Two Summers

by Aimee Friedman

  I walk on, feeling melancholy, missing Les Deux Chemins even though I’m still here. I pass the shuttered boutique with its pretty dresses on display, and the tabac with its unlit red sign. The church bells are tolling seven. I turn at the cupid fountain, and I hold out my hand to catch some of its spray, as if for luck.

  Rue du Pain is sleepy, the only sound the chirping of birds. My stomach tightens with fear as I approach Dad’s house. I see that the bakery is open—I can smell the rising dough—so I duck inside. I have no euros on me; I can’t buy a pain au chocolat. I guess I just wanted to buy myself some time.

  Bernice is busy at the oven, and I think about Dad’s sketch of her, the one I never found. When she notices me, she smiles and says, “Bonjour, Summer!” like nothing has changed. And to her, it hasn’t. No matter what may break or collapse out in the universe, Bernice will be here, taking fresh loaves from the oven. That’s comforting.

  Before Bernice can reach for a pain au chocolat for me, the bell over the door chimes. A flood of early-morning customers spill inside, gabbing in French about baguettes and croissants. I take the opportunity to slip through them, like a fish through water, and back outside. There, I square my shoulders, and cross the street to Dad’s.

  Wednesday, July 19, 7:59 a.m.

  One, one thousand. Two, one thousand …

  I lie flat on my bed, my covers kicked down, the air conditioner whirring. I am tense, counting the seconds until my alarm clock will blare from my nightstand. Until that happens, I tell myself, I can remain in this hazy, suspended state between sleep and waking. I can stave off thinking about what Mom told me last night. About Dad, and his—those—other people in France.

  Twenty-four, one thousand. Twenty-five, one thousand …

  I flip my pillow over to the cool side. I’d actually dreamed about France. I think it was France. I was walking in a garden, surrounded by rosebushes and lavender, eating a croissant. I spotted a shiny pool and leaned over to peer at my reflection, and I saw a girl with messy blond hair, but she wasn’t exactly me: more like a distorted twin. As I stared at her, her eyes and mouth became gaping black holes—and then I’d jerked awake, my heart racing, a full minute before my alarm was set to go off.

  Thirty-eight, one thousand. Thirty-nine, one thousand …

  Rolling onto my side, I gaze around my dim room. At least it hasn’t changed. There are my haphazard piles of books. The broken mirror. The Degas poster of ballerinas, and the Renoir poster of two sisters. If it weren’t for the polka-dot dress—my “lucky” dress—tossed on the back of my desk chair, or the photography book from Max and the framed portrait from Aunt Lydia sitting out on my desk, then I could pretend that my birthday dinner—and everything that came after—never happened.

  Fifty-eight, one thousand. Fifty-nine, one thousand—

  I hear the faintest of clicks, and the radio blasts to life on my nightstand. Even though I was expecting it, I’m still startled.

  “Waaake up, Hudsonville! You’re listening to Bob and Bob in the Morning. It’s shaping up to be a real scorcher today, with highs in the hundreds and the humidity going nuts. And no rain in sight to bring us any relief … ”

  I reach over and slap the button, silencing the talking. Despite my air conditioner dutifully pumping out its cold breath, I can feel the intense heat of the day seeping inside the house. Normally, this kind of late July heat—the word “scorcher” itself—would give me a little thrill of anticipation. The hotter it is, the more it really feels like summer. My season. I’d be eager to get up and slide on my flip-flops and run out into the sunshine.

  But today, I am not eager to face the world. I sit up in bed, scratching at the giant mosquito bite on my elbow. I’d prefer to be like a crab, hidden by my shell, scuttling to safety beneath the sand.

  There’s a knock on my door, and then Mom pokes her head inside before I can say “Come in,” which is a classic Mom move.

  “How are you doing, honey?” Mom asks softly. “Did you get some sleep? I heard your alarm go off.”

  It’s clear that Mom herself did not get any sleep. Her face is pale and drawn, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She’s still in the black dress from last night, barefoot, with her Hudsonville College coffee mug in hand.

  After we’d returned from Orologio’s, I’d stumbled straight to my room and Mom had gone to the kitchen to brew coffee. It hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t even attempt going to bed. Clearly, we were both haunted.

  “I did sleep,” I reply, shuddering a little as I remember my nightmare.

  “You must have been very tired,” Mom says, opening my door wider. I see that Ro, of course, is with her; he stands alert by her ankle, his tail held high. I scowl at him, resenting how much he favors Mom.

  And resenting Mom, too. Still.

  But then, to my surprise, Ro pads into my room and leaps up onto my bed. He promptly nestles against my side, curling into a ball and purring. I look down at his orange fur in shock. Did he sense, in some magical, catlike way, that I could use extra kindness this morning?

  “Look at that,” Mom says with a laugh, coming over. She sets her coffee mug on the floor and sits down on my bed, Ro between us. She looks at me with sympathy in her eyes, and I stiffen. I hope she’s not hoping for some sort of heart-to-heart. My own heart feels too mixed-up and jumbled, too full of hurt and confusion.

  But Mom doesn’t bring up the topic that looms over us like a shadow. She asks, “Are you feeling up for class?”

  Right. I have photography in an hour. That’s why I’d set my alarm last night, acting on autopilot before I’d crawled bleary-eyed into bed.

  I glance down at my floor where my bookbag lies, half unzipped, my Nikon camera peeking out. I love photography class, I realize then; I get excited about Photoshop cropping, and darkroom developing, and learning about the history of taking pictures. I feel a flutter of flattery as I recall what Aunt Lydia said about my being her best student. That makes me want to try even harder in class.

  Except, I cannot imagine strolling onto campus today. Waving to Max, like he didn’t witness the drama at Orologio’s. Sitting down beside Wren, whom I don’t feel ready to confide in about something so big. Looking at Hugh’s empty desk, both wishing and not wishing that he were there, instead of in D.C. with his parents. And, of course, seeing my aunt, who first broke open the shell of Dad’s secret and coaxed the truth out.

  “No,” I tell my mom, my voice a faint croak. “I think I need a day off.”

  I expect Mom to chide me on the importance of responsibility; she never lets me stay home from school, unless I’m truly sick. But now she nods in understanding.

  “I’m considering canceling my afternoon class myself,” she tells me, yawning. “So I can, you know, nap.” She pats Ro’s head and glances at me with a small smile. “Or would you want to do something? See a movie maybe?”

  I shake my head. Does Mom truly believe things can go back to the way they were? How are we supposed to move forward now that I possess this knowledge? I feel suddenly antsy, like the itchiness of my mosquito bite is spreading to the rest of my body. I have the urge to jump off my bed and bolt. Escape. Where would I go, though? To New York City, to get lost in the anonymous crowds?

  I know. I could go to France. I let out a short, slightly unhinged laugh.

  Mom frowns at me. Before she can ask me why I am laughing at nothing, my cell phone rings on my messy desk.

  “Who’d be calling now?” I mutter, scrambling off my bed. I let myself engage in the brief daydream of it being Hugh. More realistically, it’s probably Aunt Lydia, checking up on me.

  I grab my phone off my desk, and what I see on the screen makes my breath catch in my throat.

  UNKNOWN CALLER.

  Just like at the airport, weeks ago.

  I know, without a doubt, that it is Dad calling again.

  And I answer, again.

  There’s a crackle, the sound of lines being connected across oceans. />
  “Hello?” I say, pressing the phone to my ear. I can feel Mom and Ro watching me from where they sit on my bed.

  “Summer?” Dad says, and his voice sounds rough and ragged, like he hasn’t slept, either. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  Why? My heart thumps. Does he know that I know about—him, and them?

  Or is he completely oblivious, and simply calling to wish me a happy belated birthday, sweetheart?

  “Sweetheart,” Dad goes on, and I can hear how anxious he is. There’s a flick of a lighter and an exhale, and I realize he is smoking. I didn’t even know he smoked. I suppose it’s very French of him. “I understand that you have learned that—I—haven’t been entirely truthful about certain things all these years.”

  Is that how he wants to put it? Anger flares in me. Dad is always an artist, isn’t he? Covering up the facts, making prettiness out of nothing. I think of the term con artist. That suits him, more than any label given to the great Ned Everett.

  “How—how did you hear?” I ask through gritted teeth. I’m already looking over at Mom, who is watching me sheepishly.

  “Your mother called me, hours ago,” Dad says. I briefly wonder what time it is in France, but I’m too upset to calculate. “And I’ve been working up the nerve to call you, sweetheart,” he admits with a little chuckle, like this is all just a funny mishap.

  “I’ll let you have some privacy,” Mom whispers to me, standing up with Ro in her arms. I glare at her, and I start to mouth to her that she should stay, but she’s hurrying out of my room, and then I hear her own bedroom door close.

  “I’m not a very brave man,” Dad is saying on the other end. “That is why I told you not to come to France, you know.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, I really was in Berlin when I called you at the airport. I’m back in France now.” He’s rambling. “But the thing is, I got scared. I realized it was maybe too soon for you to find out. I panicked.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

  My thoughts are whipping around. Is he apologizing for canceling on me so suddenly? Or for … everything? I can tell he is finally being honest and open. But is that enough? No. It’s not. A sorry can’t sweep away my thudding awareness of the dark truth. A sorry can’t reverse the fact that Fille is not—and never was—me.

  “I have to go,” I burst out. I feel like I’m being strangled. My air conditioner has turned my room into an icebox. I could freeze to death in here, in the middle of summer. “I can’t talk to you anymore,” I tell my father.

  “Summer, please,” he begs. “Don’t hang up on me. We need to communicate. We haven’t until now. That’s been the problem—”

  “No,” I snap. I’m trembling. I’ve never barked at my father before, but no rules seem to apply now. “The problem is that you lied and cheated.”

  Dad is silent, and I wonder if he’s going to yell at me for disrespecting him, or if he’ll hang up on me. I wish he would. Instead, he murmurs, “Maybe it would be better if we did this over Skype. That way, we could see each other. And you could even”—he clears his throat—“if you wanted, you could see Eloise. And Vivienne. Maybe that would make it seem more … real.”

  Nausea sweeps over me. Vivienne. So that’s the name of the woman, the painter from Paris. And Eloise, of course, is … her. The person I have been blocking from my thoughts. I don’t even want to know what she might look like. Snapshots of blond curly hair and blue eyes drift through my mind, a patchwork of images from the painting.

  Stop.

  I slam my mind shut again, like a window.

  “I don’t want it to be real,” I tell Dad. And then, before I can weaken, before he can say anything else, I end the call.

  I stand by my desk, trying to breathe. I look down at the phone in my shaking hands, regretting that I answered the call. What would have happened if I’d ignored Dad’s call back at the airport? I guess I would have flown to France, and been confronted with everything I wish I could block out now.

  But the truth has caught up to me, either way.

  Distractedly, I scroll through my phone, and I see the birthday text message Ruby sent me last night. I read it again: Happy birthday. I hope we can talk soon.

  In spite of everything, I realize what it is I want to do today.

  I sit down on the edge of my bed, and I start to text.

  It is easily a hundred degrees when I step outside around noon. I’m glad I stashed sunscreen in my bookbag, and that I included ice packs in with the sandwiches I made. My hair is up in a topknot, and I’m wearing my sunglasses, a blue tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. Also, after some deliberation, I put one of Ruby’s woven bracelets back on my wrist. Just one. It felt like a compromise.

  I climb on my bike, glancing back at my quiet house. Before I left, I’d peeked into Mom’s room and saw her fast asleep in her bed. She’d looked so peaceful, with Ro curled up at her feet. I’d realized that, to some degree, it must have been a relief to her—releasing the long-held secret.

  Sweat trickles down the back of my neck as I pedal up Rip Van Winkle Road, listening to the cicadas chirping. I make a right onto Deer Hill, and then a left onto Washington Irving Road, where Aunt Lydia lives. I pass by her rambling white house: the house where she and Mom grew up. It’s funny to think that they were born and raised here in Hudsonville, and that they then returned here, as grown-ups, to work and live, while their parents moved down to Florida.

  It was Aunt Lydia, actually, who’d introduced my parents to each other. Dad, a young, aspiring painter from Ohio, arrived as a visiting lecturer in the Visual Arts department at Hudsonville College. According to Mom, Aunt Lydia had promptly given him Mom’s phone number because she knew the two of them would fall in love. And they had, I guess. Even though Mom was serious and proper, and Dad loose and carefree.

  As I turn off Washington Irving Road onto Pine Street, I wonder if Aunt Lydia feels guilty for bringing Dad into Mom’s life, given what transpired. If she hadn’t done that, though—I wouldn’t exist. That thought makes me shiver, despite the heat.

  When I get to Pine Park, I lean my bike against the fence and walk onto the lawn, my bookbag on my shoulder. There are only a handful of people here—a few kids playing tag in the shade of the pine trees, and one ice-cream vendor. A couple dragonflies swoop around the empty band shell.

  I shake my blanket out of my bookbag and spread it on the fresh-cut grass. Then I sit down and put some sunscreen on my bare arms and legs. I’m reaching into my bag for the sandwiches, when I hear a familiar voice.

  “You’re on time.”

  I look over to see Ruby approaching the blanket, shielding her eyes from the sun. She’s wearing her platform sandals, a wide-brimmed floppy hat, and a lilac-colored tank top tucked into high-waisted shorts. She clearly left her brown apron back at Better Latte for the purposes of her lunch break.

  “For once,” I reply, and I can’t help but give her a half smile.

  Ruby half smiles back, gingerly sitting down beside me. The memory of our argument hovers between us in the hazy air.

  “No fair! You pushed me!” one of the kids yells from down the lawn. The ice-cream vendor yawns and checks his phone.

  “So,” Ruby says after a moment, removing her hat and running a hand through her straight dark hair. “How does it feel to be sixteen?”

  I hand her a cold bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. “Different,” I reply, which is very true. I do feel older. And not just because I’ve aged a year.

  Ruby nods at me, slowly unwrapping her sandwich. She turned sixteen way back in April. She’s a Taurus: the bull. Today, though, she seems much more hesitant than her usual bullish self.

  I unwrap my own sandwich and take a big bite. I’d put together what I’d found in the fridge: turkey, avocado, and lettuce on whole wheat. It’s good. Summers past, when Ruby and I used to regularly picnic in Pine Park, we’d take turns bringing the sandwiches. If there was a vendor at the park, we’d get ice cream for dessert, and then we’d str
ip down to the swimsuits we’d worn under our clothes. We’d slather on sunscreen and bake on the blanket.

  Now we are back here, on the blanket, but aside from the sandwiches and the coconut-y smell of the sunscreen on my skin, everything has changed.

  “I know,” Ruby suddenly says, breaking the silence, “why you wanted to meet today.” Her voice is soft and she puts her sandwich down on the blanket.

  “You do?” I blink at her, midbite. There’s an instant in which I believe that Ruby really could know about Dad. She is always-right, all-knowing Ruby.

  She nods, examining her half-eaten sandwich. “You’re still mad at me.” She pauses to take a sip of water. “You think we should, like, break up.”

  “What?” I feel a jolt, and I take off my sunglasses, as if to see her better. “No,” I say. Yes, the pain from our last conversation is still fresh. But it’s also become duller, dimmer, in the wake of my family trauma. That Friday night at Better Latte, I’d thought the worst had happened; I’d had no idea what fate had in store for me. “Ruby—you’re wrong,” I continue. “There’s … something else going on. That’s why I wanted to meet.”

  “Oh,” Ruby says. It’s almost satisfying to see the surprise cross her face. On some level, she’d believed that my world began and ended with her. On some level, it used to.

  “My father has a secret family in France,” I say, all in one breath.

  The phrase floats there, out in the open, sounding as nonsensical as it did in my head. The word family leaves a toxic taste on my tongue. I set down my sandwich.

  “Hold on.” Ruby gapes at me, her already-large eyes growing enormous. Her face turns ashen. “What are you talking about?” she whispers.

  This was the kind of shocked reaction I’d been hoping for when I’d told Ruby that Mom was dating Max. Although, in retrospect, that hadn’t really been shocking at all. I know what shock means now.

  I take a deep breath. And there, among the pine trees and playing children, under the broiling noonday sun, I explain. I explain why Mom was so weird about me going to France, and why Dad had canceled on me at the eleventh hour. I explain about the other girl—I won’t say her name—and “my” painting, and Aunt Lydia, and what I’d said to Dad this morning on the phone.