Has anyone seen—
I see Sarah in the next room, at the table.
She is looking at Charlie’s bouquet and the three drawings of it that she made. I pull a chair close to her and sit down. I do not have anything useful to say.
She breaks the silence first:
Aren’t the flowers gorgeous? Isn’t my son gorgeous?
They are, and so is he.
You have a beautiful boy. He looks like you.
She beams at the compliment.
He’s grown so big!
No sunglasses to shield her eyes, I see Sarah cry.
I do not know how to comfort a mother who is missing her son. I do my best: I put my hand on hers.
You have a reason to fight this disease. Charlie needs you. You have somewhere to be outside of here.
She nods and wipes mascara from the corner of her eyes.
I help her hang the four sketches of the bouquet on the wall in community space. The doorbell rings again. We stop. We look at each other, confused.
Family Day is over, and Matthias never comes before 7:30 P.M. So who is at the door at 6:05? Have we missed anyone?
83
I cannot believe it. I do not dare. Next to Matthias,
Papa!
I leap toward him, hanging on to his neck, terrified he may disappear.
What are you doing here?
Well, I was told it was Family Day.…
begins the story of how my father took two planes from Paris to see me.
I cannot stop hugging him. I do not let go. He smells of eau de cologne and every happy memory of my childhood.
Papa! Papa is really here! I am crying like a child, wrinkling his shirt, hugging him tighter. He holds me close to him, not letting go either.
Anna, Anna,
a small tremor in his voice. His hand ruffles my hair. He finally pulls back and hands me a cotton handkerchief.
You still carry those.
I laugh as I inelegantly blow my nose.
Of course.
He smiles, his composure back in place but his voice still shaky.
My father, his eau de cologne, and his handkerchiefs are here at 17 Swann Street. My heart could fly right out of my chest, I am so happy.
Only for the evening, though. I am very sorry, Anna. I was supposed to land yesterday but I missed my connection, and tomorrow I must be at work.
Only an evening. Only an evening? A whole evening with my father! I stare, overwhelmed, at this man who crossed an ocean for an evening with me.
And …
Matthias adds,
I have news that is good and bad. Your team has allowed you to go out.
Away from Swann Street with Matthias and Papa!
… but it will have to be a meal outing.
I understand. It makes sense; I will be skipping dinner here. But:
At least that way you get more time with your father, right?
Matthias adds hopefully.
Matthias, wonderful Matthias.
Yes!
I let go of Papa long enough to kiss my husband passionately.
Thank you,
I whisper, then step back to contemplate the two men of my life. I exhale the breath I have been holding in, but the pressure on my chest is still immense.
It is happiness; I could burst with happiness.
I love you,
to both of them.
Before we go to dinner, Papa requests a tour of 17 Swann Street. All I want is to leave; he and this place represent two worlds I never want to intersect. Nonetheless, I show him around. Ground floor: community space.
Good evening, ladies,
he greets the girls politely, with only the faintest accent.
I am Anna’s father.
Good evening, MONsieur,
Direct Care answers formally. Irrepressibly, hilariously American.
Good evening, sir,
Emm says, a tad more composed, speaking on behalf of the group.
My name is Emm.
Ah! Yes, she told me all about you. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Emm.
He turns to me:
Yes, I see what you mean: she does look like Sophie.
Emm raises an eyebrow at me, but I have no time to explain, because,
And who is Valerie?
Papa asks next. I freeze. I had not told him.
Of course I had not told my father that Valerie had died. One does not tell one’s family these things. Another rule at 17 Swann Street.
Sarah saves the day:
I am Sarah. Has Anna told you about me?
Oui bien sur! The actress, non? Tell me, how is your son?
Sorry to interrupt, Papa, but we have to leave soon.
Hurriedly, I sweep him out of community space, through the breakfast area, the sunroom, and up the stairs to my room.
Just as you described it,
he says.
My father in the Van Gogh room. He looks out of my window, admiring the setting sun and
that magnolia tree is lovely.
He sees the board and his picture on it alongside Leopold, Sophie …
She misses you, you know.
I wrote her and I tried to call, but she has not been answering me.
He sighs.
This is difficult for her to understand. It is difficult for me too.
My sister smiles brightly at me from the photograph. She looks happy, beautiful, healthy. Next to her, I look healthy too; that photograph is so old. We have the same eyes and the same heart-shaped face. We once shared a bedroom and clothes. I do not know when, where, or how we diverged to end up in such different places.
She will come around. I think she just needs time. She feels like she lost you,
her sister, who once loved cake, to anorexia and a house full of skeletal girls. I really hope Papa is right and Sophie will call. I miss her terribly.
We walk out and down the stairs, through the rooms again; he does not comment on the locked cabinets and bathroom doors.
It was lovely to meet you, ladies. Have a good evening,
he says to the girls before we walk out. The lifeless group waves us goodbye. We cannot reach the door fast enough.
Anna! Wait!
Direct Care. Now what? She puffs over, paper in hand.
Your meal plan for dinner tonight at the restaurant. The nutritionist left clear instructions.
She goes over those, three times, with me, while the minutes tick away and I fidget. My father and Matthias look away studiously, trying not to listen.
Is this clear, Anna?
Crystal. Good night!
Have a good time, and don’t forget—
But I am already skipping off to the car with my father and husband.
84
We drive off and far, far away from number 17, Matthias behind the wheel, Papa to his right, I between them both in the backseat. It is a blissful ride. We talk of random things, the conversation flowing as though we had last seen each other just this morning.
I look at Papa; he had been crying the last time I had really seen him. Now his forehead seems less tense, his hand reaching over his shoulder for mine, his jetlagged eyes closed, his head swaying softly to the song on the radio. It had been Christmas last time.
Matthias too, seems more relaxed; from where I sit I can tell from his shoulders. In Paris they had been stiff and high, now they are loose. He leans back.
Papa, how is Leopold?
As cheeky as ever, but I think he is getting old. Lately he has been letting me win when we run up the stairs to the flat. What about that dog you see on your morning walks? What was his name?
Gerald.
She told you about Gerald?
Matthias asks, amused.
Naturally.
Papa winks at me through the mirror.
We reach the restaurant Matthias chose, a tiny affair of a place. Eight tables at most, and utterly charming. Our table for three is the one by the window, under the chandelier.
We order three glasses of prosecco, to start. I kiss Matthias:
This is beautiful. Thank you.
Then:
To the men in my life, and how lucky I am.
It is a gorgeous evening. The waiter arrives:
What would you like to have?
I pull out my menu and my good intentions to comply with my meal plan. I give myself a few seconds to breathe while the waiter goes over the specials.