by Densie Webb
I would gently trace his broad shoulders, his narrow hips and wake him with a soft kiss. A smile would cross his lips, but he wouldn’t open his eyes. Not yet. He would reach for me, desperate for my touch and I would oblige; then I would—I sit up straight, remove his “magical” jacket, fold it neatly on the end of the bed and stare at it for a few seconds. I’m tempted to put it back on and wear it all morning. But I leave it waiting for me in the bed in lieu of the real thing.
Mack’s door is closed; her snoring sounds like a wounded warthog. I read once that snoring keeps the monsters away. If Mack has any monsters under the bed, she’s surely safe. As teenagers, we shared a bedroom and I simply slept through her rumblings—the coma-like sleep of adolescence.
I’ve tried to get her to do a sleep study or at least try those nasal strips. But the snoring doesn’t wake her, so she says it’s not a problem. I wonder about her bed buddies, about Chester. As far as I know, no one has kicked her out of bed yet.
I have a couple of hours to kill before the sun comes up and Mack joins me for coffee. Now is a good time to go through my genealogy documents that came in the mail. Mack had tossed them at my place at the table, along with the rest of the mail. I’m the official mail sorter in our little household—credit card offers, bills, magazines—and I’ve been derelict in my duties.
I fix a pot of coffee, pour it into a mug that says, “Coffee Makes Me Poop,” a gift from Mack, of course, and take the first eye-opening sip, before pulling out a single manila envelope from the pile. I push the rest of the mail aside and shake the documents out on the table. Mack continues to give me a hard time for not using one of those online genealogy sites.
“Going old school, Andie?” But I’ve never trusted them, kind of like those sites that promise to analyze a blood sample and tell you which supplements you need—supplements that they sell, of course. Anyway, I like doing my own research, like my mother did, holding the documents in my hand and piecing the story together myself. It’s tangible, real.
As I scan the papers, one thing is clear; I’m going to need more help than my rudimentary high-school French can provide. All that time spent conjugating French verbs is of little use now. I can make out a few words and phrases here and there, but that’s about it.
I remember my mother unraveling the family mysteries with relish; she never tired of it. To me, it looked about as much fun as putting together a five-thousand-piece puzzle in the dark. After the funeral, after everyone had left behind their casseroles, after everyone had told me how sorry they were, after I had cried every tear I had, I was left with the torturous task of going through my parents’ things.
As I waded through my mother’s boxes of genealogy documents, I heard her voice in my head, “Oh, look, Andie, I finally heard back from the courthouse in Nice! It’s the marriage certificate I’ve been waiting for.” She had pressed the paper to her heart. I had sighed, “uh huh,” so adolescently bored with it all. A wrenching regret seizes my chest, but I slowly untwist it and fan the papers and photographs out across the table. I feel her watching, waiting for answers to questions she never had the chance to ask.
The name of my great-great-grandfather jumps out at me—Antoine, my namesake. I recognize the names of towns I heard my mother speak of with such fondness and familiarity, you would have thought she summered in the South of France, but that was hardly the case. She made one trip to France with my father the year before they died. It was her pilgrimage to Mecca.
They got by with the help of improvised sign language, a fifty-word French vocabulary and a Rick Steves French phrase book. They visited courthouses and churches like some people visit museums—Nice, Marseille, Montpellier, Bordeaux, Toulouse—all treasure troves of documents. She came back energized and doubled down on her research. But then she was gone.
I look at the papers scattered across the table—some are copies of barely legible handwritten documents, others are typed, but faded. Some are yellowed journal entries passed down from generation to generation. My origins are buried in there. These papers represent people who lived, had hopes, dreams, sorrows, loved deeply, had been loved and died. They are responsible for my existence.
There was a Kierkegaard quote I learned in philosophy class at University that has always stayed with me: “Life can only be understood backwards.” Maybe that’s what I’m doing, trying to make more sense of the present by learning more about my past.
My fingers graze my mother’s precious papers. I had simply assumed she and my father would always be there, my perennial safety net. I had been too young to appreciate the true value of family or how, like a cruel magician’s trick, it could disappear in a puff of smoke. But I was forced to face the fact that security is an illusion. An idea that once introduced grew to terrify me more every day, Good things never felt substantial enough to stay. A slight shift in the wind and poof! everything is gone. When David blew up my life plans, it only fortified my belief that the past is the only thing you can count on, the only thing that’s real.
I had ridiculously believed that David was my key to lifelong security and happiness. When his debut novel, The Silence of Souls, was published he was deemed “a writer to watch,” and was suddenly invited to all the best parties, the best restaurants. He was feted to the max by his publisher, Hollywood directors and agents, and a slew of hangers on trying to catch the wave.
I wasn’t crazy about his newfound fame or his newfound friends. But he was the man I intended to spend the rest of my life with. Then his breezy manner became more like hurricane-force winds; he said he needed to get away “to find himself and expand his creative boundaries, write his next novel.”
His ego wasn’t just inflated; it was helium-filled and soaring to new heights. He wanted me to follow him to Bhutan, of all places, a tiny country dubbed the “happiest place on earth,” where I would have been relegated to the backseat of his consciousness-raising road trip. He would have found himself and I would have gotten lost in the process. When I pushed back, he accused me of being jealous of his success, an emotional vampire ready to suck him dry. That’s when he informed me he was going with or without me.
He broke off the engagement and seven weeks later, left for Bhutan—without me. His cruel exit left me feeling as rudderless as when my parents died. His family, his friends were all concerned. For him. For me, not so much. “You were so good for him, Andie,” they said. “You keep him on the straight and narrow.” No one understood why I had refused to accompany him on his 7,613-mile trek to the other side of the world.
No one but Mack. She was there offering her love and support in the devastating aftermath. She acted as my emotional compass, my anchor, whatever I needed. She had liked David, but when he took off, he was dead to her. “What kind of a douche bag does that? You’re better off, Andie. Seriously.”
That’s how it is between Mack and me, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. I guess it’s something like a marriage, but without the sex and without the petty grievances and slights that infiltrate most long-term intimate relationships.
We’re family. Nothing will ever change that.
I wipe my eyes with the tail of my sleep shirt. I need to get organized. Most of the documents are dated, so I begin arranging everything in a timeline, putting these latest documents in with the ones Mom left behind and it quickly becomes clear what had left her scratching her head.
My great-great-great grandmother led a full, busy and well-documented life for thirty-six years. She was born in Nice, France in 1830. Married to Henri Rogé in 1848. Four children. Gabriel Augustin was the oldest and Joelle Marie, the youngest. I sift through some photographs and find the sepia-toned, but well-preserved image of my great-great-great grandmother. She stared directly into the camera, a typical pose of the time, and she sported a severe updo with a nest of curls piled on top of her head. A lovely filigreed brooch was pinned to the neck of her high-collar dress. I take a closer look at her face to detect any resemblance. Maybe the
eyebrows, the bottom lip? Or maybe I’m struggling to see something that’s not really there.
The documents indicate she lived in the same house her husband had been born in and, as far as I could tell, had a comfortable life. She and her husband owned land, she was active in her community, but then they fell on hard times somewhere around 1864. The family legend handed down the generations was that my great, great, great grandfather had been thrown into debtor’s prison and her children into a workhouse, where deaths were unremarkable and recordkeeping was the exception, rather than the rule.
I’m about to call it quits and get dressed, when I come across the translation of some handwritten, dated journal entries from my great-great aunt when she was a teenager.
April 10, 1864
I am filled with anxiety. Mother and dear brother departed with a kiss and a promise to return before dark, as they headed to the open market to purchase the remains of the day. They never fail to return at the designated hour. Darkness is now upon us and they have yet to make their presence known. I am certain they will soon return and I will think myself silly for having experienced this degree of alarm over the lateness of the hour.
April 11, 1864
With Father incarcerated in debtors’ prison, I am alone and penniless. Truly alone. I am descending into darkness. I am at a loss as to how to comfort my siblings, when I need someone to offer me solace. They will return to us. They must.
April 30, 1864
It has been some three weeks. I am unwell, but I am making a valiant attempt at bravery, Bernard cannot hold back his tears and Marie has yet to utter a word. I have taken upon myself the tasks of cooking and cleaning and I am learning to do the marketing. The little money we have will soon be gone. I feel so alone. I wish to see Maman, to talk to her once more, to prevail upon her to return to us. I have many questions I never ventured to ask and now I fear it is too late.
The entries end abruptly, but I don’t need to read more to feel her pain over the loss of her mother. That’s something I understand all too well. I pick up the framed photo of my mother on the table and an aching need rises, threatening to squeeze the oxygen from my lungs. When she died, everything was a painful reminder, a flashing neon sign that said, “You are motherless.” The way the cashier at the supermarket closed her eyes when she spoke, as if she were in mourning; the way the woman on the subway slowly crossed her legs, imitating my mother’s movements; the way my teacher reprimanded me, dragging out my name, Andieee, just like my mother did. It took six months before I could breathe, a year before she wasn’t my first thought when I opened my eyes each morning. It’s been twelve years and I still think about her every day. Every. Single. Day.
I want to know that she’s proud of me. But I can imagine her response. “Oh Andie, sweetheart, you’re going to worry yourself into apoplexy. No one can predict the future. It’s just one day at a time. I know you’re going to do amazing things, because you’re an amazing young woman.” My imaginary conversations with her offer some degree of reassurance that the sky will stay in place.
I glance at my phone. It’s already ten o’clock; the morning has evaporated. I carefully put the genealogy materials away for another day, pour my third cup of coffee and take it in the bedroom to sip while I change outfits at least a dozen times. I’m being ridiculous. Vincent will have to take me as I am, wearing black leggings, a black V-neck pullover and a pair of broken-in boots.
I hear Mack noises in the kitchen. She’ll insist on giving her seal of approval before I leave, so I step into the living room, where she’s still dressed in her teddy and sipping on her first cup of coffee. Her hair looks like she shares a stylist with the bride of Frankenstein.
“Good morning,” she sings. “It’s V-Day!” I spin around and she gives me the thumbs up. “Very ‘Andie.’ Casual, a tad of cleavage with a hint of voluptuousness, yet it says, ‘I’m not easy.’ ”
“Maybe I’m feeling easy,” I say, as I throw my shoulders back, swing my hips and sweep my hair off my neck.
She jumps up and tugs at my neckline, pulling it down, revealing my black lace push up bra.
“There. Now you’re easy.
“Thanks, Mack. That’s just great.”
She disappears into the bathroom just as the buzzer goes off. I rearrange my neckline and glance at myself in the mirror before answering.
“Ms. Rogé, Vincent Dubois here to see you?”
“Let him in. I’ll be right down.”
One last check in the mirror before I tap on the bathroom door. “Mack, I’m leaving.”
“I want a full report!” she shouts over the shower’s water spray.
I grab Vincent’s jacket, remember my keys, and the elevator door opens before I’ve pressed the button. Good omens. I hope. What I’m feeling in anticipation of seeing Vincent again is way beyond anything I’ve experienced with any guy.
I wonder if it’s a pheromone thing? I’ve read that people, like other animals, give off pheromones that communicate a “come hither” message. Maybe that’s…mid-thought, the elevator doors slide open and I step into the lobby.
Vincent is there, chatting with Joseph about…football? Joseph is doing most of the talking. Vincent is nodding. The now familiar feeling of, whatever the hell this is, washes over me. He’s dressed in jeans, a black, double-breasted topcoat, and a white scarf loosely draped around his collar. Very GQ. I’m determined to play it cool.
“Good morning, Vincent. Should I leave this here?” I ask, holding out his jacket and secretly hoping he’ll forget it again and I’ll have another night with his scent surrounding me.
“Yes, of course.”
I hand the jacket over to Joseph. “Morning, Joseph. Can you hold on to this for Vincent?”
As I step away from the desk, Vincent comes closer, looks me in the eye and says, “You look beautiful.”
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. “Thank you.”
He seems so incredibly happy to see me, to be with me—as happy as I am to be with him. Against my better judgment, against my rational mind, I’m beginning to wonder if his question to me, “Do you believe in soul mates?” might not be so crazy after all.
Chapter 15
Vincent
My compliment has embarrassed her. Her reluctance to fully embrace my flattery endears her to me even more. She stirs the air between us when she says, “I’m ready for the Met.”
“Perhaps the question should be is the Met ready for you?” I smile and wink at her.
Her laugh is a gentle wave, smoothing out the rough sands of my life. I have sated my hunger in preparation of being with Andie, but if I feel my control slipping away, I will feign illness, put her in a cab and try another day. Her feelings would be hurt again, but she doesn’t understand that one overenthusiastic embrace could crush her bones to a powder. One passionate kiss too many could result in her last heartbeat.
As we walk toward West End Avenue, she asks, "So do you go the Met often?"
"I've been there many, many times. I find the Met incredibly calming, reassuring. It reminds me that we don't live in a vacuum, that the past is every bit as real as the present and it affects everything we think, everything we do. It’s the foundation of our existence, everything we see around us."
"That's so weird. I was just thinking about that this morning―you know, how understanding the past is a way to help deal with the present. It makes a lot of sense.” She pauses. “Now, I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve only been to the Met once. The Guggenheim and the Museum of Modern Art are my go-to museums.”
“We can go to the Guggenheim, if you’d prefer.” I say this, knowing it would lay to waste my carefully laid plans for the day.
“No. No. The Met is great. It’s just so overwhelming. I got totally lost.”
“I will be your guide.”
I hail a cab on the Avenue, open the door for her to go in first and slide in after her.
Leaning forward, I speak through the Plexiglas barrier.
“Fifth Avenue and 81st Street, please. The Met.”
As I sit back, the control I now feel in her closeness reassures me that the day will go well. Her hands are clasped together in her lap and she’s staring straight ahead at the stopped traffic. I hear the flutter of her heart.
“Andie.” She slowly turns to look up at me, and I offer my hand to her. She is understandably apprehensive. She glances at the driver, then at me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
She doesn’t move at first, but then slowly places her hand in mine, closes her eyes and takes in a sharp breath as my fingers encase hers. She opens her mouth to say something but falls silent.
“Shhh. You don’t have to say anything.” She surprises me as she slowly slides closer, our knees touching and gently lays her head on my shoulder. Her body hums.
I feel almost human.
“That’ll be $11.50.” The driver’s voice interrupts my blissful state.
I release her hand before pulling the money clip from my pocket and handing cash to the driver.
We walk hand-in-hand up the steps to the grand entrance of the Met. “As you are researching your French background, I thought you might enjoy the French Impressionist exhibit. What time period are you interested in?”
“The paper trail for my great-great-great grandmother ends around 1864, but I’m interested in all of the 1800s.”
As we peruse the exhibit, I share with her some of what I know about the artists. She is clearly impressed with my knowledge, assuming that I have pored over art history textbooks. But I didn’t have to study. I lived it.
I met many of them through Danielle—unveilings, gallery openings, social gatherings within the art community. Danielle and I attended the annual showings at the Salon des Refusés in Paris. When the rest of the art community spurned Manet, Monet, Renoir and their work, Danielle was a staunch supporter.
