Beckman answered without hesitation. “Your father talked about that day all the time. It was really important to him. It changed his life.”
Shock. “Disneyland changed his life?”
“Not the theme park. The experience.” He studied me. I could tell he was taking my emotional temperature. I waited. Then he continued. “Your father had been drinking again. For months. He’d fallen off the wagon, as you amateur drinkers like to say. Really, it’s more like falling into a deep pit of hell when you start drinking again after years of sobriety, but that’s off topic. Anyway, like he told me, he’d blown it, straight up succumbed to his demons. He was hitting the bottle at his studio, missing all kinds of deadlines and dates. I guess he missed your birthday and had a huge fight with your mother, right?”
I nodded. I had some idea about the lapse, but a PG version fit for teenager. But I was surprised my father would have confided in another person about that awful night. That was deeply personal.
Beckman continued, “He told me Suzi served up an ultimatum: stop drinking or she was leaving and taking you to New York. So he stopped. Never touched the stuff again. That was the year he started the retreat, as insurance to stay sober. That trip to Disneyland was what he needed to remind himself.”
“Of what?”
“Of all he had to lose. He found clarity of purpose that day. It’s Not Really a Small World After All was all about personal responsibility. I’ll never forget, he said to me once, ‘Becks, it’s not really a small world after all. It’s a fucking enormous world. Enormous.’ He got that. Your dad understood the enormity.”
The most incomprehensible fact about the universe is that it is comprehensible. “When did he tell you this?”
“Joanie, there was some truth-telling at those retreats. That’s all I’m going to say about that.”
I guess my mother was wrong. Maybe men do fuss emotionally. “I never knew most of that.”
“Well, that’s the way it is, really. We only know what others want us to believe.”
We all stood out on the gravel driveway to say goodbye to Polly, JM, and Nate—me, my mother, and Peter Beckman—like some sort of aging blended family still not over the uncomfortable phase. My mother was standing next to Beckman with a kind of closeness that only familiarity brings. She was swathed in layers of cotton and cashmere, her hair pulled up in a messy bun and her eyes bright as she leaned into Beckman’s fit frame. I thought about what my mother had said when she saw the Paris Match photo. “In my mind, it was yesterday.” I wasn’t really old enough or wise enough to appreciate the passage of years in the same way, but I had the sense seeing him again had made time stop for a bit. Beckman and my mother shared the same ease standing in the driveway as they had shared at that YSL party in Paris long ago. Well, I guess the three of us would sort a few things out over the next few days, including their relationship status.
Nate and Beckman shook hands and did a lot of promising to be in touch. My mother gave Nate a big hug and thanked him for being such a gentleman.
I’d said my proper goodbye to Nate earlier, so I focused on Polly and JM. “Thank you for taking care of my mother and me on this trip. You guys are the best. What a story you’ll have, Polly.”
“This is too good for the blog. You need to sell this to Hollywood. I won’t breathe a word about all the fake art theft shenanigans or the missing notebooks or the Svengali overtones, now that I know Peter Beckman is a regular reader. But I am pretty proud that I put this whole thing in motion when I nearly revealed your hotel room on the blog! When the next movie about your life comes out, I hope Gabrielle Union plays me. Look at your mother. She looks so happy!” And, of course, we did look because Polly commanded it and she was right. There was no denying the contentment on my mother’s face. “But I’m totally posting those photos of the apple cake and mentioning that wild night at the bar. A punk icon in Rouen. I think the baby’s going to have a rocker’s soul, don’t you, JM?”
JM agreed. “Anything you wish, my dear.”
“I have no doubt your baby will be a brand someday,” I said.
Polly was touched. “Oh, merci, merci.”
“Joan, come back and see us. And call that lawyer.”
“Will do and I already sent an email!”
Nate appeared next to me. He whispered in my ear, “See you soon. Text if you need me.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and the three of them loaded up into the car and drove off with the crunching of tires and a toot on the horn.
Then it was only us: the awkward family. Beckman started to suggest a few group activities, but I had already made my plans, so I declined. “I’m heading into Rouen. There are a few places I want to see today.”
“Need a ride?” Beckman asked.
“No, thanks. I’m going to walk.”
“A pilgrimage?”
“Yes,” I answered. “A pilgrimage of sorts.”
“Want some company?” my mother asked.
We walked and we walked, from the fields surrounding Fortnight through the industrial part of the city into the old part of Rouen, filled with Gothic architecture, Renaissance spires, and an air of medieval mystery, heightened by navigating through the winding streets lined by half-timbered houses and stone shops. The city looked a little better off than it had ten years ago, but the cathedral was still in want of repairs. We had no particular itinerary, except to take it all in slowly. The day was cool and cloudy, but my mother was prepared with wraps for both of us. I bought two pairs of cheap gloves from a vendor so we could be outside for hours.
We wandered past open-air markets selling everything from local produce to cleaning supplies. Past cafés and squares filled with tourists and locals. At a market, we stopped for a pressed galette of ham and cheese wrapped in a paper cone to eat while we walked. We talked about memories, about my days in Paris last week and my parents’ time in Paris years ago. I told her about Guy from Galerie Luna who wanted to show her work, and about lovely Jacques feeding us and showing me his book of snapshots. Finally, we stood wordlessly gazing up at the old stained glass windows preserved and restored in the modern Church of Joan of Arc. The contrast was striking and effective.
Now we were parked at an outside table in a café off the Old Market Square. I ordered hot chocolate and a plate of sablé Breton cookies. My mother opted for red wine.
“How long are you going to stay?” I tried to make it sound like travel small talk, instead of telegraphing my concern about the vortex that was Peter Beckman. I didn’t want my mother getting sucked in, too furious and fast to be saved.
She wasn’t fooled. “Not forever, if that’s what you’re worried about. And clearly you are.”
“It’s your life, Mom, but I still don’t trust him.”
“Oh, neither do I. He’s a performer, a poet. And now that’s he’s sober, he’s clearly a control freak. This whole experience, experiment, whatever you want to call it, has made me realize that the last thing I want at my age is someone calling all the shots.” She broke a piece of buttery cookie and popped it in her mouth. “I mean, the Wizard of Oz routine has a certain appeal, but not for the long haul.”
“I thought you were sunk, the way you were looking at him last night. And the way he was looking at you.” On cue, I noticed several passersby, women in their early fifties, pointing at my mother, snapping photos with their phone. It didn’t happen often these days, but occasionally.
My mother noticed, too, sitting up straighter but keeping her eyes on me as she confessed. “I do feel like I’ve been in cold storage for the last ten years. But not anymore. Not after last night.” Then she gave her shoulders a little shimmy-shake and did that Suzi-patented wink that I could never manage.