For the next few days I saw Vincent’s face everywhere. In the corner grocery store, coming up the steps from the Métro, sitting at every café terrace I passed. Of course, when I got a better look at each of these guys, it was never actually him. Much to my annoyance, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, and even more annoyingly, my feelings were equally divided between self-protective cautiousness and unabashed crush.
To be honest, I wasn’t ungrateful for the diversion. For once I had something else to think about besides fatal car crashes and what the hell I was going to do for the rest of my life. I’d thought I had it pretty much figured out before the accident, but now my future stretched before me like a mile-long question mark. It struck me that my fixation on this “mystery guy” might just be my mind’s way of giving me a breather from my confusion and grief. And I finally decided, if that were the case, I didn’t mind.
*
Almost a week had passed since my standoff with Vincent at the Café Sainte-Lucie, and though I had made my reading sessions there a daily habit, I hadn’t seen a trace of him or his friends. I was ensconced in what I now considered my private corner table, finishing off yet another Wharton novel from the school syllabus (my future English teacher was obviously a big fan), when I noticed a couple of teenagers sitting across the terrace from me. The girl had short-cropped blond hair and a shy laugh, and the natural way she kept leaning in toward the boy next to her made me think they were a couple. But upon turning my scrutiny to him, I realized how similar their features were, though his hair was golden red. They had to be brother and sister. And once that idea popped into my mind, I knew I was right.
The girl suddenly held up her hand to stop her brother from talking and began scanning the terrace, as if searching for someone. Her eyes settled on me. For a second she hesitated, and then waved urgently at me. I pointed to myself with a questioning look. She nodded and then gestured, beckoning me to come over.
Wondering what she could possibly want, I stood and slowly made my way toward their table. She rose to her feet, alarmed, and motioned for me to hurry.
Just as I left my safe little nook against the wall and stepped around my table, a huge crash came from behind me, and I was knocked flat onto the ground. I could feel my knee stinging and lifted my head to see blood on the ground beneath my face.
“Mon Dieu!” yelled one of the waiters, and scrambled over the toppled tables and chairs to help me to my feet. Tears of shock and pain welled in my eyes.
He ripped a towel from his waist apron and dabbed my face with it. “You just have a little cut on your eyebrow. Don’t worry.” I looked down at my burning leg and saw that my jeans had been torn open and my knee completely skinned.
As I checked myself over for injuries, it dawned on me that the terrace had gone completely silent. But instead of focusing on me, the astonished faces of the café-goers were looking behind me.
The waiter stopped swabbing my eyebrow to glance over my shoulder, and his eyes widened in alarm. Following his gaze, I saw that my table had been demolished by a huge piece of carved masonry that had fallen from the building’s facade. My purse was lying to one side, but my copy of House of Mirth stuck out from where it was pinned under the enormous stone, exactly where I had been sitting.
If I hadn’t moved, I would be dead, I thought, and my heart raced so fast that my chest hurt. I turned back to the table where the brother and sister had been sitting. Except for a bottle of Perrier and two full glasses sitting in the middle of a handful of change, it was empty. My saviors were gone.
Chapter Five
I WAS SO SHAKEN THAT I COULDN’T LEAVE FOR A while. Finally, after allowing the café staff to use half their first-aid kit on me, I insisted that I could make it home on my own and wobbled back, my legs feeling like rubber bands. Mamie was coming out the front door as I arrived.
“Oh, my dear Katya!” she shrieked after I explained what had happened, and dropping her beloved Hermès purse to the ground, she threw her arms around me. Then, scooping up our things and leading me back into the house, she tucked me into bed and insisted on treating me like I was a quadriplegic instead of her slightly scraped-up granddaughter.
“Now, Katya, are you sure you’re comfortable? I can bring you more pillows if you want.”
“Mamie, I’m fine, really.”
“Does your knee still hurt? I can put something else on it. Maybe it should be elevated.”
“Mamie, they treated it with a million things from their first-aid box at the café. It’s just a scrape, really.”
“Oh, my darling child. To think what could have happened.” She pressed my head to her chest and petted my hair until something in me broke and I started crying.
Mamie cooed and held me while I bawled. “I’m just crying because I’m shaky,” I protested through my tears, but the truth was that she was treating me just like my mom would have.
When Georgia got home, I heard Mamie telling her about my “near-death experience.” My door opened a minute later, and my sister raced in looking as white as a ghost. She sat silently on the edge of my bed, staring at me with wide eyes.