Hidden in Paris

Chapter 6


Wrapped in her red poncho and sitting on the cold grass of the soccer field, Annie watched her boys and Lucas run with the ball. She was gathering pebbles in her hands. Amazing the quantities of stones that were heart-shaped when you started looking. Maxence was getting stronger she noticed. He could keep up with Lucas’s pace. The four of them playing soccer in the park was a bittersweet sight. Johnny had been too busy to do these kinds of things with the boys. He had meant to, but later. Everything was always for later. Johnny was a big talker, a man of promises, often broken ones. But the promises he made were made with gusto; with such details and enthusiasm that you could almost trick yourself into thinking they might actually come true. Future adventure-filled voyages in mysterious locations, future gourmet picnics by the moonlight, or future epic soccer games. She should have forced him to not miss out on the kids. But who was she to talk; she who at the moment sat on the ground collecting pebbles, lost in the past, entirely incapable of getting up and playing with her children?

Lucas, in his Adidas shorts and knee-high socks, his skinny legs surprisingly hairy, was cleverly mastering the triple task of convincing each kid that they were beating him. Lucas threw his hands up in surrender. “I need a break. Jouez sans moi,” he said, and he jogged towards her and sat down, his breathing no heavier than after a stroll. The kids ran towards them, high socks and knees covered in mud, breathing like freight trains.

“You’re just afraid we’ll beat the crap out of you!” Maxence said.

“The poop out of you,” Annie suggested.

“Let me catch my breath. Je suis crevé,” Lucas said. Maxence turned around, kicked the ball hard and ran. Paul and Laurent sprinted after him.

“Her name is Lola and she lives in Bel Air!” Annie said.

“Quest-ce que c’est?”

“Hello? Fresh Prince of Bel-Air?”

Lucas shook his head. “A prince?”

“Will Smith? Men in Black?” Lucas’s expression was genuinely clueless so she gave up. “It’s in or near Beverly Hills.”

Lucas made a sound of recognition. “Ahh!”

“She sounds so nice. Very normal. Just a mom with children, you know, like me. I kind of fell in love with the idea of that, you know, a lost mom with a daughter and a toddler boy, and me helping her out.”

“And the father?”

Annie considered the pebbles in her hands and had a vision of herself chucking them at Lucas. “Out of the picture. An abusive monster. Horrible.”

“Did you fall in love with that, too?”

“That what?”

“The notion of an abusive husband?”

Now her eyes were resting on much larger stones. “What is that supposed to mean? Of course not! I gave her some advice.”

“Such as?”

“I told her she needed to follow her instinct and put some mileage between them.”

“Is all this her instinct or yours?”

Annie sprang to her feet like a jack-in-the-box. “I don’t like where this conversation is going, so I’m ending it. I’ll be at home.”

Annie walked away fuming, her poncho bouncing with each step. She left the field and didn’t turn around. What a French a*shole! She trotted towards the house, crossed boulevard Suchet and made the turn after Musée Marmottan, and grumbled all the way to La Muette. They’d be better off on the soccer field without her anyway

The reality was that the other calls she had received for her ad were no good. And she did not receive that many responses at all. There had been the retired couple from San Francisco who wanted to stay for a year because they had read A Year in Provence, and it had messed with their heads. Rental agencies had called who wanted her money, and she had dismissed the lone men sent to work in France for a few months. There had also been a wealthy couple looking for a true French experience that included a fax, cable, high speed internet, and a TV in the room. They’d asked if there was a hot tub. She had snapped that this was Paris, France, not Paris, Vegas. But really, she was horrified at the thought of people coming in and complaining about her place. Her house was low tech, and she wanted it to stay that way. A computer would be nice one day, maybe. The teachers sure were putting pressure on her, not to mention the boys’ obsession with it. But she certainly refused to get cable. TV was bad enough as it was; who needed more of it?

So when Lola finally called and did not ask her about complicated things such as DSL, HBO, DVD, and VCR, Annie had to have her. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” Lola had said. She was blowing her nose occasionally and Annie did not know if she was crying or had a cold. “I’m not even sure I should come to France. It would be for a short time, very temporary.” But in the next sentence, Lola said, “I might need a school for my daughter. Are there international schools nearby?” Lola said she loved France but did not really speak the language, calling her French an embarrassment.

“Well, in that case, don’t even try your French here. You’ll get lynched!” Annie said. When Lola gave a throaty laugh, something genuine and childish, it reassured Annie immensely.

Lola had also sounded confused and undecided, so when the issue of the bathroom was raised, way too soon in the conversation, Annie was sure it would be a deal breaker. “Do the rooms have their own bathrooms?”

“Well, it’s not exactly like that. This is an old house, and it kind of lacks... amenities.” Annie had braced herself. ”There are eight bedrooms, but only two bathrooms. As a matter of fact, you might have to share a bathroom with other tenants.”

“Share?”

“Well, take turns, of course. Anyway, don’t you think hygiene is way overrated in the U.S.?” she had joked.

“Well, that’s true,” Lola had responded, like this made perfect sense.

Annie was on a roll with lame-ass jokes “Worse comes to worst, the kitchen sink is huge.”

Lola had laughed again. “Bathing is in the kitchen? Oh, I feel better now!”

Only this was not entirely a joke. During the summer months, the boys used the kitchen sink as a pool of sorts. They climbed in and out, into the garden, back to the kitchen, leaving puddles of water and mud everywhere. The same tub was at times the place for earth experiments. Once, she found a tadpole in it. No need to get into that.

“It is a crazy thing,” Lola said. “You wrote ‘start over,’ and I couldn’t get the ad out of my mind. This is totally intuitive. I’m mostly, like, an intuitive person.”

Oh great, she thought. A new agey L.A. wackjob. She breathed in, and then spewed out her response: “Don’t over think it, dear. Grab your kids and pack your bags. Don’t take too much. Your clothes will seem irrelevant the instant you see what people wear here. I’ve got toys, towels, métro tickets, and I’m a mean cook. The best bathroom has a wonderfully large tub, and I am the proud owner of a bubble bath collection.” She had said that fast and in a high-pitched tone, like a damn insurance salesman. She cringed and waited. Lola gave a big sigh. “This sounds so, like, nurturing. And Paris is so beautiful in the winter.” Annie did not think Paris was so damn beautiful in the winter. “Oh, like, totally,” she said.

“I can’t get any sort of fresh start in L.A. My husband would talk me out of it,” Lola said, blowing her nose again. This time, Annie was sure she was crying. “He can be very persuasive. I can’t say no to him.”

Annie had to ask. “How does he feel about your separation?”

“Well,” Lola seemed to consider how to respond, “it’s really been years in the making. Mark has resigned himself to the idea. I’m sure.”

“And he’s fine with you going to another country?”

“Well, this would be temporary, of course.”

“Of course,” Annie said. “When a woman decides to leave, it is always the right thing to do,” she said, forgetting that she knew nothing on the subject. She decided to appeal to Lola’s intuitive side. “We have instinct, and something tells me you’ve been fighting yours for a while.” And by then, she had managed to convince herself that what she was truly being helpful.



“I’m making roast beef for lunch. It was on sale so I said, ‘Why not!’” Pamela chirped.

Althea contemplated the idea. Red meat. Meat on sale. Rotting meat. “Great!” she said flatly as she took off her coat. On the counter, the meat was thawing. She wondered how long it had been sitting there. Many times as a girl she had sat for what seemed to be hours in front of her cold plate unable to lift the fork to her mouth, until her mom, in furious exasperation, slapped her across the face and sent her to finish her meal in the bathroom. It was the ultimate punishment as well as the only way out for everyone. There, Althea would cry in despair and relief and tip the plate of food down the toilet after staying in the bathroom for a respectable amount of time to avoid suspicion. Then she would wait there in dry sobs until Pamela came to free her and give her the profuse love that always came after the storm. In the end, her mother had the last word since Althea had eaten all of her food. The last word, but not the victory.

During lunch, sometime between the roast beef, the rice pudding, and Althea going to the bathroom to vomit, Pamela revealed to her husband the barely formulated concept that Althea had immediately regretted sharing.

“She should take a cruise instead. At least she won’t get any of those diseases they have overseas.”

“Cruises are for old farts like us,” tried her dad.

Pamela rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Your father has no idea what I’m talking about. You spend two or three days in one city, say, Vienna and...”

“Vienna’s not in France; it’s in Germany,” Henry said.

“Anyway, Germany might be better. Cleaner. The French think they’re better than us, after everything we’ve done for them.”

“Actually, Dad,” Althea asked, “isn’t Vienna in Austria?”

Her father looked up from his plate. “What, sweetheart?”

“Vienna’s in Austria.”

“Forget Vienna, Althea,” her mom cut in angrily. “Your dad has no idea about geography and never has.”

The day dragged on painfully. Her dad went for a nap and she accompanied her mom on a walk, their weekly walk in a park deserted by humans and pigeons alike. France was not brought up again. Later on, when she was alone in the kitchen folding her laundry on the counter and smelling each item before folding, Althea was surprised to see her dad come in.

“Your mother is talking to the TV—the TV, for Pete’s sake!” Standing next to her, her father looked frail. These days, his hands always seemed to shake ever so slightly. He was holding a neatly folded piece of paper between his fingers. Watching him, she felt suddenly drained.

“This idea of going to Paris, I think it’s a good one,” Henry said abruptly. “You need a little fun, a little adventure, you know.”

“I’m probably not...”

“You were the best in your French class at school I reckon. That’s a talent, languages.”

“It’s just a silly idea,” she said, powerless.

Her father waved his hands impatiently, the piece of paper still between his fingers. “You can’t keep coming here week after week to watch us watch TV. You’ve got to stop spending your weekends walking your mom around town, sweetheart. Our life is what it is,” he chuckled unhappily. “We sure messed that up real good. But yours....”

“Oh, Dad, don’t.”

He gave her a stern look and handed her the piece of paper. Althea unfolded it with great difficulty, which had nothing to do with her hands or her brain function and everything to do with the chance she might suddenly become unable to hide her despair. It was a check for one hundred and fifty dollars.

“That should cover the airplane, no?” he asked anxiously.

She couldn’t look at him. When she finally did, she saw his eyes were as wet as hers. She gave him a hug and only said, “Thanks, Dad, I think I’ll do that.”

“Now, go pack. Don’t look back, she might catch you!” Henry added with a nervous laugh.

Althea put the check into her wallet, arranged her clean and folded clothes into her bag, and said goodbye. She walked home for an hour in the frigid night, but she did not feel the cold this time as thoughts of Paris buzzed through her mind.



Lola’s heart was pounding. She locked her bedroom door even though Mark would be in Atlanta for several more days. She dug deep into the drawer, tossing lingerie to the side and removed a large brown envelope. She sat on her bed trying to calm the shaking of her hands; I’m breathing in, and spread out the contents on the white silk comforter. The sound of her heartbeat seemed to resonate against the cathedral ceiling of the all-white bedroom. She inspected the contents of the envelope for a long time, trying to absorb its meaning, incredulous for having gone this far. Had she tried to stand, her knees wouldn’t have supported her. Three tickets. Three passports.

She had given the nanny and the housekeeper the day off so she could pack. Tomorrow, the taxi would be here to pick them up at 6:00 AM. In the cab, she’d tell Simon and Lia that they were going on a surprise vacation. On a school day? She had to lie to Lia. She couldn’t take a chance. She was being duplicitous, lying to her own daughter, stealing her. But is taking what is yours stealing?

Three weeks ago, Lola didn’t question her life, like the worm not questioning being stuck at the end of a fishing hook. Nor did she really question the validity of Mark’s criticism of everything she did. Three weeks ago, she had only ached to become who Mark needed her to be. And then, almost overnight, she stopped being able to tolerate any of it.

She had to keep her momentum because she had a tendency to forgive, to see the good side of people over the bad. For the last few days, every bit of Lola’s energy had been spent pretending everything was as usual and planning the trip. The stars were aligning nicely. The end of January was the time for traveling abroad. Her astrologer assured her that she would not get such a perfect planet alignment again until 2022. Things were all pointing in the same direction. It didn’t even feel like she was actually making decisions. But all the while it didn’t seem quite real either. She was going through the motions, accomplishing a little more towards her unfathomable goal every day.

The passports were still good since their trip to Mexico. Mexico. That was in August, five months ago. She and the children had been so sick amidst the coconut trees and the warm ocean breeze. They’d suffered from terrible stomach problems, except for Mark, who was never sick and who’d had a wonderful time going deep sea fishing every day. She took care of the kids while her own sickness had sent her to the bathroom every hour for days. She’d lost weight to the point of being emaciated. Mark came back with a glorious tan.

Going to France couldn’t possibly be any more difficult. In fact, without Mark sending everyone into a panic in preparation for the trip, it all seemed to go remarkably smoothly. The pull that small ad in the paper had had on her was confounding. Whenever her resolve weakened, she’d merely go back to the envelope, retrieve the cut-up page of the Los Angeles Times, and read the ad again. Each time, she’d feel joyous like a small child. She always loved surprises, and secrets! She knew none of this was properly examined, was not without consequences, and was wrong in a way. But she was doing it.

Lola folded the page of the paper and placed the stack of Euros, the three passports, and the three airplane tickets back into the manila envelope. In her modeling days, Paris had always been her favorite city. To Mark, the world outside of the U.S. was narrowed down to Mexico and the Bahamas. He would never find her there.