There are beautiful streets all over Paris, cobblestone surprises that delight with evocative buildings, romantic balconies, riots of color from flowers and blooming trees that look and smell like spring. The streets behind Sacré-Coeur fall into the category of “unexpected delights.” While the streets in front of the basilica had given way to T-shirt emporiums and overpriced cafés frequented by tourists, behind the dominating structure, on the backside of the hill, the neighborhood had retained its “village” charm. Once filled with vineyards and gypsum quarries and home to working-class Parisians and artists who discovered cheap rents and large studio space, now it was filled with expensive lofts and homes with private gardens, but not as shiny as other parts of Paris, like Polly’s neighborhood. There was still a little Bohemia to be found here.
“No phone service here, no GPS. I think I can wing it. I studied the map.”
Of course he had.
Nate took the lead, marching toward our destination on rue du Mont-Cenis. There was life on the street, people in the café on the corner. It was a lively block, filled with shops and signs. There was one sign indicating a bookstore, and a tabac, and a smaller directory to the handful of studios, or ateliers créatifs, and artists’ homes situated there. We spotted the record store that Guy had mentioned, and then Nate pointed out the red-and-orange sign to Atelier Artemesium. “Looks like it’s down this way. Narrow streets in here,” he said, checking out the surroundings. “Should Blackbird come busting out of one of the doors, I feel like I have a shot at him. I like it. I think I can take him.” He made a few crouching-tiger moves, which made me laugh despite the pit in my stomach.
What a difference thirty hours can make. Nate had been wound like a top at the Panthéon; now he was loose and joking. Why was I so nervous? Because I wanted it all, that’s why. This really was a treasure hunt to Nate (I didn’t blame him), but to me, it was more. It was about reclaiming pieces of my life, from the Panthéon Sketches to my father’s work. The art opening had been energizing, but I wasn’t ready to let my guard down yet. “Let’s focus.”
Nate gave me a look. “Yes. I am. I meant that it will be hard for him to get by us in this environment.”
“Sorry, I’m tense.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Let’s find the gallery. Hopefully, we’ll get lucky.”
We headed up the block as the sign indicated and stopped in front of a deep-purple door with a brass plate that read “Atelier Artemesium.” There was light pouring out of the shopwindow, a good sign. We peered in the window first and scared an enormous orange cat asleep up against the spotless glass pane. There were stacks of art books beautifully arranged, several framed watercolors of Paris landmarks, and right smack in the middle of the tableau was a black-and-white photograph on a gold easel. The hair on my arms stood on end. It was a photo of my father, my mother, and a brutally handsome young man in a T-shirt and jeans caught in a moment.
Captured maid, prince, and silent knight
This must be the place.
I have a hard time remembering the first few months after my father died. Not the sadness and grief, that I can go back to in a second, like anytime I happen down the ginger ale aisle at the grocery store or past his favorite taco spot. Those are the times I’m overcome by the smallest reminder of his time here on earth. But the specifics, I can’t recall at all, like what happened when, how the first few weeks unfolded, when did we find out who perpetrated the attacks, and when did we all realize that nothing would really ever be the same.
In the years since, when I overhear other people talk about that day, they remember the sort of details I think of as the “Where were you when you heard?” details. That they were standing in line for coffee at Starbucks or watching weeping newscasters. It all sunk in with the first big press conference, they say, when the authorities announced the deaths of all those first responders. They have sharp clear memories of the hours, days, and weeks after the attacks; the closer they were to New York or DC the more definitive their recall seems to be. But when I listen closely to their stories, I can hear that most of their memories are shaped by images they saw on TV, what they read in the papers, what they heard on the radio, memories made by media, not by circumstance. And I get that. For them, September 11 was a historic event; for me, it was the day my dad died.
For the people who lost family members and friends in the towers, there was some sense of hope for the first few days, as if thousands of people would be found alive in the rubble, and that was totally understandable. But for the people on the planes, there was no hope.
The first call I made was to Luther. His office arranged for a car to pick up my mother in Ojai and bring her back to Pasadena. The second call I made was to Polly, who came over for a few hours and ended up staying months. The four of us sat in our living room, waiting for the phone to ring. Our call came on the evening of the eleventh from the airline, confirming my father’s death. Once my mother hung up the phone, we turned the TV off. We didn’t need to watch the news; we had gotten our news already.
Then the press calls came. As my father was one of the earliest and most well-known victims identified, a short obituary was in the papers two days after the attack, on the front page of the LA Times and then a longer one a day later in the New York Times. Our grief wasn’t delayed by false hope. It was right there in black and white for the world to read. We were plunged immediately into the normal business of mourning—sitting with family, receiving friends, crying and saying over and over again, “How did this happen?” We couldn’t make any more sense of it than anyone else, but we were too actively involved in the rituals of mourning to notice the details of the disaster.
Within weeks, we received all sorts of invitations to ceremonies, memorials, and official events, some honoring my father specifically for his contribution to the arts or local charities, others honoring all the victims on Flight 11 or the first responders. That’s when it really hit me that my father’s death was part of something larger.
My mother fled to Ojai and surrounded herself with old friends. My grandmother Adele came down from San Francisco and stood guard, acting as her corresponding secretary for all the flowers and casseroles and calls. While my mother gave herself over to the exhaustion that is grief, I got caught up in representing the family as if it was my duty. I’d get up, put on a simple sheath dress, and accept the condolences of complete strangers. Polly essentially moved into the house, getting me up and going, and somehow kept me upright. “We’re going to get you through this,” she must have said a million times.
I was self-conscious of the expectations of others, the public, friends, the media. When I went out to the store or an event, did I look sad enough? Strong enough? Should I wear makeup and comb my hair to project a “they’re not going to beat us” mentality, or would people criticize my use of mascara so soon after a national tragedy? Was wearing black too severe? Wearing white too juvenile? Was it too soon to laugh or too obvious to cry? The scrutiny was exhausting, and I felt like I couldn’t win.