Hidden in Paris

by Corine Gantz

“No, I have no idea how it goes, Jared.” Lucas rubbed his eyes. “Tell me.”

  “After Mom died. It was part of a learning curve, I guess. I’m not a junky.”

  Lucas’s throat tightened. “This is not what your mother would have wanted.”

  “Mom’s dead.” Jared looked away. “That’s as definitive as it gets. It’s my own business. I didn’t bother anyone.”

  He squeezed Jared’s arm. “Well, it’s bothering plenty of people now. You could have died.”

  “Look, not that I want to die, but what’s the difference to anyone if I die now or later?”

  “Your father died early, and I think it made a great deal of difference to everyone who loved him and depended on him.”

  Jared remained silent, and neither one of them spoke for a while. Lucas could not bring himself to mention how this affected him personally. And it would have been bad form to point out that it could not have been worse timing. Lucas’s shoulders stooped. There had been no time to speak to Annie about their night together, and he had the feeling that Annie was trying to avoid him. “And Jared, this is already having a snowball effect. Althea is... ill right now. Listen, I hate to tell you this, but she fainted in the street. She’s in the emergency room downstairs.”

  Jared tightened his fist but was too weak to move another muscle. “What happened?” he asked softly.

  Lucas did not want to get into it. “It’s...unclear. We’re still waiting to hear.”

  “Look,” Jared said, “I’m not addicted.”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s right. Not yet.”

  Lucas felt overwhelmed with sadness. “I’ll help you out, Jared. You know I will.”

  “Thanks. I know.”

  Annie peeked her head inside the room and coughed. “Lucas, may I borrow you?”

  “Is Althea okay?” Jared said feebly. He looked ashen.

  “She’s stable. They gave her something to sleep while they pump her with fluid and stuff. Things her body needs. She’s okay for now. Lucas, do you mind coming out for a minute?”

  Once in the hallway, she whispered frantically “You won’t believe this. The shit is totally hitting the fan! Lola’s husband just showed up at the house!

  Lucas raised an approving eyebrow. “At last! What took him so long?”

  “What could you possibly mean? It’s total chaos! She can’t fight him alone. She’s got as much defense as a newborn kitten. I have to rush to the house right now. Can you keep an eye on Jared and Althea? I’ll go home and see if Lola needs my help, and...” Annie’s eyes widened. “The kids! The last thing we need is to add children to the equation.”

  Lucas looked at her, waiting for a rest of the sentence. Then it dawned on him. “What do you need me to do?” he said in resignation.

  “Pick up the kids at school at four, and then walk to the daycare, the kids will tell you where it is, and get Simon. And no matter what, don’t bring them home.”

  “Vraiment? And where do you suppose I should take them?”

  “I dunno. Your place?”

  “All five of them? Je ne peux pas.” Discouragement must have showed on his face because Annie planted her eyes right on his.

  “You owe it to me,” she whispered. “Didn’t I just give you the most memorable sex of your life?” She beamed at him.

  “Wait a minute,” Lucas’s spirit soared. He tried to sound extremely offended. “I thought I gave you the best...”

  But already she was running away.

  Chapter 26

  At the door, Mark wasn’t exactly smiling, but he did not look angry. He was closely shaven and dressed with extreme care. Did he just bring his small Hermès bag neatly stored in the overhead compartment of his first-class direct flight? Did he already have their flight booked for the way back? Was he planning on taking the children only and leaving her in Paris? She instinctively searched his jaw for tension, his eyes for the cold light of controlled anger, but instead found in his expression a weariness she wasn’t familiar with and assumed must be jet lag. Strangely, he looked glad to see her rather than victorious. Her heart was in her throat.

  “Aren’t you going to let me in?” Mark said. This wasn’t a question. Lola moved slowly away from the door to let him in. The absurdity of her situation was so apparent to her now. She had imagined in minute details how Mark would be searching for her, yet had not for an instant prepared herself for the moment he would find her.

  She followed him into the house, her mind blank. He stood in the hallway, looked at the collection of small antique mirrors of all sorts and shapes and at the yellow walls stenciled with naïve suns. He waited until it occurred to her to guide him into the living room. She instantaneously began seeing the house through his eyes. The living room was too dark, too heavy with antique furniture and velvet curtains, too provincial French. “Can I give you something to drink?” she asked. Whether he asked for a drink, and the type of drink, the tone of his voice, all were subtle signs she was desperately seeking to read. She searched the walls for traces of Annie’s strength and common sense. Hers had abandoned her.

  Mark walked around the room taking his time, inspecting objects from a distance that appeared to be physical and emotional, like he was visiting a second rate museum. He did not touch anything and she was thankful for that, because she would have perceived it as an invasion of Annie’s home. She wished so much she had not let him in. And it was terrible how she already felt battered by his unspoken disapproval. He turned to her and stared at her, cocked his head with an amused expression. “You look different.” This sounded neither like a criticism nor a compliment. She instantly became terribly self-conscious. “I do hope this is a wig,” he said, pointing at her hair. She felt relief like cool water running though her body and smiled. This was his sense of humor. She fluffed her now blond hair. “I let it grow out. This is my real color actually.”

  “Who lives here?” Mark said.

  “Well, there’s Annie, my... good friend, and her three sons, Maxence, Paul, and--”

  “Any guys living here?”

  She was about to give him a convoluted answer when she remembered something Annie had said. “You don’t owe him an explanation. Just remind yourself that he is the bad guy, not you.” So Lola did something very out of character. She answered with a question and mirrored his tone.

  “Is there a woman living in your house?”

  She chose the word “your” on the spur of the moment, and it felt good. Mark ignored the question and returned to inspecting things. Her shoulders had turned as hard and heavy as stone, and her jaw felt sore from clenching it. She was able to gather enough distance from what was happening to understand that her body was awaiting the blow up. Mark had not blown up yet but he was about to, because that’s what he did. Something stirred in her, indignation, determination. This was no way to live, this walking on eggshells, terrified of a human ticking time bomb.

  “What money have you been using?” Mark asked softly. “Nothing came out of our accounts.”

  On the phone with Annie, she had wanted to shout out for her friend to come to the rescue, but with Mark right in front of her, it had been impossible. So she pictured Annie in her mind for strength.

  “I’m using my own savings. From before us.”

  “Clever girl,” he said. “You had a secret account all this time? I never knew you to be secretive.”

  There was something different about him that she could not put her finger on. He seemed...not humble, no, not quite, but less self-assured and also less edgy. She wondered if maybe he was sick. “I guess I thought I knew you, but the joke’s on me,” he added.

  “Do you want to sit down?” She asked and she was surprised to see him sit on the couch immediately, as though he had been waiting for permission. He crossed his legs with one foot over the knee, and spread his arms on either side of the couch. She knew his body language, had learned to read its minutest fluctuations. Mark was trying to appear relaxed in a way that
screamed that he wasn’t. “Okay,” he said, trying to smile, “so what’s the plan now that I’m here?”

  She had seen him do this a hundred times—let the other person talk too much, get confused, emotional. He’d reveal nothing of himself or his desires until he was completely in control. “Information is power,” he always said. She didn’t have to fall into the trap. All she had to do was the opposite of what she usually did. No excuses, no glib explanations, no pitiable display of emotion. So rather than sit down, she crossed her arms and said relatively firmly and with as little feeling as possible, “You tell me what the plan is.”

  Mark examined Lola from head to toe with amusement. “What’s wrong with the way your hair was before? Is that part of the incognito thing? Are you trying to change identity?” he laughed a bit too loudly. She wanted to tell him that this was the real her, and that the identity she had assumed with him was the false one. She saw him follow her gaze toward the clock. The children needed to be picked up from school in just a few hours. As on cue, Mark asked: “Where are the kids? Are they here?”

  He would take the kids away! He would have every right to. She had been found out but she could still hide them from him. Panic set in and she was slowly falling apart starting with the knot of tears that was irrepressibly forming in her throat.

  “I want to see them,” Mark said.

  She was about to burst into tears like a five-year-old when came the unmistakable pushing and yanking sound of someone opening the front door, followed by the loud thump of the wooden door closing again. Mark, from his sitting position on the couch, looked at her interrogatively. What followed was almost comical. Annie barged into the room. Her hair was electric and she seemed to have been sprinting.

  “Cheerio!” she said, panting. She walked right to Mark without the slightest pretense of surprise. “I’m Annie. This is my house,” she huffed, holding her hand out to shake his. Mark slowly unfolded from the couch and got up to face her. Standing, Mark was a good foot taller than she was but to Lola, Annie was the Rock of Gibraltar. For what seemed like an eternity, Mark did not take the hand Annie continued to keep firmly outstretched toward him. When he finally shook, it felt to Lola as though Annie had scored a touchdown. She had made Mark do something he did not want to do! But Lola’s elation did not last. Instead of looking at her and speaking to her, Mark looked at Lola and said, “Where are the kids?”

  “You haven’t introduced yourself,” Annie said aggressively as she stood in front of him, hands on her hips.

  “Annie, this is my husband, Mark...”

  Annie looked at Lola with an expression that said, “Duh!”

  “Lola, I need to see Lia and Simon,” Mark said. He was beginning to look agitated.

  “You’re out of luck,” Annie said. “The children are out of town.” Lola knew it was a bluff, but she felt a nonsensical sense of relief. “As I said,” Annie added, “this is my house. As far as I know, there is no reason why you shouldn’t be welcome. But things can change very quickly.”

  “Lola,” Mark said between his teeth, “I need to talk to you in private.”

  Annie turned to Lola, who was petrified. “Lola, do you wish to speak to this man privately?”

  “Not really,” Lola said, and she meant it.

  “All right,” Annie continued. “In that case, I will be present during your conversation, as a mediator.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Mark chuckled.

  Annie walked toward Mark. Was it Lola’s imagination or did Mark back off ever so slightly. “Then you can leave,” she said. “Should I be calling the police?”

  Mark let out a big friendly laugh, and put both of his hands up in surrender. “All right, ladies. Let’s be friends here.”

  Lola’s face lit up with relief. Annie’s expression was unflinching, and she was certainly not laughing. “Are you saying that you’re agreeing to me serving as mediator?”

  Mark was still smiling widely, “All right, all right...whatever. Lola, where did you find your friend here? You gals crack me up.” Lola detected tension in his jaw, but he could have fooled anyone else. Thankfully, Annie didn’t appear the least bit fooled either. She had heard enough accounts to know what Mark was capable of. Lola caught herself wanting Mark to go crazy and demonstrate one of his trademark temper tantrums so she could be vindicated. Annie would see how terrifying Mark was, and it would excuse her lies, all of them.

  But for the moment, Annie didn’t seem terrified at all. She guided Mark to the kitchen and had him and Lola sit on opposite sides of the kitchen table. Mark was even more of an incongruous apparition in Annie’s kitchen, which had so recently overflowed with kids, cereal boxes, and cups of hot cocoa. Mark had to love the kitchen, she thought. Everyone loved Annie’s kitchen. It was so French, so quaint. But moving from the living room to the kitchen did not change the fact that time was ticking. The kitchen clock was just as mercilessly accurate as the living room clock. She breathed with increasing difficulty. She stopped looking at the clock, which she decided was going to give things away, and, resting all hope on Annie, she waited for someone’s next move. While she and Mark fell silent, Annie flattened her crazed hair with the palm of her hand, brushed some crumbs leftover from breakfast off the table with dignity, and turned on the coffeemaker. She opened the kitchen glass door wide. The chirps of birds and summer heat found their way into the kitchen. In the distance, someone was playing the piano, a lighthearted piece that sounded like something by Vivaldi.

  “Let me grab something to write with,” Annie said. She walked out of the kitchen while Mark and Lola sat in silence. Lola scrutinized her hands and considered how docile Mark was at the moment as he looked around the kitchen and rocked on the back legs of his chair. A minute later, Annie was back and she was holding a pad and a pen. She sat down on the chair across from Mark, and sat at Lola’s side. Annie was in her element, in her kitchen, in her house. The sun and the smell of coffee flooded the kitchen like a promise of better days.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Annie said. “Oh, and Mark, please, could you stop doing that to the chair. It’s an antique, and you might end up on your ass.”

  Mark stopped. Lola looked in despair at the clock. It was three forty-five. The children! She glanced in panic at Annie who discretely mouthed, “Lu-cas.”

  A violent ray of sunshine darted through an opening in the curtains of Althea’s hospital room. That light attacked her in her sleep, and she awakened with difficulty. She lifted an arm, wiggled her toes, and was surprised when they responded. She dropped her arm, exhausted by the effort. Her head hurt terribly, her brain felt too large for her skull, and it was nearly impossible to open her eyes. The scary nurse who had made Annie cry barged into the room, her voice boomed.

  “I see Sleeping Beauty’s up!”

  Althea felt compelled to apologize. “I’m ready to go now. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m fine really. I just need to pee.”

  The nurse moved about the room. “You don’t need to pee. You’re connected to a catheter. It’s just uncomfortable.”

  Althea, horrified, imagined what that meant.

  “Anyway,” the nurse added without looking at her, “no one’s going anywhere.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  The nurse shrugged and looked at her with cold eyes. “If someone doesn’t understand, it’s you.” And she left.

  The throbbing pain in her head erased all thoughts for a while, but Althea didn’t have the strength or courage to face the nurse and ask for a pain reliever.

  Soon, the doctor, a tall black man in a white lab coat, walked in. In his footsteps walked an elegantly dressed round woman in her sixties. The woman was as short as the doctor was tall, as pale as he was dark. She wore an expensively cut gray suit that didn’t belong in a hospital room. Both the doctor and the lady had matching expressions of unhurried kindness. The doctor took her pulse and spoke with a hint of an African accent. “How
are you feeling?”

  “I have a very bad headache,” Althea whimpered, and saying those words she nearly burst into tears. The doctor called the nurse on the intercom and asked her to add something to Althea’s IV. The nurse entered, syringe in hand, and her face lit up when she saw the older woman. The two spoke in French about grandchildren while the doctor continued to examine Althea, pausing every so often to take notes. Althea’s head throbbed. The nurse emptied the content of the syringe into the IV bag and left the room. The doctor scribbled in a file and the round little woman dragged a chair next to Althea. “Hello, my child. My name is Madame Defloret.” She added the obvious, “I speak English.”

  “Good,” Althea whispered. She was glad it was her turn to get this stranger’s attention. The nasty nurse had seemed delighted to speak to her.

  The lady took Althea’s hand. “I’ll tell you what is going on, and what we suggest you do about it, and you decide if you agree to it.” Madame Defloret’s voice seemed to turn liquid. Althea felt a release of every muscle in her body. “I’m ready to go. I’m feeling just fine. I’m so sorry I...”

  “You’ve been diagnosed with an acute case of Anorexia Nervosa. Are you familiar at all with what this illness signifies?”

  Althea felt the distant alarm in her brain. She was in dangerous territory, but her headache was melting away, and she could only notice the wellbeing. She did not answer.

  “It is a very real illness that requires treatment,” Madame Defloret continued without letting go of Althea’s hand. “For too many it is a deadly illness. Only it is considered by many as a mental illness. Have you been diagnosed or treated in the past? Are you receiving treatment now?”

  Althea turned her face away. Mental illness? What the woman said did not matter, but the kindness of her tone made Althea’s throat tighten.

  “Have you, my child?” Madame Defloret insisted. “Have you been diagnosed or treated, ever? In America maybe?”

  “No...no, never. I’m all right, really. I think I can go home.”

  “As far as this hospital is concerned, it would be assuming too much of a risk to let you go until you are better.”