Hidden in Paris

Chapter 9


It was always fascinating to watch her children from the particular angle of being a fly on the wall. The key was to not interfere, to play deaf and dumb. Annie continued waxing the wood of the staircase banister, a silent task that allowed her to snoop on what was going down. She observed Lia through the bars of the banister. Notwithstanding the angelic face and long golden hair of a maiden, Lia was mighty. Her eyes shone with fury as she stood in the living room, standing as tall as she could make herself, arms crossed, chin high. “My dad is very rich,” she was saying. “We have a really big house, much bigger than yours. And we knows tons of famous people.”

“Like who?” Maxence said.

“Like Rosie O’Donnell. Her kids are in my school.”

Maxence, who was only a month older than Lia, stood a full head taller than her and used it to his advantage. He looked down. “Rozy what?” he said, detaching each syllable. “Never heard of your Rosy-O-Josy.” Lia opened her mouth to respond, but Laurent cut her off and trumpeted, “Rozy-O-Jozy...Rozy-O-Jozy...” Paul echoed his brother, “Rozy-Oooo-Jozy!”

“Well, you couldn’t have heard about her, could you?” Lia cried out victoriously. “You don’t even have a TV!”

Maxence, Laurent and Paul seemed stunned by the blow. They turned their head toward the small cabinet where the house’s diminutive TV was under key.

“We do too have a TV!” Paul blurted out. “Liar!”

Laurent sang, “Liar, liar, your ass is on fire.”

Lia twisted her mouth for an instant. “I have four TVs, all plasma. We even have one in the kitchen, just for the maid. And we have, like, five thousand channels. You guys are poor.”

The word stung Annie. Her boys had no concept of being poor. They were not poor. The little bitch had no right to make them feel less than. This was only a financial crisis. Johnny had been a good provider. It was her fault. She should not have been obsessed with keeping this damn house. She was a horrible mother.

Laurent screamed, “you’re lying!”

Maxence, meanwhile, appeared perfectly composed. “Even if we had three billion channels, we wouldn’t watch them,” he said. “We’re not zombies like you Americans.”

Lia’s face and fists tightened and she was evidently close to tears. “When my dad comes, he’ll slap you around until your teeth fall out. You little Frenchie Fries will go wee wee wee in your pants and stuff your mouths with rotten frogs.”

Maxence raised an eyebrow as a response, but Laurent could not rise above the infamy. His brother and personal hero was taking a verbal beating, and by a girl! “Shut up!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Should she intervene? Her own blood was boiling. Too poor? She’d show her.

Maxence only shrugged. Did he look like Lucas doing this, or was it her imagination? “It looks to me like you’re stuck here for a while without your rich Daddy this and Daddy that. And tonight...” Maxence made a dramatic pause and gave his brothers a meaningful look. “Tonight, we’ll see who is peeing in their pants, right, guys?” Laurent, Paul, and adding insult to injury, little Simon, who had been witnessing the exchange in silence, nodded their heads in hopeful unison. “In the meantime, live in fear,” Maxence added. And he simply walked away with Laurent, Paul, and Simon in his footsteps.

Annie crawled up the stairs hoping she had not been seen. A moment later, Lia was coming up the stairs, dragging Simon, whom she had reclaimed, by the arm. She stormed pass Annie, barged into her mom’s bedroom and slammed the door.



Lola had been hunched over the miniature desk for over an hour, staring at a sheet of paper half covered with crossed-out sentences, her attempt to write the letter to Mark that stubbornly refused to be born. This was the letter where she would set the record straight and tell him everything she had been too paralyzed to say. She had left him and taken the children. She was doing something both morally wrong and likely punishable by law, but still easier than writing him this letter. The letter would open a dam. Things would be said that might destroy him. For example, what if he found out that she had been faking orgasms? What if he found out that his anger—or was it her anger?—made his touch unbearable? What if he found out that the way he treated her and the world in general made her want to puke? Wasn’t disappearing less horrible than the truth? There was a balance in their marriage but it had been a balance based on lies. The truth, if it came out now, would reveal that she had been a complete fraud. Also, once the dam was open, then she might discover Mark’s truths about her, those things he could tell her that she may never recover from. He might tell her that she was looking old. That he didn’t desire her. That she was dumb. That she was good at nothing. That she had no talent, no value, no worth. That she did not challenge him, and that was why he treated her the way he did.

The moment she put the pen to paper, those anxious thoughts screamed like Furies. She ached to drop the pen and deal with the situation the only way she knew: by pushing it away from her thoughts. She put the pen down. What she should do now is go through the house and hopefully find Annie busy with some chore, and maybe help her, chat with her about everything and anything. Maybe she would be able to tell Annie about all this one day, but not just yet.

The door to her bedroom opened suddenly and Lia barged in, holding Simon by the hand. Lola gathered her papers quickly out of sight. Lia was crying, and so was Simon. Lia let go of her brother. “What’s up sweetie pies?” she asked Lia.

“I want to go home! Right! Now!” her daughter screamed. Lola reached one arm out towards Lia who jerked back. “I hate it here. I want to go home!”

“Angel, we’ve barely been here half a day! We have yet to get out of the house and be tourists, which I was just about to--”

“I hate you!” Lia hollered, and she pushed Lola’s shoulder, hard. Lia’s rage was uncontainable. She looked precisely like Mark when she was furious. The same redness in the face, the same tightened fists. Lola made a movement to dodge the push, but not really. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to go to the airport, right now!”

“That’s somewhere! There is hope,” Lola teased with a smile.

“You shut up!”

Lola recoiled, looked at her daughter’s face in horror. Her heart sank so deep she thought she might burst into tears. Lia looked at her, almost as horrified as she was, and then she was the one who burst into tears.

“I want Dad right now!” she said, her voice drowning in tears.

Lola held back a gesture to wipe Lia’s tears off her cheek. What if Lia pushed her again? Then where to go from there? “We are not going to see Daddy...for a little while, love,” she said. Lia continued crying but didn’t ask any questions. Was it possible she knew? Was it possible she didn’t want to hear her mother’s reasons? “I just want to talk to him!” she cried.

“It’s night over there. He’s probably sleeping. We’ll call soon.”

Lia threw herself at her, or was it into her arms. The only difference was that after she had thrown herself at her with all her might, Lola opened her arms and held Lia against her. Lia was shaking and crying uncontrollably. On the rug, on the wood floor beside the bed, Simon was rolling back and forth gently bumping his head on the baseboard and humming to himself.

“We’re all tired right now. It’s the jet lag. Things are going to be all right,” Lola said. Still holding Lia tight, she opened a free arm to Simon, hoisted him onto her lap and kissed him again and again on top of his head. Maybe Lia wanted to be calmed down by her, and maybe everything would be okay.

“I hate you!” Lia said in a small voice. But she let her mom take her in her arms and rock her for a long time while she wept.



Hunched over her cutting board, Annie chopped parsley and juiced lemon for the salmon stuffing as she rehearsed imaginary conversations with Lola and Althea. What was she going to talk about with these women, day after day, week after week? The weather, check. Children and school, check. Parisian idiosyncrasies, check. She felt the stress in her shoulders, in her jaws, even in the way she murdered her herbs on the chopping block. If she didn’t slow down, she was going to cut herself. Finger-stuffed salmon, check.

Maxence walked into the kitchen and stood next to her, stiff and serious. Precisely the way a nine-year-old shouldn’t be. “Those people are all creeps,” he announced without preamble. It had been three hours since the kids had their fight. This was very much like Maxence to mull things over like this. Not like Lia who obviously had ratted on him right away. She washed her hands, sat on a chair and pulled Maxence towards her. He stayed there but this was no embrace. “Can’t you try to make it work for your poor old mommy?” she asked, knowing it reeked of manipulation. Maxence raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of her bullshit with an air of bafflement on his face. He reminded Annie so much of his father at the moment that she wanted to cover him with kisses, although she didn’t have such fond memories of her arguments with Johnny.

“You want me to put up with this mean girl and that screaming baby for six months? And now some woman gets my room in the attic? You promised!”

“What promise? I said I would think about moving you to the attic.”

“Plus, we have to see their stupid faces at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. As if we don’t see enough strangers with Lucas coming over all the time.”

Right, right, right, and right again, she thought. “Wrong, Maxence, this is wrong. You like Lucas, you said he was fun!” she exclaimed, all too happy to divert the issue to Lucas.

“When I was young, yes. Now he gives me the creeps big time, sniffing around you and all that.”

“Lucas is not sniffing a thing,” Annie said, with all the indignation she could summon. “And I’ve known him since before your birth, so he is certainly no stranger.”

“And the woman who got my room. She gives me the creeps.”

She thought of Althea’s gaunt face, her black clothes, her silence alternating with bursts of verbal diarrhea. “Name one thing that doesn’t give you the creeps, Maxence.”

“Well, the four of us being home by ourselves, for one,” he said, lowering his eyes and turning his face away slightly.

That her preteen would favor being home with his brothers and little old her brought tears to her eyes. “Maxence, we’re in this together, you hear me? We need money and this was the only short-term solution that made sense. I’m thinking of going back to school, maybe pass the bar exam here.”

Saying those words, she thought of the Dr. Seuss rhyme: I said, and said, and said those words. I said them. But I lied them. “Renting out rooms will buy us time, that’s all. Hopefully, in the meantime, you’ll start getting along with Lia. She is without a dad, and you know better than anyone what that feels like.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Maxence said. He was rapidly breaking down in the face of his mother’s unbending logic, her irrefutable arguments.

“One thing, though,” he added.

“Yes, sweetie pie.”

“Could we at least get a real TV?”

“A TV?” she repeated. “We’re low tech. We’re very low tech,” she added, suddenly unconvinced. She thought of Lia’s words. You’re too poor.

“A really big screen TV, Mom? Pleaaase, Mom?”

“But where would we put it?”

“And cable.”

“What would you need cable for?”

Maxence shrugged this off. “Without cable, there is no point.”

If she got the kids a television, she would be getting off easy. True, she would be manipulating her own flesh and blood. “Okay,” she said.

Maxence jumped up and down and into her arms. “You’re the best mom ever,” he said. She tried to keep him in her arms a little longer, but already he was out of her room calling for his brothers. “Guys, guys, we’re getting cable!”

It was only later, several hours later, that the thought occurred to her that she might have been had.