by Sarah Jio
He nods. “Yes, I’m aware. And you were very lucky.”
“If you call lucky losing your memory.” I proceed to tell him about my present state, Victor, the apartment, Margot—bits and pieces of a life I am stitching together, like squares of a patchwork quilt.
“I know you must be frustrated,” he continues. “But if you take anything away from this session, I want it to be this: you may have lost your memory, but you haven’t lost yourself.”
I blink hard, letting his words marinate.
“You’re still you,” he says. “Even without the encyclopedia of your past. You’re still authentically you.” He uncrosses his legs and leans in closer. “And, frankly, to know yourself in the raw state that you are in, without any baggage from the past, well, that in and of itself is quite a gift. A strange one, but a good one.”
We talk for another half hour, and he gives me a series of breathing and cognitive exercises that are supposed to help unblock my mind. “Remember,” he says, as I stand to leave, “you may feel as if you’ve lost everything, but that’s not the case.” He points to his head. “It’s all in there.”
* * *
—
IN THE KITCHEN, Margot asks, “How was your day?” and hands Élian a sippy cup, which he offers to his stuffed bunny.
“Good,” I say. “The appointment with the therapist was…interesting.”
“Any progress on your memory?”
I shake my head. “Not really, but I think I had a few revelations.”
“That’s promising,” she says, before grinning. “Victor’s called a few times.”
My eyes widen. “Oh?”
“He wants to know if you’re coming to the restaurant tonight.” Her eyes are bright. “He really wants to see you.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe I should just…stay home.”
Margot shakes her head. “Caroline, there’s a time and a season for staying home. I get it. In fact, before Élian, when I was single, there’s nothing I used to love more than a quiet night at home. I didn’t have to cook for anyone, even myself. I’d just have a cigarette and an apple, and it was heaven.”
I smile. “A cigarette and an apple. I love that.” I pause, considering my own perfect solo night in. “I’d have peppermint bark and a glass of red wine.”
She laughs, nodding. “I totally get it. But tonight,” she shakes her head, “this is a…moment. And it could be a crucial one in the story of the two of you.” She squeezes my hands. “Trust me. You have to go.”
“You really think so?” I ask wistfully.
“I do.”
* * *
—
MARGOT COAXES ME into putting on a sweater and a skirt before heading out. I’m so lost in thought that I hardly care about the wind and what it might be doing to my hair, or that my heels have gotten caught in the cobblestones more than once. And when I see Jeanty in the distance, my heart beats faster. I wish I had Margot’s confidence. I, instead, have been feeling vulnerable since we returned from Provence. What if I made a poor choice in trusting Victor? What if his interests in me are purely…physical and nothing more? The last thing I need is heartbreak.
“Hi,” he says as our eyes meet inside the restaurant.
I smile as he takes my coat, then leads me to a dim back corner of the restaurant, an area separated from the rest of the room by an emerald velvet curtain and usually reserved for private parties. We slip into a table lit by a drippy candelabra.
“I wanted to create something…special for you tonight,” he says.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, tugging on the gold ring on my right finger. I’d found it in my bathroom drawer and slipped it on this morning.
Victor opens a bottle of Italian wine and pours us each a glass. “To new memories,” he says, extending his to mine for a clink.
“And old,” I say, before taking a sip.
As the courses come out—one beautiful platter after the next—we talk effortlessly, but I don’t share my fears, nor do I dare tell him how vulnerable I feel or ask for the reassurance I so desperately need. Instead, I sip my wine and eat my food and try to enjoy the evening. Perhaps I’ve been too cautious. After all, Victor has been nothing but lovely, and here I am getting ridiculously caught up in that woman’s phone call when we were in the south, and something silly Inès said about flowers. As Victor produces and uncorks another bottle of wine, I decide to let it all drift away.
“Let me get us some fresh glasses,” he says, standing up. “I’ll just be a minute.”
I smile as he slips behind the curtain. I take the final sip of wine in my glass. A perfect, light nebbiolo with a tart cherry finish. I wonder if I even like nebbiolo, or at least, if I did before. Or are all of my tastes and preferences newly forged? I eye the mushroom and Gruyère tart on the table and wonder if my former self loved mushrooms as much as I do now, or if these affinities will vanish when my memories return.
Victor had left his cellphone on the table, and it suddenly lights up and begins buzzing. I can’t help but notice the name on the screen: Emma. My cheeks burn.
He returns a moment later with two fresh wineglasses in hand, then pours the new bottle of wine. As he begins talking, I stare straight ahead.
“What’s wrong?” he says, noticing the shift in my mood.
“Nothing,” I say, avoiding his gaze.
“Caroline, please,” he says, “what’s bothering you?”
I take a deep breath, wishing I could prevent what I know is to come: an eruption, I fear, of volcanic scale.
“Who is…Emma?” I say. “She called in Provence, and”—I pause, pointing at his phone on the table—“she called just now.”
His eyes blink rapidly. I can tell, whoever she is, it’s somehow awkward, and he isn’t prepared to talk about it.
“Is she your ex? The one you said you once loved? Is that who you bought the flowers for?”
Victor shakes his head. But instead of being calm and patient, he seems agitated, even a little annoyed. “I invited you here because I wanted to have a special night with you. Why would you think I would have any other intentions?”
“Then who is that woman and why does she keep calling you?” I hate how my voice sounds. Insecure. Like a scared schoolgirl. But there’s no masking how I feel.
He clears his throat. “She’s…no one.” He pauses. “Wait, why are you acting this way? Listen, Caroline”—he sets his napkin on the table and looks deep into my eyes—“I don’t know what I must say for you to trust me.”
I look around the dimly lit space. There are no flowers in sight. Perhaps he’s already given them to Emma, or some other pretty woman he was with the night before. I sigh, rising to my feet.
“I would never hurt you,” Victor says, lifting his hand to my cheek.
“That may be true,” I say, wiping away a tear. “But I’m too fragile right now to know if I can believe you or not.” I swallow hard, taking a long look at him. “I’m sorry. I should go.”
“Please,” Victor says. “Caroline, don’t leave.”
He reaches for my hand, but I don’t let him take it. I slip outside the curtain, weave through the restaurant, and find my coat before heading outside. I’m equal parts embarrassed and upset. But mostly I’m just lost, so sorely lost.
* * *
—
WHEN I WAKE the next morning, Margot and Élian have already left. The details of last night hit me like a hammer to the head as I fumble to make myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. With each sip, I remember more of what I’d said to Victor, how I’d left with a heavy heart. I swallow hard, wishing the night had ended in a different way. But for what? To be deceived? To be fooled into believing that I was in a relationship with someone who really cared about me, as opposed to someone who merely felt sorry for me?
I s
hower and turn to my sketchbook; I’m staring at an image of a palm tree I’ve created when the phone rings.
“Does one o’clock still work?” It’s Estelle, and I’ve completely forgotten my promise to meet her for lunch.
“About that,” I begin. “I’m—”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m on the train, and it’s so loud. I can barely hear you. I just wanted to say that I’ll be a few minutes late, okay?”
“Okay,” I say with a sigh.
* * *
—
ESTELLE WAITS FOR me outside of Jeanty, looking chic in a pair of dark skinny jeans and a tan sweater. She smiles when she sees me, then kisses my cheeks. “I must have passed this bistro a thousand times; I can’t believe I’ve never had a meal here.”
The warm air hits my face as she follows me inside. “You’ll love it,” I tell her, as I look around cautiously. “Bonjour,” I say to Lorraine, one of the waitresses who’s helping out at the hostess desk until Margot returns. I glance back at the kitchen timidly. “Is Victor in?”
“Oh, he just stepped out,” she says. “But he shouldn’t be too long. Just a quick trip to the market. We’re out of potatoes.”
“Potatoes,” I say with a smile as I wave to Monsieur Ballard, then motion to Estelle to follow me to his table. “That’s the man I want you to meet.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Ballard,” I say, smiling. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Estelle Olivier.” I explain her project as he leans in with interest.
“Please, sit, both of you,” he says, pushing his newspaper aside. He motions to one of the waiters to bring out two more espressos. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I say.
He takes a long look at me. “I don’t think you’re being entirely forthcoming.”
I sigh, glancing at Estelle, then back at Monsieur Ballard. “How do you know?”
“I’ve learned a great deal about reading faces in my time, and your face tells me that you’re…conflicted.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Well,” he continues, “if I could give you any bit of advice worth its salt, I’d tell you what I wish someone would have told me when I was your age.”
“And what would that be?”
“Stop worrying all the time.”
I smile. “Easier said than done.”
He sighs and throws up his hands. “Dear, I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you what I wish I would have done.”
“Then let’s hear it,” I say, exchanging a glance with Estelle, who appears equal parts amused and curious.
He nods. “I would have turned down that damn accounting job and gone to Italy, to Portofino, just like I wanted to. I would have kissed the girl I should have kissed when I had the chance.” He pauses, and his eyes drift off. He clears his throat. “I would have spent more weekends with my children when they were young. I would have spit in that German officer’s face when he insulted my mother on the street, even if he gave me a bloody nose. And I would have…” His voice trails off, and so do his eyes, to the little cabinet in the far wall, and perhaps to a memory long ago.
“What?” I ask. “What were you going to say?”
He clears his throat. “It doesn’t matter now. The point is, seize the moment. Your moment.”
“I wish it were that easy,” I say.
“My dear,” he replies, “it is. I assure you, it is. Life is what you make it. You know what you want.” He turns to the door as Victor walks in. “Now go get it.”
As Monsieur Ballard begins chatting with Estelle, Victor walks into the restaurant carrying a basket brimming with potatoes. I notice a stalk of Brussels sprouts poking out of the side.
“There you are,” Victor says when our eyes meet. He sets down his load and walks over to me, kissing my cheek as if nothing has happened.
“I’m…sorry,” I say. “About last night. I shouldn’t have been so emotional.”
“I’m sorry, too,” he says. “I…shouldn’t have been so intense.”
I nod, searching his eyes.
“You know,” he continues, “you don’t have to be afraid with me.”
“I know,” I say, smiling. “At least, I think so.”
He reaches for my hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
I smile.
“And your memory today?”
“Same.”
He exhales, squeezing my hand. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I say, cracking a smile, wondering if I’ve been too cautious.
He leans in closer. “When can I see you?”
I think of the flowers again, along with my other lingering doubts, and decide I am being too cautious.
“How about right now?” I say.
He grins. “Yes, right now.”
“What do you want to do?”
“First I want to kiss you,” he says.
I grin.
“And then I want to take you to this new restaurant that opened across town.”
“Okay,” I say, unable to stop smiling.
“I’ll just go let the staff know I’ll be out until dinner service.”
I say goodbye to Monsieur Ballard and Estelle, who are engaged in deep conversation.
“I’ll call you in a few days,” Estelle says.
I grin as Victor takes my hand. “Anytime.”
* * *
—
“THE RESTAURANT IS a bit of a walk,” he says, eying a map on his phone. “Maybe we should take a taxi?”
“I really don’t mind walking,” I say. “And it’s such a nice day. But if you’re in a hurry…”
“No, we’ll walk,” he says, taking my hand and glancing at me a moment later. “What’s on your mind?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You’re mulling something over,” he says. “I can tell.”
“Oh, nothing, really,” I say. “My art show is this Friday. I guess I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I’d love to come,” he says, simultaneously waving to a man across the street. He doesn’t stop to make an introduction.
“I know it’s a terrible time to break away from the restaurant. You don’t have to come.”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “I promise.”
“Well, no pressure.”
“Now, now,” he says, stopping. “Do you think I’d miss my girlfriend’s big show?”
I smile, loving the way he’s called me his girlfriend.
Twenty minutes later, we arrive at a restaurant called Chez Sol. I peer inside the window. It’s lively inside, with colorful décor, and tables packed with people lingering over late lunches and cocktails.
“It looks busy; do you think we can get a table?”
He winks. “I may have a few special connections.”
Inside, a man about Victor’s age greets him with a hug. There’s a line of people waiting to be seated, but he rushes us to a table by the window.
“I take it you’re friends with the owners?”
He nods. “They have a restaurant in Mexico, which is where I met them. I helped them find this building, get everything connected.”
I survey the menu. “It looks amazing.”
“Wait until you try the fish tacos with pineapple salsa.”
When the waiter arrives, Victor chats with him for a moment and orders us an assortment of tacos and two mescal margaritas.
“Mescal?”
Before I can place it, Victor fills in the blanks. “It’s a smoky tequila,” he explains. “Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
And I do. But I love this moment with him more. I’m glad I didn’t close myself off. Yes, I may still have lingering concerns, but I’ll sort them all out some
how. Monsieur Ballard is right. It’s time to live my life with intention, not fear. I order a second margarita, then look up at Victor. “I’ve really loved painting, and I’ve been thinking about turning one of my spare bedrooms into an art studio.”
He smiles.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything with my paintings, but maybe, someday, I could sell a few.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea.” He holds up his glass. “Cheers to that.”
* * *
—
“THANKS FOR TODAY,” I say in front of the restaurant.
He kisses my forehead. “When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know,” I say, looking out at the street.
“Wait. If you’re not sick of me yet,” he says, and smiles, “why don’t you come to the restaurant tonight, around eight? Julien will be taking over the evening service then. I’ll hang up my apron and we can have dinner. Just us. I’ll have Lorraine reserve the table in the back.”
“All right,” I say.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he says with a wink. “You’ll see.”
I smile as he heads back to the kitchen, watching him as he disappears behind the double doors.
* * *
—
I DECIDE TO clear my head with a long walk to the chic department store Galeries Lafayette to look for a dress for the art show. Inès described the event as “fancy,” and I’m certain there’s nothing in my closet that even remotely qualifies. Estelle calls on my walk.
“You were right,” she says. “Monsieur Ballard is a trove of information. He is absolutely fascinating.”
“Good,” I say. “I thought you’d like him. But did he give you anything of use for your project?”
“Yes,” she says. “Did you know that Céline was engaged to be married to a man who worked for the Resistance?”
“Really?”
