Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (27 page)

Mom’s French lawyer is tapping his foot in the waiting room when she comes out, unmistakable in a dark suit and tired expression. A serious-looking guy in a
police nationale
uniform stands with him. The doctor hands them a piece of paper and discusses something. Summer sits by dumbly, not even trying to understand.

Summer’s never met him, but Monsieur de Villefort says with a thick French accent, “Mademoiselle, please explain what happened.” The police officer frowns at him.

She says, “It’s my fault. That … we were … too close to the edge. I—I tried to pull Moony back.”

It is the truth. Somehow in all the confusion, pain, and uproar, she decides that she will try to tell the truth from now on. As best she can. Especially to herself.

Glancing at Monsieur, the police officer says, “Did you consume any alcohol?”

“Yes. Earlier this evening.”

“When?”

“At around six thirty or seven.” With Kurt as they strolled by the Seine.

“How much?”

“I guess one or two drinks? I drank brandy. Twice from a flask.” And then just a sip to piss off Moony at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Which was nothing for her.

Moony finished it.

Monsieur-the-lawyer says, “Bah, that was some eight hours ago, and would have no effect at the time of the accident.”

Summer is more sober now than she has ever been in her life. It’s almost overwhelming, but it’s here and now and she will not back away from it.

Ever again.

The officer asks a few general questions about her friendship with Moony, school, and where she lives. She tries to be helpful but her head and tailbone hurt and focusing is taking every bit of strength she has left.

Monsieur and the officer discuss her and the accident. Mom’s friend seems to shut down further questioning.

“I will take you home,” he says to Summer. He has a 2:00
A.M.
shadow that’s as good as a full beard.

“No. Thank you. I’m staying here. I have to find Moony.”

“He is in surgery. You must go home and rest.”

“No,” she says firmly. “I’m staying here until he comes out.”

In exasperation, Monsieur calls Mom, explains, then gives up and leaves.

Summer finds the surgery waiting room. Grim-faced Karen is on the phone to Moony’s dad in Kuwait City. She waves at Summer when she sees her.

Karen slips her phone into her pocket and hugs Summer. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What are they doing to Moony?” A silent, old-model TV flickers above them. A fake evergreen wreath with a droopy red ribbon hangs on the wall.

“He’s going to be okay,” Karen says forcefully. “They’re pinning his arm bone. He has a bad break, and a couple of other fractures.” She takes Summer by the shoulders and looks her in the eyes. “What happened?”

Summer stares at Karen’s double-knotted tennis shoes.

She must tell the truth.

At least her truth. Her secrets have held power over her for too long.

She sucks in a deep breath. “I—I was … going to…,” she swallows, “… kill myself.”

Karen sucks air in through her nose, eyes wide. “And he stopped you.” She steps back. “Of course he did.”

“Yes.”

“The police said that the driver said Munir hit the moving train. That you guys were horsing around too close to the platform edge.”

“Probably what it looked like,” Summer says softly. “Was there—Did they mention another, um, person?”

“What?” Karen snaps.

“Never mind.”

“What do you mean another person? Was there someone else?”

“Um. A friend of … we saw—No. There was no one.” No body on the tracks. Or tall, handsome stranger in a black coat. Or an Egyptian athlete with a
ghutrah
who escorts people to their self-inflicted demise off train platforms or towers.

She hopes he was shattered into a million pieces.

Karen says with quiet fury, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to Munir?”

Summer drops her head, and nods, unable to keep from crying any longer.

“He may
not
be okay. His body can’t take this. He may die in there. You realize that, right?”

Summer nods again. Tears stream down her face.

“Because of you.”

Summer blubbers, “You can be as mad at me as you want. I completely understand. But I can’t leave here. He saved my life. And … I … can’t leave.” She was going to say she loves him, but Karen’s furious enough already.

“Here.” Karen impatiently holds out a tissue. “Wipe your face. And Summer? Get some help.” Then she says, ice cold, “But I insist that you leave. And never contact him again.” She walks to the other side of the room and turns her phone back on.

Summer turns to go.

FIFTY-SEVEN

That night after the accident Summer trudges around the Place Victor-Hugo to St. George’s Anglican Church, not far from Mom’s apartment. By saving Moony, she saved herself. But given what she knows about Kurt, he could easily show up again. And she could put herself in another dead-end situation.

If Moony needed help, then she can damn well admit she does.

She knows where she has to start.

She arrives early for the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, and sits gingerly in a hard chair on her very sore tailbone. At the right time, she says, “Hi, my name is Summer. I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Summer!” everyone answers enthusiastically. Over the next six months, she goes daily to meetings at several locations in Paris. She pretends Moony is sitting next to her at each one.

The week after the accident, she officially flunks out of PAIS just like all the other schools. The upshot is that she, Mom, Winston, and everyone finally understand that doing yet another term anywhere will be a ludicrous waste of time.

The following days both speed up and slow down. Living them soberly brings them into painful focus, like being awakened in the middle of the night only to be pushed into noonday sunlight and a pool of ice water. Naked. And then jabbed with salad forks. But she’s in charge. She will not back down.

Summer goes back to Dr. Garnier and this time she tells her the truth about her drinking and substance abuse, and about Kurt—how and when she saw him. So she is put on suicide watch. They work out a routine and Summer agrees to stick to it. Rising time, bedtime, AA meetings, regular meal times, exercise time, reading and journaling time.

Mom sends Moony an oversized flower arrangement with balloons and gummy bears. Karen calls Summer’s mom to thank her and updates her on Moony’s tentative progress, but allows that at least for the present he has two useless arms. His other corrective surgery has been postponed.

At her one-month sobriety date, Summer writes a letter to Moony. No one she knows within thirty years of her age writes letters. But putting her thoughts down in careful longhand, on heavy cream-colored paper in blue ink, does something to clear and settle her mind. Plus it’s less intrusive than a text, and more respectful than an e-mail.

Plus she’s always liked stamps.

January 19

Dear Moony,

I hope you will read this and not tear it into little strips. I know how angry you must be with me and I just want you to know that it’s totally cool. All I want is for you to know what you mean to me and how much of a difference you made in my life, and my almost lack-thereof.

First, I hope you’re feeling okay and that your injuries are healing. That you’re resting and taking care of yourself. You’ll be happy to know that I’m praying for you. There is something larger than me or I wouldn’t be here. Every day. I picture you playing soccer, although I don’t care if you ever do that. It just seems a healthy thing to visualize. Incidentally, that’s the New Age part. It’s all pretty unorthodox but it’s mixed in with some Christianity and I’ve been reading about Buddhism and Islam. Thanks for that, too. The permission to do it my own way.

Last night I got my one-month chip at the AA meeting I go to, a little piece of plastic symbolizing thirty-one days of sobriety. That’s longer than I’ve been sober since middle school. I know I’ve got a long way to go, but I want to thank you so much for showing me how to get started.

I’m seeing a psychiatrist and working as hard as I ever have on anything. I call it UN-kidding myself. I’m happy to say it doesn’t involve math of any kind. But it’s difficult. Today is a good day.

I also want you to know how deeply sorry I am that I put you and me both in the situation I did. I will be eternally grateful to you for saving my life. Repeatedly. And eternally devastated that I almost was the cause of you losing yours.

Well, got to go now. I have my AA meeting and then dinner with Mom to look forward to. The days are just packed. I love you, Moony, and always will and pray that one day you will forgive me. I hope also that your mom will one day forgive me, but that’s more an exercise in loving kindness because I know she’d like to kill me, since I failed to do it myself.

Love,

Summer

She mails it, but never gets any reply or acknowledgment.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Almost four months after the accident, in mid-April, Summer and Mom sit at the kitchen table by the French window on the courtyard, eating
salades Ni
ç
oises
. Camus lounges beside them. Mom has a glass of Pouilly-Fuiss
é
and Summer drinks sparkling water. Sometimes they sit in silence, which is fine with Summer, but Dr. Garnier has encouraged her to engage with her mom. And she has something important to ask her.

“Mom,” Summer says, “I’d like to hear about Africa. Your project in Cameroon.”

“Oh, I already told you all about that, didn’t I?” she says flaking the tuna in her bowl with her fork.

“Uh, no. I don’t know anything about it. I’d like to.” Summer takes a sip of water, looking at Mom expectantly.

Mom glances warily back at her, probably to see if she’s being sarcastic. Summer tries to look encouraging.

“In the village in northern Cameroon where we’re involved, we’ve built a new schoolhouse with six rooms, and a kitchen with gardens.” Her eyes brighten. “The best part is that we’ve just hired a great head teacher. She’s from the city and also spent some time in France, but knows rural ways. She’s gentle and diplomatic—a really good role model. She just charms the families into letting their girls go to or keep going to school. You know, some of them don’t want their girls to.”

“How come?”

“They need their help at home.” Mom takes a sip of wine. “They also fear it, I think. It’s a change for them. Sophie shows them how it’s a win-win situation.”

“That’s really cool, Mom,” Summer says sincerely.

Mom pulls her shoulders back and looks at Summer again as if to measure whether she should keep going. “We’re expanding into other countries. Other NGOs out there have the same idea, but we’re one of the lowest cost and quickest. We get things set up, and then get out of their way.” Mom looks animated and frankly, happy. She would rather mother the continent of Africa than Summer, but what the heck. Maybe Africa is easier.

Summer pushes an anchovy aside and takes a big bite of hard-boiled egg. “How do you know where to start?”

“It’s a fairly long process. We meet with authorities for the village, and village elders. We try to
listen
. It’s important…”

Summer raises her eyebrows but says nothing. Mom listening carefully to anyone is pretty ironic.

There’s a long pause. Mom says softly, “I wasn’t really listening to you, was I?”

“I guess not,” Summer allows. Interesting that right now they are both paying close attention to the other. And trying to be gentle. They have a lifetime to catch up on.

Mom presses her lips together and examines her lettuce. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really am. I just want you to know that.” She squeezes Summer’s hand Her touch feels warm and nice. “That I’m sorry for my big part in all this. I’m not one of those ‘helicopter moms.’ I had to take care of Liz and myself when we were kids. I guess I thought all kids should do that. But I didn’t realize that I was … dangerous.” Her eyes glisten.

“It’s okay, Mom.” She’s being a little dramatic and making it about her. But it’s a start.

“I’m trying to be better.”

“I know. You haven’t left here for ages. For goodness sakes, take a trip,” Summer kids.

Mom’s face lights up, pleased Summer has noticed. “And I’m really proud of you. How well you’ve done these last months.”

The compliment lands gently on Summer’s shoulder like a yellow songbird. “Thank you.” It’s funny though, that Mom will still never utter the word “suicide.”

“I have to say, proud also that you’ve managed to keep that weight off.” Mom spears greens.

Summer just nods. “Yeppers.” She takes a sip of sparkling water. “Mom, I know it might seem like running away or escaping, but Paris is very hard for me.”

“Harder now?” asks Mom.

“It’s always been hard and still is,” Summer says evenly. “I was thinking that I’d like to go back to the US as soon as it’s okay. I think I can make better progress there—”

Mom’s pale eyes open wide. “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all!”

“Okay,” Summer says, despite heavy disappointment. “I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I did discuss it with Dr. Garnier, but you’d have to be on board.”

Mom’s face droops into wrinkles. She puts her fork down. “Why? Why is it so hard here?”

Mom thinks it’s about her. And it is a little bit. But it’s way more than that. “Because every building, every tourist landmark, every bus and M
é
tro, and every freaking cobblestone, remind me of what I did. To Moony. To myself. To you.”

Silence settles over the table. Mom takes another bite of salad and frowns in thought. “Where would you go then?”

“I’m thinking San Francisco, where I could stay with Aunt Liz for a while.”

Now Mom looks sad. “I know she’d like that. Have you talked to her?”

“No. I wanted to ask you about it first.” It would be better for them both. Later she and Mom can carve out a way to coexist.