicked myself for not picking up on the clues earlier.
What kind of unobservant parent was I?
A
s soon as I left for the airport, I regretted it.
What if it wasn’t a stomach bug? What if it was food poisoning? What if she became dangerously dehydrated? People died from that.
And leaving her alone in a foreign country?
What kind of mother was I?
Then again, maybe Solange was right. Coco was eighteen. She’d be on her own in the fall at college. I’d left her with a pile of euros, a list of phone numbers, tea, juice, plenty of food.
And, yes, she
was
the world’s most responsible kid. I’d never had to worry about her—not her grades, not friends, not drugs, not drinking. If anything, she was
too
cautious. My financial planner told me this was common in women, especially those of us with deep streaks of perfectionism. We had to get better at taking risks, he said, and we had to encourage our daughters to do the same.
But leaving her alone—in Paris? What was I
thinking
? And how much of my willingness to leave her in bed for a day was a result of my desire to get the hell away from her? It was a terrible thing for a mother to admit, but there it was. My daughter could annoy me like no one else on earth. Her self-righteousness. Her piety. Her short temper and know-it-all attitude.
Of course I knew exactly where it came from: me. This was the hell of parenting—seeing all your worst qualities in someone else. And then there was the added frustration of being unable to change them in your child just as you were unable to change them in yourself.
At least Coco knew what she wanted. She wanted to study psychology at Washington University. And she would. She’d make a terrific psychologist. She had no qualms about dishing out advice, especially to me.
Mom, you’ve got to stop overtweezing your brows. Mom, you’re so uptight. Mom, you have to start meditating!
She was usually right. And she was certainly focused and driven. I just worried if she was happy. Of all the things I’d tried to teach her, that was the one area in which I’d failed. Sure, I’d taught her how to be a good student and get good grades, which translated into getting a good job as an adult. But there was more to life than work, wasn’t there?
My mind flashed back to that annoying headline: “What Does Daisy Sprinkle Want?” Nancy thought I needed more therapy. I knew I needed a small vacation. Was it too horrible to admit that what I
really
wanted was a vacation from being a mother?
To say motherhood was a humbling profession didn’t begin to describe it. And it wasn’t just the lack of gratitude. That part I could handle. It wasn’t even the god-awful macaroni and cheese and ridiculous
nuggets
children insisted they preferred to real food. It was the suffocation of it. The asphyxiation. That combined with the rejection. How ironic to find yourself at the wrong end of an unrequited love relationship with the very person you’d given birth to.
Was it too awful to admit I wanted a break from this?
Yes, it was awful. But honest, too.
As the plane took off, I pulled out my notebook and reviewed my shopping list: butter, lemon, sugar (white and powdered), baking soda, flour, chocolate, vanilla.
At first, Solange had been confused when I told her that I planned to serve predigital comfort food at her gala.
“What the hell are you talking about?” she said when she called at dawn to make sure I was still coming.
“Well, didn’t you say this was an exhibition of artists who came of age in the postdigital world?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Okay, so that’s the era when people stopped baking,” I explained. “Everyone was too busy. Everyone was either at work, chained to a computer, or at home glued to a TV and video games.”
“Just tell me what you are making,” Solange said. She sounded nervous.
“Gooey butter cake,” I said. “Texas sheet cake. Red velvet cake. Chocolate-chip cookies.”
“Chocolate-
chimp
cookies!” cried Solange, her English failing her by only one letter. “I have not thought about those in years. Not since you made them for me in Paris.” Then she paused. “But Daisy, Europeans do not eat sweets like that. This I am sure.”
“I know,” I said. “So it will seem exotic to them and vaguely nostalgic, like a past they never knew. But it’s the kind of food that makes you feel happy and sad, like when you want something, but can’t quite name what it is.”
“I am not sure what you mean,” Solange said. “But I love you, and I have to go because the damn exhibit designer is making a million last-minute changes, and I feel like killing him. I will send a driver to pick you up at the airport at noon.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Wait! What about waiters? Servers? I was going to have Coco help me, but—”
“All taken care of,” Solange interrupted. “The man I originally hired for this job, the baker whose father died, has a whole crew lined up. Handsome waiters with their own tuxes. It will be perfect! Kisses!”
A
fter I read Coco’s message, I sprang into action.
First, I downloaded a free program that lets you send e-mail messages anytime you want. Then I wrote a bunch of vague e-mails to Dad to be sent every 2.68 hours.
Of course I felt guilty about missing Dad’s big night. He’d been working on the design for this exhibit for more than a year. And I felt even guiltier lying to him. I knew my dad only wanted the best for me. But sometimes he didn’t know what that was. I did. The best thing for me was to meet Coco Sprinkle in Paris.
I found the concierge in the lobby.
“You are looking for your father?” he asked. “He left the hotel ten minutes ago.”
“Gracias, señor,” I said. “But no, it’s something else. No necesitamos, um, la ayuda con la casa en la sala 403 hoy día. Ni mañana.”
“You do not need help with the house?” he asked.
“Housekeeping,” I said. “Can you ask housekeeping not to visit room 403 today or tomorrow?”
He scribbled a note on a pad of paper. “It is done, señor.”
“Gracias,” I said.
I bolted back upstairs to the room, where I stuffed pillows in my bed and pulled the covers up over it, just like in a Disney movie. Then I grabbed Coco’s bag and hung the privado/privacy sign on the door.
As I rode the Metro to the train station, I felt like I was in a dream. I could feel my life changing in a huge and fantastic way. I could already imagine myself telling the story to my dumbass friends.
You met a girl where?
they’d ask.
How? Are you shittin’ me?
I paid for my round-trip train ticket with the money Dad had given me. I hadn’t realized how expensive it’d be. After buying the ticket, I had only twenty euros left when I boarded the train at eight thirty.
For the next thirteen-plus hours, I stared out the window at the passing towns and countryside. All those lives. All those untold stories and private dramas. There was something so beautiful and sad about it. I felt weirdly emotional, like I was running away from home, but also running to a new home. I ate a cheese sandwich on a baguette for lunch.
Hours later, I watched Spain turn into France. I had another cheese sandwich for dinner around six o’clock. After two sandwiches and a big bottle of water, I had only ten euros left. I tried to ignore my appetite.
As the sky darkened, I began to feel almost giddy with excitement. The sound of the train seemed to be saying:
YESshelikesyou, YESshelikesyou, YESshelikesyou.
But even I realized the absurdity of that.
Okay, so she liked me a little bit, anyway. That much was obvious in her e-mails. But it was important to play it cool. Not to be an idiot. Suddenly the train started mocking me with the sounds of
JEEZyou’restupid, JEEZyou’restupid, JEEZyou’restupid
.
I remembered then that I’d forgotten to wash my jeans. The train answered my thought with
JEEZyoureekyoudumbshit
,
JEEZyoureekyoudumbshit
,
JEEZyoureekyoudumbshit.
Finally at 10:40, the train pulled into the Paris station.
I was stiff from the long ride, and my left leg had fallen asleep.
Great. Now she’s going to think I have cerebral palsy.
I stomped my foot hard and tried to get the blood circulating. I stepped off the train, holding Coco’s bag in my right hand.
The other passengers seemed to be in a big hurry. I fell to the back of the pack as I walked down the platform. Somehow I wanted to delay the moment we met—to make the anticipation last as long as possible.
