"Hey, Mom," Paul said, pulling back to look at her. His teeth were white, straight, perfect; he'd grown a dark beard. "Fancy meeting you here," he said, laughing.
"Yes, fancy that."
Bree was beside her then. She stepped forward and hugged Paul too.
"I have to go," she said. "I was just hanging around to say hello. You're looking good, Paul. The wandering life agrees with you."
He smiled. "Can't you stay ?"
Bree glanced at Norah. "No," she said. "But I'll see you soon, okay ?"
"Okay," Paul said, leaning to kiss her on the cheek. "I guess."
Norah wiped the back of her wrist against her eye as Bree turned and walked away.
"What is it?" Paul asked; then, suddenly serious, "What's wrong?"
"Come and sit," she said, taking his arm.
Together, they crossed back to her bench, causing a cluster of pi?geons, their feathers iridescent, to burst into flight. She picked up her book, fingering her bookmark.
"Paul, I have bad news. Your father died nine days ago. A heart attack."
His eyes widened in shock and grief and he looked away, staring without speaking at the path he'd walked to reach her, to reach this moment.
"When was the funeral?" he asked at last.
"Last week. I'm so sorry, Paul. There was no time to find you. I thought about contacting the embassy to help me track you down, but I didn't know where to start. So I came here today, hoping you'd show up."
"I almost missed the train," he said, pensive. "I almost didn't make it."
"But you did," she said. "Here you are."
He nodded and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped between them. She remembered him sitting just this way as a child, struggling to hide his sadness. He clenched his fists, then released them. She took her son's hand in hers. His fingertips were calloused from years of playing. They sat for a long while, lis?tening to the wind rustling through the leaves.
"It's okay to be upset," she said at last. "He was your father."
Paul nodded, but his face was still closed like a fist. When he fi?nally spoke, his voice was on the edge of breaking.
"I never thought he'd die. I never thought I'd care. It's not like we ever really talked."
"I know." And she did. After the call from Bree, Norah had walked down the leaf-canopied street, weeping freely, angry with David for leaving before she'd had a chance to settle things with him, once and for all. "But before, at least talking was always an option."
"Yes. I kept waiting for him to make the first move."
"I think he was waiting for the same thing."
"He was my father," Paul said. "He was supposed to know what to do."
"He loved you," she said. "Don't ever think he didn't."
Paul gave a short, bitter laugh. "No. That sounds pretty, but it's just not true. I'd go over to his house and I'd try; I'd hang out and talk with Dad about this and that, but we never went any further. I could never get anything right for him. He'd have been happier with another son altogether." His voice was still calm, but tears had gathered in the corners of his eyes and were slipping down his cheeks.
"Honey," she said. "He loved you. He did. He thought you were the most amazing son."
Paul pushed the tears roughly off his cheeks. Norah felt her own grief and sadness gather in her throat, and it was a moment before she could speak.
"Your father," she said at last, "had a very hard time revealing himself to anyone. I don't know why. He grew up poor, and he was always ashamed of that. I wish he could have seen how many peo?ple came to the funeral, Paul. Hundreds. It was all the clinic work he did. I have the guest book; you can see for yourself. A lot of peo?ple loved him."
"Did Rosemary come?" he asked, turning to face her.
"Rosemary? Yes." Norah paused, letting the warm breeze move lightly over her face. She'd glimpsed Rosemary when the service ended, sitting in the last pew in a simple gray dress. Her hair was still long but she looked older, more settled. David had always in?sisted there had never been anything between them; in her heart, Norah knew this was true. "They weren't in love," Norah said. "Your father and Rosemary. It wasn't what you think."
"I know." He sat up straighten "I know. Rosemary told me. I be?lieved her."
"She did? When?"
"When Dad brought her home. That first day." He looked un?comfortable, but he went on. "I'd see her at his place sometimes. When I stopped in to visit Dad. Sometimes we'd all have dinner to?gether. Sometimes Dad wasn't home, so I'd hang out for a while with Rosemary and Jack. I could tell there wasn't anything between them. Sometimes she'd have a boyfriend there. I don't know. It was a little weird, I guess. But I got used to it. She was okay, Rosemary. She wasn't the reason I couldn't ever really talk to him."
Norah nodded. "But Paul, you mattered to him. Look, I know what you're saying, because I felt it too. That distance. That re?serve. That sense of a wall too high to get over. After a while I gave up trying, and after a longer while I gave up waiting for a door to appear in it. But behind that wall, he loved us both. I don't know how I know that, but I do."
Paul didn't speak. Every now and then he brushed tears from his eyes.
The air was cooler, and people had begun to stroll through the gardens, lovers holding hands, couples with children, solitary walk?ers. An elderly couple approached. She was tall, with a flash of white hair, and he walked slowly, stooping slightly, with a cane. She had her hand tucked around his elbow and was leaning down to speak to him, and he was nodding, pensive, frowning, looking across the gardens, beyond the gates, at whatever she wanted him to note. Norah felt a pang to see this intimacy. Once she had imagined herself and David moving into such an old age, their histories woven together like vines, tendril around shoot, leaves meshed. Oh, she'd been so old-fashioned; even her regret was old-fashioned. She had imagined that, married, she would be some sort of lovely bud, wrapped in the tougher, resilient calyx of the flower. Wrapped and protected, the layers of her own life contained within another's.
But instead she had found her own way, building a business, raising Paul, traveling the world. She was petal, calyx, stem, and leaf; she was the long white root running deep into the earth. And she was glad.
As they passed, the couple spoke in English, arguing about where to have dinner. Their accents were from the south—from Texas, Norah guessed—and the man wanted to find a place with steak, with food that was familiar.
"I'm so tired of Americans," Paul said, once they were out of earshot. "Always so glad to find another American. You'd think there weren't two hundred and fifty million of us. You'd think they'd want to be seeking out some French people, since they're in France."
"You've been talking to Frederic."
"Sure. Why not? Frederic is right on the mark when it comes to American arrogance. Where is he, anyway?"
"Away on business. He'll come tonight."
It rushed through her again, the image of Frederic walking through the door of the hotel room, dropping his keys on the dresser and patting his pockets to make sure he had his wallet. He wore bright white shirts that caught the last light, with crisp button-down collars, and each evening he came in and tossed his tie over a chair, his low voice shaping her name. Perhaps it was his voice she had loved first. They had so much in common—grown chil?dren, divorces, demanding jobs—but because Frederic's life had happened in another country, half in another language, it felt ex?otic to Norah, familiar and unknown at once. An old country and anew.
"Has your visit been good?" Paul asked. "Do you like France?"
"I've been happy here," Norah said, and it was true. Frederic felt congestion had ruined Paris, but for Norah the charm was infinite, the boulangeries and the patisseries, the crepes sold from street stands, the spires of ancient buildings, the bells. The sounds, too, of the language flowing like a stream, a word here and there emerging like a pebble. "How about you? How's the tour? Are you still in love?"
"Oh, yes," he said, his face easing a little. He looked straight at her. "Are you going to marry Frederic?"
She ran her finger around the sharp corner of the brochure. This was the question, of course, woven through all her moments: Should she change her life? She loved Frederic, she had never been happier, though she could see through that happiness to a time when his endearing habits might get on her nerves, and hers on his. He liked things just so; he was meticulous about everything from mitered corners to tax forms. In that way, though in no others, he reminded her of David. She was old enough now, experienced enough, to know that nothing was perfect. Nothing stayed the same, herself included. But it was also true that when Frederic walked into a room the air seemed to shift, grow charged, to pulse straight through her. She wanted to see what might happen next.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Bree's willing to buy the busi?ness. Frederic has two more years on his contract, so we don't have to make any decisions for a while. But I can imagine myself in a life with him. I suppose that's the first step."
Paul nodded. "Is that how it was last time? You know, with Dad?"
Norah looked at him, wondering how to answer this.
"Yes and no," she said at last. "I'm much more pragmatic now. Then, I just wanted to be taken care of. I didn't know myself very well."
"Dad liked to take care of things."
"Yes. Yes, he did."
Paul gave a short, sharp laugh. "I can't believe he's dead."
"I know," Norah said. "Neither can I."
They sat for a time in silence, air moving lightly around them. Norah turned her brochure, remembering the coolness in the mu?seum, the echo of footsteps. She'd stood for nearly an hour before this painting, studying the swirls of color, the sure and vivid brush?strokes. What was it Van Gogh had touched? Something that shimmered, something elusive. David had moved through the world, focusing his camera on its smallest details, obsessed with light and shadow, trying to fix things in place. Now he was gone and the way he'd seen the world was gone as well.
Paul was standing up, waving across the park, the sadness on his face giving way to a joyous smile, intense, clearly focused, and ex?clusive. Norah followed his gaze across the dry grass to a young woman with a long delicate face and skin the color of ripe acorns, her dark hair in dreadlocks to her waist. She was slender, wearing a soft print dress; she carried herself with a dancer's grace and reserve.
"It's Michelle," Paul said, already standing. "I'll be right back. It's Michelle."
Norah watched him move toward her as if pulled by gravity, Michelle's face lifting at the sight of him. He cupped her face lightly in his hands as they kissed, and then she raised her hand and their palms touched briefly, lightly, a gesture so intimate that Norah looked away. They crossed the park then, heads bent, talking. At one point they paused, and Michelle rested her hand on Paul's arm, and Norah knew he had told her.
"Mrs. Henry," she said, shaking hands when they reached the bench. Her fingers were long and cool. "I am so sorry about Paul's father."
Her accent, too, was faintly exotic: she had spent many years in
London. For a few minutes they all stood in the garden, talking. Paul suggested that they go for dinner, and Norah was tempted to say yes. She wanted to sit with Paul and talk long into the night, but she hesitated, aware that between Paul and Michelle there was a warmth, a radiance, a restlessness to be alone. She thought of Fred?eric again, perhaps already back in their pension, his tie falling across the back of a chair.
"How about tomorrow?" she said. "What if we meet for break?fast? I want to hear all about your trip. I want to know all about the flamenco guitarists in Seville."
On the street, walking to the metro, Michelle took Norah's arm. Paul walked just ahead of them, broad-shouldered, lanky.
"You raised a wonderful son," she said. "I'm so sorry I won't get to know his father."
"That would have been hard in any case—to get to know him. But yes, I'm sorry too." They walked a few steps. "Have you en?joyed your tour?"
"Oh, it's a wonderful freedom, traveling," Michelle observed.
It was a soft evening, the bright lights of the metro station a shock as they descended. A train clattered in the distance, echoed through the tunnel. There were mingled scents: perfume and, underneath, the sharper tang of metal, oil.
"Come by around nine tomorrow," Norah told Paul, raising her voice over the noise. And then, as the train came nearer, she leaned forward, close to his ear, shouting.
"He loved you! He was your father, and he loved you!"
Paul's face opened for an instant: grief and loss. He nodded. There was no time for more. The train was rushing now, rushing toward them all, and in its sudden wind she felt her heart fill up. Her son, here in the world. And David, mysteriously, gone. The train stopped, squealing, and the hydraulic doors burst open with a sigh. Norah got on and sat by the window, watching a flash, a final glimpse of Paul, walking, his hands in his pockets, his head down. There, then gone.
By the time she reached her stop, the air had filled up with the grainy light of dusk. She walked across cobblestones to the pension, painted pale yellow and faintly luminous, its window boxes spilling flowers. The room was quiet, her own strewn things undisturbed; Frederic had not arrived. Norah went to the window overlooking the river and stood there for a moment, thinking of David carrying Paul on his shoulders through their first house, thinking of the day he had proposed, shouting at her over the rush of water, the cool ring slipping down her finger. Thinking of Paul's hand and Michelle's, palm to palm.
