You have to try harder, Rosemary.
Rage rips through me. I grab a bottle from the dressing table and throw it against the wall. It shatters beautifully, exploding all over the place, and yellow fluid trickles down the faded wallpaper as a heavy scent fills the faded room. I smirk with a sense of grim satisfaction, but almost as soon as I do, the smile slides off my face.
Sylvie and émile discovered that something about me is not normal. They’ll treat me differently from now on. That’s one of the main reasons I hate being me. I had hoped, truly hoped, that somehow I could fake it in a new country. I could hide who I was; pretend I was nothing more than some normal girl trying to learn another language. I thought maybe they’d think the way I talked was “cute.” Oh, that’s just Rosemary’s funny American accent. Ha.
The smell of the spilled perfume is choking me. I stand to go, but as I do my hand brushes against something on the table. Among the bottles, combs and boxes is a square bundle of papers, tied with a dark blue ribbon.
I pick them up. They’re letters, yellow and brittle with age. I hold onto them for a moment, put them down, but then pick them up again. Who would miss them?
Back in Ansel’s room, I check them out. The blue ribbon is so old it falls apart when I untie it. The paper feels fragile, and the handwriting is tiny, slanted, and hard to read. It’s almost faded away in some spots. My French isn’t all that good yet, but I try to decipher.
Ma Chère Marguerite,
How I miss you! Your eyes are jewels that gleam in the sunlight! Your lips are like petals of the reddest rose . . .
It’s totally cringe-worthy. Not very original, either, but I settle down to read with my cell in hand, in case I need to translate any words. The guy goes on about the woman’s beauty and calls her sweeter than a “gateau au fromage,” which has to mean cheesecake. Really?
I skip ahead a little, and then find a phrase I think I understand.
Even when your words are weak, they are sweet to my ears, for your voice is like music.
Your words are “weak?” Is that supposed to be a compliment?
I read and re-read this sentence. Am I wrong? I search for the word in my translator app.
Faible means weak.
The woman who once lived in the forgotten apartment spoke with “weak” words. What does that mean?
I fall asleep with the letter in my hand.
Twelve
Sylvie and émile don’t say anything to me during breakfast, but I catch one or two little glances they throw at each other. We eat in silence.
When we finish, Sylvie says something about working in her studio. émile asks me to go with him to do some shopping, so we head out to the tiny grocery store the next block over. I follow him with a little red basket. The place smells like rotten fruit. Wrinkling my nose, I wonder about “weak words,” and when Sylvie and émile are going to talk to me about last night.
An elderly woman with bristles on her chin brushes past me and murmurs, “Pardon.” She openly stares at émile as he peruses the canned goods. He sees her gawking, smiles and greets her warmly. She nods back with round eyes and her mouth hanging open. émile catches my eye and winks. The bearded lady moves on, we look at the cheese, and émile chooses a chunk of brie. I add it to the red basket. We check out the pasta aisle. The old lady’s there. When she spots us she cranes her neck to get another look at the short, pale man beside me.
Take a picture, it’ll last longer.
Jada’s first words to me. The memory floods through me, bittersweet. Mom met Jada’s mom at yoga class. They talked, they bonded, they decided their daughters would be perfect for each other. A couple of freaks. Mom brought me to Jada’s house. There she sat, engulfed in this giant wheelchair, like a scrawny kid with a blonde ponytail who was being eaten alive by a plastic and metal alien from a lame sci-fi movie. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the drop of drool that collected on her chin. Her head whipped around, fast, and she glared. She started hitting the side of her skull against this red button attached to the wheelchair headrest. I thought she was having a seizure the way her body thrashed around. Then she said those words.
I remember the horrified pause. Mom’s quick intake of breath, the wide-eyed look. But Jada’s words made me laugh. I giggled, harder and harder, and Jada joined in. And we were friends from that moment on.
It would be the most awesome thing to say. Oh, how I wish I could do sarcastic remarks! But they require perfect timing and perfectly spoken words.
I lift my eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and can’t believe what hits my eyeballs. Chubby cherubs. The ceiling in this grocery store is covered with fat, naked babies flying around a bunch of wispy clouds. I start to giggle. Once I start, I can’t stop. We buy the brie, some twisty pasta, some chocolate. In the checkout line I shake with laughter.
émile breaks open the chocolate bar as we walk back and shares it with me.