I’m changing into a fresh pair of pajamas when my phone lights up with an incoming text message. It’s Paul.
“Hi Alice. I am very sorry for what happened last night. I wanted to help you through a hard time, but I see that I only made things worse. I would like to talk about it, if you want. Let me know.”
And just like that, the nausea creeps back in. No, Paul, I don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget it ever happened.
I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples, but I can’t stem the latest stream of memories. It’s not the details of Paul’s speech that I remember most, but the way I felt listening to it. I was frustrated over Mom’s text messages; furious that Paul thought he knew what was best for my family. And something else—something I can’t put my finger on, but it was the worst feeling of all.
I’m just going to ignore the text message for now.
Three days later, it’s still sitting there without an answer. I’m not mad anymore; I just want us to go back to normal. Lying in bed and staring at my phone, I try to open Instagram to distract myself, but instead, I accidentally tap my photo library. A wave of sadness crashes over me when I see the blurry picture of Paul lunging for my coffee cup on the bridge. The determination on his face—it made me laugh hysterically in the moment. Now it makes me miss him so badly, I can’t even look at it.
Being around Paul was the best. Our conversation was easy, like muscle memory. He listened intently and asked all the right questions when I talked about my family. He volunteered to help me without asking for anything in return. And then there were the little things, like how he smiled whenever I walked through the doors of the bookstore, and how he held my hand as we walked up the path at Versailles. I’ve never had a guy do those kinds of things.
Why did I have to get so angry?
You know why, says the voice in the back of my head.
It’s true. I’ve had three days to think about what happened out on the balcony, and now I know exactly which feeling I couldn’t put my finger on.
Shame.
I knew Paul was right, that we should sit down and talk to Mom instead of dancing around the problem.
I mean, I barely understand what Mom’s problem is. I know she gets into these funks when she’s sad all the time and she doesn’t want to go out and do anything. And I know she went through a really rough patch back when I was in the first grade, and I had to spend all that time at Gram’s. Outside of that, I’m basically in the dark, because my family has no idea how to talk to each other. It’s embarrassing. To make matters worse, instead of admitting this all to Paul, who was only trying to help, I lashed out at him. But I wasn’t really angry at him. I was angry at us.
Oh god, I’m such an idiot.
I stare at Paul’s three-day-old text message on the screen. What am I supposed to say to him to make this better? Why am I so bad at this?
There’s a knock at the bedroom door.
“Come in,” I say.
Dad carefully opens the door. Once again, he slides into the room like a secret agent and closes it behind him.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“I had an idea,” he whispers, tiptoeing across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Another idea to help cheer her up.” There’s this light glimmering behind his eyes, like he’s just found the magic solution to whatever Mom’s going through. Here we go again, dancing around the problem.
“What is it?” I ask cautiously.
“So I was thinking,” Dad says, “we’re in Paris. Culinary capital of the world. Maybe she’d like it if instead of making dinner tonight, we surprise her and take her out to a really nice dinner. Someplace she’d really like.”
“Dad—”
“I did some poking around on Yelp, and I think I found some great-looking places where we wouldn’t need a reservation. The one I’m leaning toward is an oyster bar in the Marais—you know Mom loves oysters—and it has these great rustic brick walls, and a wooden ceiling, and—”
“Dad.” I say it louder this time. “I don’t know if that’s what we should do.”
He looks taken aback.
“Really? Does she not like oysters anymore? I can find somewhere else.”
“No, it’s not that.” I roll a piece of comforter between my fingers, searching for the right way to put this. I’m about to venture into uncharted territory for anyone in the Prewitt family. With a deep breath, I say, “I’m worried Mom might be doing worse than we think. I’m wondering if maybe, instead of trying to cheer her up, we should do something a little more direct. . . . Do you know what I mean?”
Dad looks confused. It’s like I asked him a question in a foreign language. “I don’t know that I’m following, honey.”
Well, here goes nothing.
“Do you think maybe . . . instead of a big fancy dinner . . . we should sit down with Mom and talk to her? We could tell her we’ve noticed she’s been kind of down, and . . . um . . . that we want to help her fix whatever’s wrong.”
He winces. I seem to have touched a nerve.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he says, shaking his head. “Mom obviously isn’t ready to talk about it, and I’m worried that if we push too hard, we’re going to upset her even more. We definitely don’t want to risk that.”
The look on his face is very serious. I didn’t think of that, but he makes a good point. The last thing I want to do is put Mom in an even worse mood than she’s already in.
Dad says firmly, “The safest course of action is sitting back and letting her come to us when she’s ready. Then maybe we can have that talk you mentioned. And in the meantime, you and I will just try to make this trip as special as we can for her. Okay?”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Great,” he says, his face relaxing. He pats my knee from on top of the covers. “So what do you say we go to that oyster place?”
As far as restaurants go, Dad made a good choice. The dishes that keep going by our table look and smell incredible. The place is packed, and everyone seems happy to be here—everyone except Mom, that is, who’s holding a menu but staring at a groove in the wooden table instead. Getting her here was a challenge. Dad practically had to beg her to get off the couch and change into clothes that weren’t her same old stale pajamas.
“So—what looks good, ladies?” Dad asks.
“I’m not really that hungry,” Mom mumbles.
Dad’s expression falters for a second, but he picks right back up again in his real estate voice.
“Come on, Diane, you love oysters. Remember that place we went on Cape Cod last summer? Remember how big and juicy they were?”
Cape Cod couldn’t have been a more different vacation—we were all so happy. We rented a house in Wellfleet, and every day Mom and I hit tennis balls on the red clay courts that were impossible to get used to. We ended up laughing more than we actually rallied. How could the Mom of last summer be the same person sitting across from me, putting down her menu and gazing out the window?
“I don’t feel great,” she says to Dad.
“Would a seafood tower change your mind?”
“Mark,” she snaps. “Just order whatever you guys want.”
While we wait for the food, Mom continues to stare out the window as Dad bombards her with more and more questions. It’s like he’s showing a house and thinks he’s really close to making the sale. I get that he’s trying to put a smile on her face—I’ve been there, too—but even I can see that this dinner isn’t what Mom wants. She snaps at each of his conversation starters, and she gets increasingly irritable the longer his routine goes on. At one point she disappears to the bathroom for ten minutes, and when she returns, I think I can see red splotches under her eyes, although it’s hard to tell for sure in the dim light.
And then the food arrives: a three-tiered arrangement of oysters and clams and spiky red crab legs. It would be a lot for a table of six, and it’s absolutely obscene for just the three of us.
I’m embarrassed to even look at the thing. Dad digs in right away. Mom doesn’t. Dad asks, “Do you want me to crack one of the crab legs open for you, Di?”
“I don’t want crab,” Mom says.
Dad flags down a waiter. Mom looks mortified as the man starts weaving his way toward the table.
“Look at the menu,” Dad says. “You can order whatever you want.”
“I said I’m not hungry,” Mom hisses.
“Can I bring you something else?” asks the waiter.
“Diane?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Another glass of wine?”
“I’m fine.”
“He’s right here, Di. He can bring you whatever you—”
“ARE YOU LISTENING? I SAID I’M FINE, MARK.”
The tables around us go quiet as everyone cranes their necks to see where all the commotion is coming from. Mom snatches up her purse and marches for the door. Dad looks shell-shocked. He’s still holding the metal seafood cracker.
“I’m going to find her,” I tell him.
“I can bring you the check,” the waiter says pointedly.
Mom is sitting on a bench outside the restaurant with her arms crossed. This time I see for certain that she’s crying. I sit down beside her and rub her back. I don’t know exactly what to say to her, but I do know we can’t just keep trying to cheer her up. It isn’t enough. Dad got me all worried that a serious talk would make Mom feel worse, but look at her now, blowing her nose into a soggy tissue on a Paris street corner while Dad settles the bill for our uneaten meal. If this isn’t rock bottom, we must be close. What if the risk is worth it?
On the cab ride home, I finally text Paul back.
“You were right about everything,” I write. “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry.” And then, because I want to be open with him, “I miss you, Paul.”
I press send.
I keep my eyes on my phone the rest of the evening, as Mom and I watch some French news station in silence, but there’s no response. There’s still nothing by the time I get into bed. I’m starting to get a little nervous, but then again, maybe he’s busy tonight. I’m sure I’ll have a message from him when I wake up.
Except the next morning, I don’t. Now I’m really starting to panic that I’ve messed things up for good.
“Just want to make sure you saw this,” I type frantically.
An hour later, he still hasn’t responded. I toggle the Wi-Fi and airplane mode settings to make sure my phone isn’t broken, but everything seems to be working properly. Come noon, I can’t take it anymore. I throw on my sneakers and hail a taxi to the first of two possible places Paul could be on a weekday afternoon.
I sprint to the bookstore, but there’s a different clerk on duty today. She shoots me the evil eye for bursting through the door so loudly, but I don’t care. I turn on my heel and run back out to the street.
Well, if he isn’t at work . . . The bakery is just around the corner. I yank open the door and look around, and my heart sinks. The communal table is empty. Paul isn’t here.
“Puis-je vous—” Vivi stops midsentence when she sees that it’s me. “Oh, hello.”
I don’t know how to read the look on her face, but this isn’t the same Vivi who greeted us at the door in Versailles.
“Hi, Vivi.” My voice trembles. “I’m looking for Paul. Can you help me? I really want to talk to him.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she replies, crossing her arms.
I guess she knows about the fight, then.
“Vivi, please,” I say, moving toward the counter. “I have to tell him I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head. She looks like she might cry.
“My brother had a difficult year,” she says, her voice wavering. “This is why I was happy when he met you. But if you are going to push him away when he tries to open up, and then not speak to him for three days—”
“Vivi, I—”
“I just don’t think it is best for him, Alice.”
After all that she did for Paul, I can see why she’s so protective. I need her to trust me. I take a deep breath.
“Vivi, I know it seems like I was mean to him for no reason, but you have to understand, I’m so new at this. I have all these feelings inside me, and I never know how to talk about them. My whole family’s the same way, and we’re a mess. I know Paul was just trying to help me. I think I knew it in the moment, too, but I didn’t know how to express it. I’m ready to learn how to do it better. And I’m sorry.”
Vivi’s face softens.
All of a sudden, I hear footsteps from the kitchen, and a familiar pair of tortoiseshell glasses appears in the doorway. My heart skips a beat, just like it did when I saw him here for the very first time.
“Hey, Paul.”
“Hey, Alice.”
“You didn’t happen to hear all that, did you?”
“Maybe a little bit,” he says with a smile.
Vivi looks back and forth between the two of us, assessing the situation. Finally, with a small smirk, she adjusts her ponytail. “Well, I think I will go and check on the croissants,” she says before disappearing into the kitchen.
“I really am sorry,” I say to him.
“It’s okay,” he replies. “I am just happy to see you again.”
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“I missed you, too.”
I’m not sure why, but at the exact same time, Paul and I look around at the rest of the bakery. There’s still nobody here, and Vivi is off checking on the croissants. He steps out from behind the counter, and once again, like that afternoon on the rue de Marquis, there’s nothing between us. We stare at each other fiercely. Without saying anything, we close the gap in two long strides. Then his hands are in my hair, and mine are on his waist, and the next thing I know our lips are colliding, and everything I should have said in Versailles is wrapped up into this one perfect kiss. His fingertips travel lightly down my back. His mouth is soft and tastes like warm tea. This is the way a kiss should be—not messy and rushed, but slow and sweet and gentle. Things with Mom may be a disaster, and I have no idea what’ll happen with the apartment, but in this moment, everything feels like it’s going to be okay.
We break apart at the sound of the bell tinkling over the door. It’s a customer. Paul laughs, pulling me in close, and I rest my forehead against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. Eventually, he guides me over to the table to sit and talk over our cafés américains. I can’t stop smiling.
“Well, I am happy you came by the bakery,” he says.
“I am, too.”
“I was thinking about doing that for a long time.”
“You were?”
He nods, blushing. My cheeks feel warm, too. What did I do to find a guy like Paul? I know one thing for certain: I can’t mess this up again.
“Paul, I should probably tell you about my mom.”
“Okay.”
“I think there’s more to it than my grandmother dying.”
With a steady voice, I tell him about Mom’s dark phases that happen once every few years, because after what happened at the restaurant, I’m certain Mom’s dealing with more than just grief. Paul is a good listener; he holds my hand and squeezes it when I get to the difficult parts. Finally, I talk about Dad’s idea to sell the apartment.
“What do you think I should do with it?” I ask Paul.
“Me? I don’t know. . . . It is for you to decide. . . .”
“But what if I can’t?”
Paul exhales slowly, thinking. “Well, we have two weeks to figure it out, right?”
It makes me happy to hear him use the word “we,” like we’re on the same team again. “It’s more like a week and a half at this point,” I say.
He nods. “Right. Okay. Well . . . I think we should try to find out as much as we can about your grandmother and Adalyn in the time that we have, and then we will see how you feel. Yes?”
�
��Yes. That sounds good.”
“Did you finish the diary?”
“I had to stop reading for a bit after the gross Ulrich stuff.”
“Let’s keep reading,” Paul says. “I’ll help you.”
“Okay. That would be great,” I reply. “I guess we should reach out to Ulrich, too. I haven’t done it yet.”
“Let’s do it now.”
We huddle over my phone and manage to come up with the least creepy Facebook message possible:
Hello Mr. Becker,
My name is Alice Prewitt, and I’m 16 years old. I know I’m a complete stranger, and I hope you’ll forgive me for this strange message.
My grandmother passed away recently, leaving me her childhood apartment in Paris. In going through it, I came across an old letter addressed to her sister, Adalyn Bonhomme, from a man named Ulrich Becker III. I never knew my great-aunt Adalyn, and I’m trying to find some more information on her. I realize how unlikely this is, but I happened to see your Facebook page and the photo of your father, and I’m wondering if there’s a chance he might have known her. The letter was written during World War II, on stationery from the Hotel Belmont in Paris.
If you have any information about Adalyn, I would greatly appreciate it. (I can send along a photo of the letter, if it would help.) If you have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sorry to bother you! Thank you very much for your time.
Sincerely,
Alice Prewitt
First, we translate it into German. Then, together—because I don’t want to do it alone—we hit send.
Oh my god, we just messaged the son of a possible Nazi.
I feel gross. Like I need to climb out of my skin. Then, out of nowhere, the idea comes to me.
“You know, I basically ruined le quatorze juillet, and I still feel like I should make it up to you,” I say to Paul.
He glances over at the spot where we kissed.
“I think you did it right over there,” he points out.
The Paper Girl of Paris Page 17
