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Patterns – 1 – The banging and ringing of the bell, woke her. Wow, the bell could really wake the dead. The leasing agent had said as much, when she took the old warehouse space less than eighteen months ago. He had patted his paunchy belly and said, "You might want to have someone try and dismantel the bay door bell. Could wake the dead I tell you." She hadn't bothered. Normally people were expected and the man door was unlocked or they called on their cell phones from the parking lot. Very few people actually knew where the bay door bell was. Sam. He had worked as a night watchman in a warehouse. Kat. She grew up helping in her uncle's fruit warehouse. Kat knew everything about warehouses. She was a venerable warehouse encyclopedia; she was in San Fran now, showing her work and being coddled by an investment banker. Becca thought sleepily as she struggled into jeans and down the stairs from her loft sleeping quarters to the bay door. Again the ringing. Which was making her hangover/creative binge crash headache throb in time to the ringing. "Enough with the bell already." She bellowed as she reached the man door and threw it open. And on the stoop, holding a brown bag, her cell and an umbrella was Sara. Becca glared at Sara and went to shut the door. "Oh, no you don't Becca. I have been calling you for days and worrying about you and calling. I thought you died in there or something." "If you thought I died, why did you pick up Indian on the way over?" "For the wake and frankly death makes me hungry." "Death makes you hungry?" "Yep. A by product of growing up Jewish. Seven days of sitting and eating. So yeah, death and hunger go hand in hand." Sara offered as she snuck in the door and set her umbrella down. Eyeing her, Becca shook her head, "You are one sick fuck, you know that?" Walking back through the warehouse space, past her studio and up the three stairs to her kitchen , the sleeping quarters above that. Rubbing her temples and wishing, no hoping there was still some wine or vodka or something to drink in the kitchen. She needed sleep. What she was going to get was the Sara inquisition. Plopping down in the chair at the long farmhouse style table, Becca began to inspect bottles and glasses as Sara began talking a mile a minute. Sorting bottles into lines of empty and still something in them. Then Becca took a swallow of what had to be day or three old beer. "Jesus Becca, what are you doing?" "Drinking?" "This place is a disaster area, what kind of party have you been throwing?" Stopping to breath for a millisecond, Sara continued," And what are you on? I mean really Becca, you aren't twenty any more. What in the world has gotten into you? You missed Missy's engagement party, you did not return my calls. Your doctor's office called my place. Apparently they still have my number in your records." Shit. She had forgotten about all that stuff. "We talked the other day." "Oh the hell we did, Becca. We talked ten days ago." Ten. Days. Ago. Shit. As Sara continued to go on and on about the mess, the smell, the pile of trash, which was next to the overfilled can in the corner. At the same time, she was washing dishes in the sink and then serving up colorful globs of very fragrant dishes from various take out containers and then topping them off with hunks of naan. All the while, Becca kept sorting her bottles and draining the ones with some liquid remaining. At least until Sara turned and yelled, "Becca, really. Stop that. You are acting like some crazed whino at Port Authority." Sara's flare for the dramatic and her Jewish grandmotherly tendencies were really showing this morning or afternoon. "What day is it?" "Really Becca? Really? You have no idea what day it is?" Becca nodded. She really had no idea. "It's Sunday. We were supposed to do brunch. Remember?" She nodded. She did remember agreeing to brunch, before Sara had left for a business trip. "What gives?" Sara said as she took an arm load of bottles to the sink and then sat down with the two plates of Indian. "You gonna be ok eating this?" Becca shrugged. She had no idea. She forgot what she had last eaten. Or when. She remembered talking to Sara from the airport, when they made brunch plans. She remembered Sam taking her to the post office in his truck, to pick up the boxes. Yes the boxes that is what started this. This work induced crazy binge. "I think I ate yesterday. Maybe the day before." "Becccccccaaaaaaaaaa!" Now Sara really did sound like her grandmother. Who was a Jewish grandmother. It was just as well that Sara was single and childless. Really. She would smother someone to death or guilt them endlessly and not mean to, but still. "Yeah. I know. I must eat and be more attentive to my health. Blah, blah, blah." "Not blah, blah, blah. I mean it. What is up with you? You look like shit and this place is a sty." Becca tried to make herself eat a spoonful of saag and rice and mulled that question over. It had been a long time since she had lost a few days, let alone ten of them. So consumed with work. "I was dealing with some stuff and you know, working." Becca was an artist. She had leased this space, so that she could work from home and had recently finished a series of works, about to be on display at the University, where she taught as an adjunct. Her work was part of faculty retrospective. Sara, who had been devouring Naan dipped in a orange sauced chicken dish, shoved one more big bite into her mouth and chewed slowly, an act Becca was indifinate thankful for. Quiet. Just what her splitting head needed. Quiet and maybe more booze. "Touch those bottles and I will break your fingers." Sara mumbled loudly with the naan in her mouth. Dryly Becca decided Sara did not need children, as she clearly was mothering her. Somewhat regularly. Becca and Sara had met at the University when Becca moved to town. More like Sara had swooped in, taken Becca hostage and began mothering her on a regular basis. Becca made a mental note to get Sara a cat. Clearly she needed to nurture something and her many houseplants weren't cutting it. Before Becca could protest again or reach for another bottle, Sara was riffling under the sink, pulling out a garbage bag and filling it with bottles. Then she unceramnoishly tied off the bag and high tailed it to the man door, opened it, tossed the bag out and locked the door. Then she came back to the kitchen and sat down. "Now spill. What has gotten into you. And eat. You will feel better." As Becca played with the piles of colorful veggie on her plate and lined up grains of rice around the edge of her plate, Sara took the obvious period of sulking to get a glass, fill it with water and set it in front of Becca, before resuming her dipping, biting and chewing of a third or fourth piece of naan and chicken. "Just you know working." "No, I don't know working because it is winter break and frankly you finished your last collection and you said, you were taking a break." "I am on a break from my break." Becca mumbled and slowly chewed on some naan. She failed to see what Sara saw in this bread. While Sara chewed and dipped with gusto, Becca got up, fished a clove cigarette from a canister on the counter and lite up. "Hey-- I thought you quit that too." Sara protested. Becca shrugged. She'd thought about quitting. But hadn't. "If I said, I don't want to talk about it. Would you leave and let me go back to bed?" "Uh, no." "I didn't think so." Taking a drag on her cigarette she thought back over the last few days. The food and Sara's nagging had brought things a bit more into focus. She pulled a few long drags and blew the smoke away from Sara and the table. "Do you want to see what I was working on then? And then you can go. Ok?" "Or I could stay and clean up and we could talk." One more drag and then Becca snubbed out the cigarette on a dessert plate, which was on the table, some peanut butter or something congealed on the edge. Sara made a face, stowed the remaining Indian in the empty refrigerator and waited. waited for Becca to lead the way to the studio.
– 2 –
It was Becca's happy place. Her ideal work space. After working in cramped rooms, rented studios and even a closet. This was the studio of her dreams. It was the result of selling several works over the past few years. While Becca was basically not a neat person, her studio organization bordered on obsessive. Which was probably why Sara gasped when she saw the mess. Then she gasped again, when she saw 5 large canvases, covered in a collage, and paint and many geographic patterns. "Um, Becca… Wow." Sara walked closer. Looking at the first canvas. It was easily 4 ft by 4 ft and in a geometric web deign, bits of fabric, photos and paper were arranged, with a wide painted boarder forming the web. The second was similar, but slightly different. The third was a bomb blast. Literally. From the doorway Becca could still feel the anger pour off of her as she had worked. The fourth was unformed, just pods with broken web threads. The final canvas was arranged like a plant or a grapevine. It was the most orderly of the five. But stark. Sara walked back and forth. Slowly. She studied each piece. Then she bent down and examined the debris on the floor of the studio. Bits of photos, letters, clothing. Holding up a bit of silk, she asked, "Hermes?" Becca nodded. Walking over to the table, Sara sorted the debris into piles. Holding up a photo, "Who's this?" Becca lit another cigarette and decided there would be no going back, if she answered. And honestly, if she couldn't confide in her defacto best friend. The closest girl friend she had had in years, what was the point? "Izzy's father." "Honey, I've met Jean Paul. And this guy is older than he is now. Way. And this photo is what, from the 80s." "He is Izzy's father. And it is 1989." Flipping through more photos, Sara paused again.
"You?" Sara asked quietly as she held up the photo of a thin young woman, with haunted eyes and long hair, wearing a cute beret and a peasant top. Becca noded. "How old are you?" "About seventeen." "Where are you?" "In Brittany. Visiting my Uncle." Sara holds up another photo. A similar girl. Shorter hair. Wearing a dress and holding the hands of two young girls. "Also me. Closer to 18. I was their nanny. In Paris. The family was friends of my Uncle." Then Sara holds up a photo of a woman, with sharp features and a pinched expression on her face. A beautiful, but unhappy woman. "The children's mother." The other person, who would have been in the photo, was cut out. Becca remembered using the blade, to carefully, cut him from the photo and then to viciously cut off his head. The headless body was in the center of the bomb blast. Of that she was certain. "Have you heard from Izzy?" "Jean Paul." Exasperated, Becca nearly shouted "yes." and then took a deep breath. There was no going back. If she opened this can of worms. There was just no going back. "I said that man is Izzy's father. Not her dad." "There is a difference?" "And?" "And I guess I have a lot of rage or had." "You think?" Becca nodded. She knew. "What set this off?" Sarah asked as she gestured around the studio. The art, the mess, the mostly empty "The boxes." Taking a long draw of another cigarette, Becca met Sara's long stare. "The boxes are from mom's basement. The attorney mailed them to me. Sam helped me go pick them up at the post office day after you left." Becca walked over to the table, to the last box. The ones with the baby pictures and things in it. The only box she had not destroyed. “I left things at mom's place when Jean Paul and I moved to New York for graduate school. We had a tiny place in Paris and a cramped one in New York. Izzy was nearly five and we needed every square inch of space. Mom hadn't been wild about the idea, but she hadn't protested too much. She was pretty settled after her jail time and rehab." "I thought you met Jean Paul at University?" "We said school. You assumed University. I met him before that when I was finishing high school and taking an art course." "Why had you gone to France for holiday?" "There was nowhere else for me to go. Dad had gotten into hard drugs again and he spent all their savings. She'd thrown him out. Then they lost the house. My dad disappeared and mom was back to her old habits too. In a moment of lucidity, she asked her brother to take me to France for the summer." Sara continued to sort fabric scraps and pictures. She paused, a piece of Chanel in her hand. Her eyes questioning. "A dress." Then she held up some bits of ravished silk and what looked like a sweater sleeve, badly maimed. “A scarf, Hermes. A sweater, also Chanel.” "So I was in Brittany, at my Uncle's summer place. It had been in his wife's family for years. My cousins were in college and they came and went that summer. I worked on my French and spent time in the countryside. When it was time to go home, my Uncle could not get a hold of my mother and I had no return ticket." Sara was still making piles on the table, with the wreckage from the floor. She nodded and "hmmm'd" every so often. "He sent a cousin or a friend to her apartment and found mom was gone. Had moved out. Left a few boxes with the landlord. Almost all of my clothing was missing. Boxed were books and some mementos. Some random Teen Beat magazines. Even my favorite horse poster I had gotten from a magazine when I was in first grade was missing. “My Uncle was so angry. He was yelling and screaming in French about the irresponsible cow his kid sister was. He was also wondering what to do with me. He and my Aunt were leaving to sail around the world. They had been training and had taken a sail the year before. I could not go on that adventure with them. And honestly, I did not want to go with them. I did and still do get violently ill when on or near a boat. “For a bit, it was considered that I stay in their Paris apartment and they would work out a minder or perhaps something with a day school. I had offered that I had been on my own off and on for a few years. It always depended on the rent's drug and alcohol use. It was also discussed, hiring a PI to track down my dad or mom, but then it was decided they were less helpful at this point than me being on my own. With no money and no parents, I could not return to Catholic school in the States. Also my Uncle and Aunt were not US residents any longer, having been in Europe for years at that point, they could hardly set me up in an apartment stateside and handle enrollment in public high school." "Becca that is terrible. I had no idea. How could your parents do that? Just disappear and forget you?" "Well it wasn't like they had ever been gunning for the parent of the year award. I had been on my own for weekends as long as I could remember. Sometimes full weeks, depending on the cashflow, blow flow and party locales." "Ok, so how did you end up in Paris?" "Well my Uncle's friend was also in Brittany for a wedding around this time. He was slighlty younger than my Uncle and had two school age children. Two daughters. He was a banker, traveled some and they always had a nanny. They had applied for and retained an Irish girl I think, or maybe a girl from Scotland, they wanted their girls to have someone to practice English with. For whatever reason, the girl never showed." Sara sorted photos and held up the picture of Becca with the two girls. Becca nodded. "Elise and Antoinette." Sara paused. Studied the photo and asked, "They are the women in the pictures you painted a few years ago?" Becca nodded again. "So my Uncle proposed I go and be their nanny and I could finish high school in Paris. It would solve a lot of problems. He made some calls, got transcripts and I think he pulled some strings at a school in Paris. He and his friend knew people. What choice did I have? I was homeless and adrift in France. What was supposed to be a holiday was now turning into a never-ending story." "Did you want to be a nanny?" "I don't think what I wanted or didn't want was really a consideration." Sara looked at Becca sadly and sorted more photos. She held up one of Becca in a school uniform, with a trench coat and sensible black shoes, walking with the girls similarly attired. "We went to the same day school. It was near our house. I am still unsure who paid the tuition. But it was a neat arrangement. I walked the girls to school and then went to school myself. We all ended at the same time too. Then some days they had music lessons after school and on other days I had art lessons. While I was at art lessons, the girls were with their mother." "What did she do?" "She was a director at a ballet school. She had been a ballerina. Very talented. Dancing professionally at 17 and then taught for years. It killed her that neither girl cared for it or was at all talented. I guess the year before I came, she finally decided she would never be the mother of a ballerina. It turns out that Elise, was more into soccer than dance. Went to the Women's Worlds with the French Team, I think. They were both older parents. Having a child at 40 and 45 respectively. Then again, by surprise, I was told, at 44 and 49." Sara nodded. Becca wondered ideally if Sara was considering the odds of that for herself. The group, Sara, Becca and Sam were all looking 40 in the eyes. Becca had already had a child. Sara was still waiting for her prince to come. "It was mostly the girls and I many nights. The housekeeper would make dinner and then leave. We came home for lunch. Sometimes just the girls and I and sometimes everyone and mostly Madame and the girls and I." "You called her Madame?" "Yes, she insisted on it. She was a total task master. At lunch the girls drilled lessons. She wanted perfection. She would make me repeat phrases or words I got wrong, over and over." "What about your Uncle's friend?" Sara asked while holding up a the photo Becca had destroyed and then one of an older man, in a tweed jacket, smoking at a low coffee table. "Pierre. He traveled a lot for business. He would be around most weekends or Sunday afternoons. The mood was mostly better when he was there, although it was still icy." "Did you get time off?" "Not often. Sometimes they would go away for the weekend and take the girls. I would stay in Paris. I had my art lesson on Wednesdays. I was free that entire evening. I often skipped dinner and went out with other students. I had to be home by 10 pm. Otherwise I would be locked out." "Harsh.” "I guess they had a nanny before me, who would stay out all hours and get drunk. Make a racket and upset the girls." "Is that where you met Jean Paul?" "Yes. He was in my portrait class. He spoke English very well. This continued for most of the fall and until Christmas. No word from my Uncle or from my parents. Word had been left at the church near our house and the Catholic school, should they be spotted. Nothing. Madame and Pierre went with the kids to the Alps for skiing. It was debated over and over, behind their locked bedroom door, if I should come or not. Both girls skied and well, but I did not. Pierre wanted me to come along, Madame did not. I had offered I could come and assist with the girls, after skiing, but Madame insisted that would not be necessary." "So what, they left you in Paris?" "Yes. I was almost 18. The housekeeper would check on me every few days, even though she was off and they left me some money." "You spent Christmas alone, in Paris?" Becca could see that Sara thought this was like the worst thing she had heard in ages. She was wrong. It got worse. A lot worse. Alone in Paris for Christmas had been the easiest part. “I went to Jean Paul's for Christmas and to a party at a friend of his for New Year's." Becca offered. It hadn't been that bad. Although she could still remember Jean Paul's reaction, which was very much like Sara's just now. "It wasn't horrible. I worked on school work, went to museums and generally enjoyed the quiet. I had been an only child and mostly been alone and the hustle and bustle of two young girls was a lot to adjust to and because everything was in French, it always seemed louder. I don't think it was, it just seemed louder." Sara continued to sort photos. She held up a blurry one of young people, wearing party hats. Becca nodded. "Let's go have a drink. Sit on the sofa."
– 3 – Sara made a beeline for the kitchen and started making tea, leaving the very neat stack of debris on the far corner of the coffee table. "I was thinking of a stiff drink." "Honey, you have drank every drop of that stuff and then some. Well is dry. Let's go with tea." Sara "I concede that today may not be the day to quit." She offered and her smile was thin but genuine. Lighting a clove, Becca nodded. Thinking Sara might well be smoking by the time she finished this story. It only got much worse from here. Better in some ways, but way worse in others. It had hurt to take the lid off those boxes. To confront a past she had buried in school, work, Izzy. She had let Jean Paul carry the load for some time. But last week, in her loft, with those boxes, she had confronted the very real past, which was truly her own. "After New Year's, and their return things went back to normal, although the arguing continued. Lots of Pierre and Madame yelling. I did not always understand it, muffled behind the door. Elise said it had happened often before and Antoinette just cried." Sara nodded and fiddled with the tea. "So I think it was almost March and it was announced. Things worked that way. It was announced that I would be staying through at least August and that Madame was going to be leaving, while the performance company at her ballet school toured. It was announced that I would be picking up the slack, except on my art lesson day, which would continue to be my afternoon off. Apparently the housekeeper would be helping them or Pierre. At about the same time, my Uncle was in port somewhere and reported that my parents were still not available. He had managed to gain access to my inheritance from my father's mother, small though it was, and had opened a bank account for me. Pierre had assisted him. It was further suggested that I remain in Paris and pursue classes/college of some sort." "So I take it no one consulted you?" "They did about school. I was happy to stay in Paris. Where would I go? Plus I was uncertain my French course work would work out in the States. I had no friends. I had vanished into midair and before that, I only hung out with a few people and then only ever at school. In Paris, I had Jean Paul, Marie and a few others from school and art class. In that moment, it seemed everything was ok." "In that moment?" Sara asked. Refilling the tea cups and refraining from tssking as Becca lit up another "Yes, in that moment or for that moment. As with many moments, it did not last." Becca took a sip of tea, considering. So much of what came next was like picture two and three. It happened around her, to her, but like a bomb-- the bomb blew up around her and it had lasting ramifications, left debris and scars, even thought she hadn't been the one to plant it or set it off. She had born the brunt of it. "Things began to slowly change that spring. Madame left and Pierre was away for a few days. The girls and I settled. It was as before really. Then Pierre was back a bit more often. Saying the project he had been working on was over. So beginning in April or so, he was home nearly every night for dinner. The girls loved this. He would sit with them after dinner and read or play games. At bed time, I would put the girls to bed and he would go out for a stroll to meet with friends." Sara looked at a stack of photos and fished one out. Holding it up and nodding. It was a small photo of the lounge as it was called. A long narrow room in the flat, with large windows. The girls were working a puzzle and Pierre was in a chair, smoking and drinking some wine. "Who took this photo?" Sara asked. "I did. I began photography classes about this same time. Jean Paul had wanted to take some and we did so together. I had the money from my inheritance and I spent some of it on a used camera. If I wanted to go on to art school in the fall, photography would be part of that." "Sure, makes sense." "April is either really cold or mild in Paris. That year it was mild. At night, after I put the girls to bed, I would go to my room, read and crack a window." "So you could smoke?" Sara interrupted with a wry smile. "No, not then. I was a good girl then. I hadn't so much as kissed a boy or really gotten drunk. Tipsy maybe, pleasantly buzzed, but never drunk. No drugs either. I was generally opposed. After seeing my parents behave like animals and be so irresponsible, I wasn't so sure I should take my chances. I honestly liked the street noise and the fresh air. My room faced the back of the flat, so there was a small courtyard inside the building." Sara nodded. Once again sorting photos and scarps of paper. Pulling out photos from an odd angle featuring window glass. Or another, the bits of street rubbish that blew about courtyard, in the muted twilights. "I won a prize, well a public acknowledgement for one like that in class. Seemed a big moment, then." "Not now?" Sara asked. "It feels very small now, after, well after what went down… about a week or so later." Becca paused. Sara nodded, sorting into a neat pile, the architectural photos. Becca blew out smoke and thought about how proud she had been of those. Maybe should frame those. The negatives were in the undestroyed box. They were worth printing again. Properly this time. "So art lessons progressed. Holiday plans were discussed. Madame called the girls on and off. April plodded along. Jean Paul was excited for the end of exams and the next step. He and friends were looking at flats. He lived outside Paris and took the train everyday. He didn't want to do that while at University, even though that is exactly what his mother wanted. “I applied for University and got in as a foreign student. After some required classes were completed, I could be considered a regular student. Pierre went with me to the interview. He sponsored my application and certified I could pay. Some of the interview or meeting or whatever was beyond my basic French and general understanding of how things work. You never realize how much you pick up about how things work, by just being part of the system, growing up with it, whatever it is around you. Afterwards, we went to a cafe to celebrate. Pierre ordered champagne. I tried to pass but he insisted. We talked some about school, the girls, holiday, where I would live. It was ok for me to stay, if I agreed to help with the girls. Elsie was almost old enough to guide them to school and home. I was ok, if it did not conflict with school. It isn't like I had a lot of choices. My Uncle had left their return to Paris rather open ended and they had sublet their flat. After a glass or maybe two of champagne I was ready to go home, but Pierre ordered himself another drink and pommes for me and then he noticed I was cold, the sun was setting and I had not worn a heavy enough sweater. He gave me his jacket and moved his chair closer. The girls' music lessons would be over shortly, so he finished his drink and we walked to meet them and then home. During the walk, he stood closer to me than usual, but I assumed it was because I was cold." Sara did not say anything, but her eyes held a question. She thought she had worked it out. "Looking back now I shouldn't have been shocked, the escalating behavior. Today, I would have understood their fights more. Or perhaps the times he was out with friends, but came home not smelling of cigarettes and booze. But then, at nearly 18, well 18, I knew nothing. I hadn't dated. I had gone to an all girls school since kindergarten, I hadn't spent much time with adults, sober ones anyway. And Jean Paul and his friend Denis, they treated me like a little sister or one of the guys." Sara nodded and poured the last of the tea into their cups. "Over the next few weeks, Pierre would sit closer, at meals, on the sofa. He would come up with excuses to walk me places. He was very creative. Sometimes he would stay in and suggest we play cards or watch a program on the television after I settled the girls. Sometimes I declined, saying I had homework. This made him angry. He always met me at 10 on Wednesdays and asked about my evening. He wanted to make sure I wasn't getting into trouble. "Then for May Day and the following weekend, we went to a friends country house. The girls were thrilled. It is a huge country manner, Pierre's friends had girls the same age. Lots of room to run. The house was huge, with two wings. We had our own space. The first night I took a walk and went to bed early. Got up early and took morning photos and made it back to see to the girls before the adults were even up. That night the adults went into town for dinner and I stayed with the girls. It was fine. "The next night Pierre's friends had wanted to go to a party. Pierre begged off, claiming a headache. I settled the girls and went to bed early. I had planned to take more early morning photos for my class." Sara fished in the piles again and pulled out some pictures. "Yes. Those and others. Honestly those went into my first student expo and qualified me for a scholarship my third year. I added them into another group of photos from Jean Paul's grandmother's place." "They are amazing. You have an eye." Sara said with a smile. Sara was a huge fan. She had bought one of Becca's recent works anonymously, because Sara knew Becca would have given it to her, had she known the buyer's name during the sales process. "I have no idea what time it was, but it was dark and quiet. The early evening noises had faded out and the early morning song birds and incests were still asleep. I woke with a start and Pierre was in my room. At the foot of my bed. In just pajama pants. He was staring at me intently. I jumped from bed and asked if the girls needed me. He shook his head and said he needed me. “I remember just staring at him. Asking him if he was ill. He said no. I went into the en suite, shut the door and when I came out, he was gone. I thought maybe I had dreamt it and went back to bed. The next day he did not mention it and neither did I. I sat in the back with the girls on the way home, reading to them. It was a long car drive. Pierre in a bad mood, made worse by the thick traffic as we got into Paris. “That night Madame called, she was angry. The show had hit some kind of road block, she was short with the girls, which upset them and as I tucked them in, I heard Pierre talking angrily to her on the phone. “He went out that night and I did not see him for a day. We passed each other and that too was not out of the ordinary. The Housekeeper kept things together by passing messages. “A few weeks or so later, I woke again to find Pierre in my room, in a dressing gown and slippers. He looked drunk maybe or just tired. He was holding a box. A fancy one, all wrapped just so. He gave it to me. Told me to think of it as an early graduation present. Insisted I open it in the moonlight. It was a sweater. A black cashmere one.” Becca said, gestering to the mangled sleeve. Sara touched a jagged scrap from one of her piles. “Nice sweater.” “Mothes had eaten it. So don't worry, I did not destroy a useful vintage sweater. I can't say the same for the dress and scarf.” Sara fingered scrap of the dress, then the scarf. “I got the from my Aunt and Uncle. Somehow they had made arrangements to have it delevered for graduation and the ensuing parties.” “Sweet of them. I mean they really went all out there.” “Well it was Channel and not Target. You know.” “Very funny Becca. You hungery?” “No not really.” But Sara was. She ran to the kitchen, grabbing naan and some jam from the refridgerator. And a plate, making her way back to the coffee table.
– 4 –
“So, the parties?” “It isn't like here. No colorful gowns. Mostly smallish receptions and speeches. Boring really. But then many families host coffees or dinner parties to celebrate. I had already gotten a few inviations and my French teacher had invited us for coffee also. Like any 18 year old, I was hardly thrilled at the prospect of those boring events and a rather conservative dress. I prefered my t-shirts and jeans. “Madame was not back yet. Three weeks I think. Maybe a month more. It was nearing the end of May and Pierre was once again invited by friends for a dinner party. Elise was scheduled to be at a friend's house overnight. It was Antionette and I, who accompanied him. After I settled Antionette and his friend's wife their two, I was invited to sit with them and share a cocktail. I dared not decline. “As they shared another round, I excused myself and said I wanted to take a walk. This set of friends lived in a small town and Pierre quickly said he would take some air with me. I did not mind. In truth I was unsure of where we were. We walked quietly and made small talk. About my projects and the girls. His friends. Work. He asked a variety of questions about Jean Paul. Like an overly protective father. Or Sara laughed, “Exactly like an over protective father. My father always subjected me to 20 questions about boys.” “Glad he had the over protective dad gig down then. Then as we walked, I realized he had steared us to a park or a path, along the stream. He said it was a beautiful walk. As we walked, I became more aware of there being less and less light and no one around. Pierre suggested we stop under a large tree on a bench. I didn't really feel the need to stop, but I assumed he wanted to smoke. This seemed normal for him. Outiside equated to smoking.” Ruefully Becca took a long hard draw on her cigerrette and then set it back in the makeshift ash tray. “He was sitting closer to me than I prefered, but I willed myself to sit still and figured he would smoke and we could move on. He didn't smoke. He leaned closer to me and put his hand at the base of my skull, fingers caressing my neck and then he was pressing his face closer and before I knew it, he was kissing me, using his hand to hold me still and press me closer. His tongue licked at the my lips and when I gasped, trying to tell him to stop, he pushed his tongue into my mouth. I still remember tasting the brandy we had drunk after dinner.” Sara was silent. No longer chewing or sorting. “Then his other hand drifted down to my breast and he held my left breast while he continued to kiss me. I was wearing a blouse and a sweater, with a skirt. One dressed for dinner then and I had not changed. Then his hand was working the buttons, lossening the buttons and then he was touching my breast through my bra. Still kissing me. I suppose I should have fought him off or made more of a protest, but I was not even sure was happening.” Sara didn't say anything. She pretended to move crumbs around on her plate. “I am not sure if it was 5 minutes or 15 minutes or an hour. But all of a sudden, he was pushing me down onto my back on the bench. Losening his pants and pulling up my skirt. The bench was damp and he was heavier than I had imagined. I wanted to push him off and found I was pinned there. He slid between my legs, which he had wrenched open, then swore loudly in my ear. More than once, rutted about. Got up and swore some more and walked off. Not knowing where I was, I rebuttoned my blouse and ran after him. Being more afraid of being lost than of him.” “Becca that is awful.” Sara said. Looking shocked and confused. “I went right to bed when we got back, Pierre went into the lounge and poured himself a drink.” “Why didn't you say anything? Tell his friends?” “Honestly, I think I was in shock. And I didn't know what to tell them or how. At this point my French was ok, still not great and you know, you collect words like you do shells at the beach. One word and one experience at a time. I barely had the words in English to say what had happened on that bench, certainly the French ones eluded me. I went to bed hoping it would just turn out to be a dream. Instead I woke to a worse nightmare.” Sara jumped up, as Becca took another long drag on the smoldering cigerette, grabbed two bottles of Opening a bottle of water and taking a drink, Becca began again, “So there is no easy way to tell this part. For a long time I beat myself up. I felt complicit. Jean Paul would get very mad at me over the years, for blaming myself. I do feel somewhat responsible. I have always felt I did what I had to to survive and failed anyway. I felt, still feel, I was trapped. Like a puppet, suspended in air, someone else pulling the strings.” Becca paused. Considering her words. Sara moved from the chair to the sofa next to Becca and took her hand. “That night, I awoke, to Pierre crouching over me, hand pressed to my mouth, his eyes blazing in the darkness. He was drunk or nearly so. Jean Paul said later, when I told him, he couldn't have been too drunk, or um, things would not have worked properly. Pierre whispered angily in my ear, that he was going to finish what I had started and I was to be quiet. He pulled down my panties and his pajama pants and then he was pressing into me and it hurt and I wanted to cry out, but I was afraid. After some fumbling and a perfunctory kiss he surged forward and I yelped. I felt like I was being split in two and I was in pain, felt over stuffed. He slapped me hard across the face. So hard that I felt a sneeze forming and I fought it so hard. Tears streaming down my face. He grunted and rocked back and forth and then groaned, collasping on me.” “Becca, no...” Sara gasped. While she had worked out the sexual relationship, Sara's imagination had apparently painted a prettier picture. “He got up. Told me to tell Claire, my time had come early and I was sorry I messed up the sheets. I was bewildered. What was he talking about? Then he said we were leaving in the morning. Early. Be ready he said. “I lay there crying quietly and feeling tender. When I went to the bathroom, I saw the blood on my thighs and ran to the bed. There was blood there too. What had he done? I quietly cleaned up, dressed and sat in the corner, rocking myself. Then in the morning I did as he had said. We left around 9. Antoinette was angry. She did not want to leave early and miss out on the play. I rode in the back with her and felt like I was a million miles away.” “Tell me you told someone! You did tell someone?” “Not then. I told Claire, Pierre's friend's wife exactly what Pierre had told me to say. She was sweet. Telling me not to worry, that would straighten out as I got older. She hugged me. For years I kicked myself for not telling her. I was scared. I had thought Pierre was a good man, a stand in father. Detached, but fatherly. What happened that night was not fatherly.” “I'd say not. What a vile man to prey on you like that.” “It gets worse Sara. A lot worse. “At school the next day, I asked a few of the girls I knew about sex and the first time. They all assumed I was going to 'go all the way' with Jean Paul. They were so excited, execpt Marie, who really thought Jean Paul was dreamy and had held out hope that he would like her. “I went to the library and tried to find a book about sex, that I could read, but they were very acedemic “Becca, it is rape, it was. You know that now don't you?” “Yes. Izzy was maybe 6 or 7. We had moved to New York and were watching a tv program and I began to freak out. A girl was being molested by her stepfather and it happened almost identically as with Pierre and I. And I freaked and yelled and was crying. Jean Paul said, 'Becca, that is what happened to you. Pierre raped you. He took advantage of you and raped you. It was a crime. We should have gone to the police, but I was afraid for you. For us.' He had carried that guilt around. I had carried guilt around. The guilt, the shame, the fear.” “But it wasn't your fault.” “I know. But I will always in some way feel guilty for not protecting myself. All those years of staying out of the crosshairs of my parents' excesses and parties and orgies, and then, in a traditional household, I let down my guard and bam... my 18 year old self gets way more than she bargened for.” “Becca, wow, it wasn't your fault.” “So Pierre began to visit my room, every few evenings, for the next two weeks. I would try to be unavailable in the evenings, no tv or cards or games, claiming homework or headaches, but 3 or 4 times he visited me late at night. It was as before. First he would curse me for tempting him, ruining him, being so young and beautiful. Then he would rip my clothing, fondle me and rut like a beast. It never lasted long. Then he would curse me again. Call me shameful names. Tell me I was an American slut like my mother, a worthless cunt. Some of the words I did not know, I would just stare at him mutely and then quietly creep to the bathroom I shared with the girls to clean myself up. “Then abruptly, Madame showed up. The girls were cooly excited, but I was thrilled. I thought for sure this would stop Pierre. It would put an end to my torment. For three weeks I was right. Gradution happened. The parties. Then the night before a large party at Marie's, Pierre snuck into my room. I was terrified. I had convinced myself, with Madame around, he wouldn't be so bold. He had a package for me. A gift he said. I didn't want to take the present. I felt taking it would in some way legitimize what had been happening. Gifts seem something friends or lovers exchange. Jean Paul later said, he thought that Pierre was trying to make it seem like an affair, to gloss over the less savory parts, to perhaps buy my affection after the fact.” “Did it work?” “No. I hated him. Even more after the gift. It was ostentatious. It was a Hermes scarf. Tasteful enough, but everyone would know. It was a popular pattern and you might as well have painted a price on it. Everyone knew. I even knew and I had never gone shopping in any of those boutiques. I mumbled my thanks and feigned sleepiness, party exhaustion. Pierre promised to be back another a night. The thought filled me with dread. “I took pains to tuck the scarf away. I did not want Madame to find it. I had no intention of wearing it. The days passed. The girls were off school and I took them about regularly. It was quiet if not tense around the house. Madame back and working regularly at her studio, Pierre banking or whatever he did. Then in late June, right before we were to go to Brittany for a few weeks, one night, he slipped into my room, shortly after I heard him come in from being out. He had not been at dinner and Madame had been particularly icy. I was reading. Up late, because there was no exact time to be up and the girls were more or less enjoying the sleeping in. He dropped his jacket, climbed on my bed and kissed me. I wanted to yell, to fight him off, but I was so scared. So scared he would hit me again as he did the first night. Scared the girls would come running if I called out. Most of all I was scared of waking Madame. “He was quick. Sloppily kissing me and biting my neck. It was repuslive. I felt repulsive, knowing what I was letting him do. He called me a whore afterwards. Reminded me I should wear my scarf. He also laid some earrings on my desk. He liked the idea of having me marked, he said.” “I didn't see any earrings in the picture collages.” Sara asked. “I never got to keep them.” “Are they part of the it gets worse? Honestly, though Becca, I am wondering how it gets worse.” “Believe me, Sara. It does. I need to pee.” Becca said as she walked toward her bedroom. – 5 – As Becca came out of the bathroom, the phone was ringing. Becca checked the caller id, pleased to notice that her head was no longer pounding. Calling out to Sara: “Hey Sara, it's Izzy. I am going to take it in here.” “Sure. Tell her I say hello.” Sara answered as she moved to the kitchen and began to clean up and load the dishwasher. “Hey Baby.” Becca said as she removed the phone from its craddle. “Mom. Wow, did you go out on a bender the first week, I was away? I have tried to call you for two days. Once I got over my jet lag.” “I was kinda in a creative trace. I'm sorry Sweetie.” “No worries Mom, Daddy said that was prolly what happened. He said you were do for some mainlined creativity.” “Yeah, Mom, he knows you so well.” “He does. How is he settling? How is Phillipe's project going?” “Daddy says it is, fucktastically hot here and Phillipe is a stress ball and kind of a bear, but his project is amazing and still on schedule and budget, so that seems to temper him some. They both told me to tell you hello and lovies.” “Back at them. So what are you up to?” “Well now that I have day and night sorted, I am shopping some today and tomorrow Daddy and I are going to travel for a few days. See some shrines and there is a dance festival a few cities away. I especially want to see that.” “Have you made any decisions yet?” Becca regreted the question as soon as she asked it. “Well, I am done with school for now. Well, that school. The program isn't a good fit. Otherwise I am not sure. I think I want to join the company. I know that is what Daddy thinks is best. Phillipe, I am sure wants me to continue with school. He is school crazy. What about you , MaMa?” Becca smiled because Izzy had used her french name. She had changed to mom, when they moved to the States, but when she was serious, sad or confused, she reverted to all things French. “Izzy, I think you do what is best for you. I would be an artist one way or the other. School helped. It gave me a frame. I can teach and create. Daddy too. Phillipe could not do what he is doing now, if he had not done school. There are so many paths. You have to do what feels right.” “What if staying here with Daddy for a while and teaching English feels right?” “I will come visit you and be happy for your happiness.” “Ah, MaMa, don't make me weepy. And you're wrong! Daddy sternly told me to stay in school and “What?” “I called Bullshit too and they busted out laughing. They had switched roles. Some weird good cop, bad cop thing. It is a good thing neither of them wanted to be an actor. Total fail.” Becca laughed. Loving Jean Paul and Phillipe all the more. Such good men. Proof that sometimes, it “How is Sam I am?” Izzy giggled. “Sam is fine, I think. I suspect I missed his calls along with yours. I was out of it.” “You better call him, before he sends Sara over.” “Too late, she was banging on my door earlier. She is still here. She said to say Hi and lovies.” “Mom, are you ok? You sound ok, but...” “Izzy, I am fine. I was working through some stuff, the only way I know how and the work is good and I think I am too. It will all work out. It just will. For us all.” “You miss Daddy?” “Of course baby. This is a big change for us all, but change is good. And not permenant. When Phillipe's project is over, who knows. Or maybe my contract won't be renewed and I will end up on the couch.” “I am probably not suppose to tell you, but the room I am in, is really set for you . Like in New York, only bigger and with a better view. If you come, they have a futon and stuff for me. Daddy even calls it Bec centre. Daddy loves you so much.” “And I him. Forever and always, Izzy, forever and always.” “Ok MaMa, I am going shopping. Daddy arranged a driver for me. A kid from one of his classes. It should be fun. Everything is different here. Exciting.” “Enjoy Izzy. I love you. Forever and...” “Always MaMa, I know. Right back at you.” The line went dead and Becca sat there, thinking about the sound of her baby's voice. She sounded lighter. It was hard to watch her making adult choices now and having struggles. She had always found that part of mothering hard. Letting your beloved failed or make mistakes was not easy. But it was the only way they learned. Getting up she walked back into the living room. Sara was washing dishes in the sink. “You don't need to do that.” “I do. It is ok. I cope by cleaning.” “Well we can stop if you like. The next bit may set you off on a vaccum binge or perish the thought, you might want to tackle my shower.” “Fine. She sounds relaxed. She said no matter what she isn't going back to that school.” “Well that sounds good, right. Some decisions out of the way.” “She said Jean Paul and Phillipe tried a role reversaial, a good cop bad cop, and it flopped. But was funny. Phillipe encourages school. Get a degree is his phrase du jour. Jean Paul, is all, do what makes you happy.” “MaMa says to love hard and follow your heart.” Sara walked over and hugged Becca. Sara had never met someone with a bigger heart. Not ever. “No really, what do you think, well, want her to do?” “I want her to have the option to choose. I know what it is like to have choices made for you, with little thought to your needs, desires. I want her to be free to choose. At her age, I did not so much get to make choices and weigh options, I reacted.” Sara nodded. Becca was certain she did not really understand what she meant. How could she?
– 6 –
Studying the fourth collage, the vines, with photos of Jean Paul, Izzy, her, school friends, later at the “It was good in Paris, after. Not right away, but the fall out was short lived.” “What happened Becca? What does the third collase mean? It is very violent. It isn't just you found yourself pregnant and left the family.” “Oh, no. It was nothing routine like that.” “Can you tell me?” “It was the next morning. The girls clamoured in early. We were leaving the next day for the coast and they wanted to meet up with friends. They were loud. I think they thought their mother had left already. She hadn't. I tried to hush them. We were often loud when she was away, but when she was home, she demanded decorum. I failed. She stormed into my room, screaming in rapid fire French. Then at the doorway she froze.” Sara gasped. “Pierre had left his suit coat on the floor of my room. I hadn't noticed it. Then she looked over at my desk and saw the earrings. She freaked. She began screaming and screaming words I didn't understand. She yanked me from my bed, slapped me hard across the face, dragged me down the hallway, stopped by the courtyard door in the kitchen, kicked me, punched me, screaming at me. Some of which I caught but mostly I tried to wrench myself away from her. She shoved me out the door, screaming and slammed the door.” Sara looked like she might lose her lunch. “I did not know what to do. The girls were peaking out the window, when I saw thier horrified faces. Then Madame appeared in the window. She slapped both girls, I could see her yelling and she pulled the curtains. “I stood there and then all I could think was to go find Jean Paul. I had nnothing on me. I took a chance, went to the art school. I found him there smoking. I had on a summer dress and no shoes. I must have walked a few kilometers. I was bleeding, my nose, a cut above my eye. My ribs ached from where she had kicked me. She was wearing heeled riding boots.” Sara studied the desicrated photo of Madame, watching the light as it seemed to shine a light right on her. Sara nodded. “I really don't know or can't remember what happened next. I remember Jean Paul's father coming to the school. I remember waking up later in Jean Paul's room. I remember going to the doctor, with Jean Paul's mother, wearing some of his sisters clothing. “A few days later, Jean Paul and I went back to the house. Apparently the housekeeper had called. The family had gone to the shore as planned, without me and she had boxed up my things. Madame had shredded most of my clothing. Destroyed my journals, torn up the few English books I had. Why she had not destroyed the scarf and dress is beyond me. Honestly it was years before, I unboxed these things. I think Jean Paul had looked. I never had, not until we were moving to the US and I was deciding what to keep and what to give away. The only thing I really worried about was my bank book, passport and camera. Funny, losing those things, is what would have hurt me, if that had Madame's goal.” “I think we both know she wasn't aiming for that.” “Yes, you are right. I understand that now. I know she was not angry at me. She was betrayed, but not by me, but felt it easier to aim her rage at me. I think she knew the truth even then, somewhere deep inside. I think Izzy was 4 maybe 5. We were over in the distract where Madame and Phillipe had their home, I was taking photos for school and for whatever reason, Izzy could not go to daycare that day. I was photographing something in a park nearby. Honeslty I had forgotten it was the park I used to take the girls. “Across the way was a cafe and Izzy was insisting she wanted to stop and eat there. Money was tight, but we could afford that from time to time. I decided to let her, as she had been a sport about the photos and the long train ride. As we crossed the street, I froze. In the cafe at a table right along the sidewalk, was Madame. She looked exactly the same. She looked up and our eyes met and then she looked at Izzy. She knew in that moment. I have only ever seen anger on her normally icy face, but that day it was horror. I think she, she had convinced herself that I was the temptress. I was an awful person. A jezebel sent to ruin her husband, her family. Or that I was trying to tie myself to Pierre, for money or whatever. But she is a shrewd woman. She had to know, that Izzy was his. She had his hair. Jean Paul and I are both blonds. She starred hard at Izzy. Then she look at me questioningly. I scooped up Izzy and turn around, promising her ice cream or candy at the Metro Station.” “Wow. That had to have been a shock for her. Did she know you were still in Paris.” “I don't know. Things were strained with my Aunt and Uncle after Madame threw me out. They blamed me. I am sure that is the story they got from Madame and Pierre. How I was a wanton slut. How I threw myself at Pierre and asked for expensive gifts in return. I think my Aunt suspected, but she kept quiet. I was the American inconvenience. That is what I know she called me from the start of this saga. Pierre died when Izzy was five, I think shortly after she spotted us. My cousin called. Honestly I was relived. He was not out there hurting anyone else and he wouldn't come after me and try and gain access to Izzy. I have no idea what happened to Madame or the girls. I never heard from any of them every again.” “Wow. I cannot believe how either of you must have felt in that moment. Did Izzy ever ask? Why you changed your mind about the cafe?” “No. She was passified with ice cream for lunch.” “How did you learn you were pregnant?” “I just stared at her. She smiled and asked me if I wanted a referal to a clinic that could help me prepare for the baby. And she gave me some vitamins. I left in shock. I knew how babies were made. I don't remember learning about sex in Catholic school, but I knew how babies happened. How I had never once thought of that, while Pierre was raping me. How did I not consider for a minute that we could be making a baby. Sometimes I marvel at just how stupid a girl I was.” “Not stupid. When you are young, I think you associate babies with love and marriage. You know.” “I think it took three or four days for it to sink in and then I was flooded with despair. School would be messed up. What would I do? How would I support a baby? Where was I going to live? I doubted a baby in student housing would fly. I was crying out in the garden at Jean Paul's house one afternoon, as he came home from who knows where. He was so sweet. He held me and let me cry. I cried and cried. When I finally settled he said he understood. The shock of it all. I sniffled and said it is worse than you think. He looked puzzled. I told him about the baby and I told him how it happened. I think he suspected all along.” “Suspected?” “I think he knew that Pierre had used force or manipulation. He told me that he had always hated the way Pierre looked at me.” “So he suspected Pierre was a no good rotten, teenage assulting bastard.” “Something like that.” “Jean Paul was so gentle. So loving. He just held me.” “How is it you decided to keep the baby?” “We did not talk about it for a few days and then Jean Paul came to me. He asked me what I planned to do. I told him I didn't know. I just was in a daze. Really I think I was in a daze off and on until Izzy was 2. So much had happened. My parents abondoning me. My Aunt and Uncle basically doing the same. Then Madame and Pierre being total pieces of work. Ending up pregnant, in a forgien country, with barely enough money for school. No home to return to in the states. I had gone to Catholic school. Arbortion wasn't even something I knew to be an option for girls like me. I was overwhelmed by how out of control my life was.” “Like a bomb.” “Yes.” Becca said as she pointed to the third canvas. “Like a bomb, someone or several someones threw at my life. So many adults making decisions with such serious implications for my life, without ever once considering my welfare.” “It is almost like you were incidental to their lives.” “I was a bit of collatteral damage.” Becca said thoughtfully. “So what happened next.” “What happened next is Jean Paul took over. He told his parents we were pregnant. His parents were shocked. He claimed we had used protection, but something must have gone wrong. I am not sure his parents believed this story, I think they wanted to believe him, but I think his mother suspected. I later learned that Pierre had a bit of a reputation. I also heard from a friend of Marie's that I was not the first nanny to end up thrown out. I am pretty sure Jean Paul's parents had heard similar rumors. In any event, they were reasonably supportive. His mother loved the idea of a grandchild and his father, an attorney, helped with my immagration paperwork and other hurddles. They weren't thrilled when we decided not to get married right away, but they kept quiet.” “Wow. You were ok with having the baby? You never considered abortion?” “I don't think I considered much of anything. The first few months I was numb. I just followed Jean Paul. Again, I think it was one part ignornance, one part not having the words, the vocabulary, and one part being so happy to have someone, who was geniuenly taking care of me. I think I sank into that feeling fairly deeply.” “I guess I can see that.” “By the time school started I was nearly 4 months along. We found a flat, near the University, Phillipe answered an ad Jean Paul had place around the University area in coffee shops. So we all three ended up in a small, one bed room flat. Phillipe was a master at space management, even then. He and Jean Paul constructed a false wall, and later they found a cast off dresser, which Phillipe rededigned making a baby bed and storage cubby for Izzy. “The three of you have been together that long?” “Yes. It has been the three of us and Izzy. From the beginning. Phillipe wasn't sold on staying with us after the baby came, but I think he fell in love with her as much as he did Jean Paul.” “Wait, what??” “You didn't know?” “Know what?” Sara said, with a deer in headlights look. “Jean Paul and Phillipe. They have been offically a couple, since Izzy was little. Jean Paul and I love each other very much, but we were never intimate. Well, that isn't true. We slept in the same bed for a few years. He cuddled me often. After Izzy was born, I thought he might want to have sex. I worried about that off and on. He never did. I was so busy with Izzy and school and at first my hormones were a roller coast, pregnant, postpartum, nursing. Sex wasn't something I had ever enjoyed and I was so tired and hormonal, it was a year or so before I started to wonder.” “Um yeah, my sister said her husband was counting the days from the minute she pushed my neice “Then one night I came back from studio and they were on the couch, Izzy was asleep. They had lost track of time. They covered, but then I watched and one day I asked Jean Paul.” “How did that go?” “I didn't accuse him or anything, I just asked him gently as we sat in bed, each reading for school. I think he was relieved. He said he had always known, but had hoped maybe with me, he could try, to be who his parents wanted him to be. But he couldn't. He loved me and Izzy so much but he was wildly attracted to Phillipe. Crazy in love. He offered to move out. I told him to stay, but I would switch rooms. Izzy was crazy about them both and our little family worked. Between the three of us we accomplished school and parenthood. Izzy was a wonderful baby and toddler.” “Did people ever give you a hard time. Two Dads and a Mom?” “Not in Paris. In France no one cares, unless you tell them they can't drink and smoke. At least not in Paris. We had no money to travel and Jean Paul's parents did not seem to notice or say anything, until right before we moved. They thought it was strange we were looking for work or graduate school in New York. Phillipe was the one with the desire to go to New York. The 'when are you getting married' questions had stopped and then one day Jean Paul's mother cornered me. I just laughed and said we were ready for adventure.” “Did he ever tell them?” “I don't know. They came to New York, but stayed in a hotel. I am not sure they investigated our Brownstone that thoroughly. If they had, it would have been clear, my room was clearly mine and theirs theirs. Izzy had a convered closet. Phillipe really is a master at space management. Maybe they quizzed Izzy when she visited in the summers, but she never said anthing. She had had two Daddys and a mom her entire life.” “She is a lucky girl.” Sara said. “She is. I am too. I have been loved and supported in so many ways, by two exceptional men. They have taken on the respondsiblity of a child, at a young age. I would never have finished school and with such success without their support. They have always been there for me. Jean Paul especially. He kept my secret until Izzy was eight or so. I think Phillipe thought Jean Paul and I had been intimate. I am not sure what they were struggling through and Jean Paul asked if he could tell him. I was so shocked. I assumed he had confided in Phillipe already, but Jean Paul said 'Becca, it wasn't my story to tell' I have never felt so loved and protected.” “Does Izzy know?” Sara asked. “I think she has filled in the gaps. My art has always been how I have dealt with my pain. I honestly had a really rough patch a few years ago. When Izzy was in highschool and one of her friends had been molested by an uncle. She was pegnant. Her mother beside herself. I kinda flipped out.” “I can understand that. I think it is a common reaction.” Sara emphatized. “So my shrink said. Jean Paul had a long talk with Izzy. She was very angry about her friend. A fewmonths later she just smiled, but sadly at me, and told me thank you. I think I should talk about it with her, maybe these pictures will help. I am going to show these works at some point. I had no idea how much rage I had stuffed down, until I opened these boxes. It just poured out of me. Like I had uncorked champagne.” “How are you now?” Sara asked. “Better I think. I needed to let that all go. Maybe it was the boxes or maybe it is that I am living alone for the first time ever. Maybe it is Sam. I feel something there and I think it would only be fair to exaplain things to him. I have had lovers in the past, but always casual stuff. A few men and women, here and there. Jean Paul and Phillipe have always been enough. And Izzy. My life is full of love and if I got an urge, I sought out someone temporary and fun. I think Sam could be different. But I come with a family, a close one. If the guys move back to the states, I will go where they go. I did not go to Vietnam, because Izzy was finishing school and starting college. She needed someone to be here, the guys wanted me to come. They were shocked when I said I was accepting the one year contract here.” “I think I understand. You needed some time on your own. Maybe you needed to finally deal with it “Yeah. I have never really been making it my own way. I would have shivereled and died had Jean Paul not stepped up in Paris. He was so young. I asked him once why he did it. Why did he step up. And he just looked at me and said, 'Love, Becca. I have always loved you. Forever and Always.'” “Wow.” Sara whispered. Looking finally at the last canvas. The pictures were current. Vines growing “Yeah, wow. It was amazing to realize that as I feverishly cut and created. I have been the center of this family. I always thought it was Izzy, but no. It has been me. Jean Paul didn't fall for me, because of Izzy. He has loved me from day one. That is heady to think about. Izzy told me on the phone, they set up a room for me in Vietnam. Like they are sure I will be joining them. Who knows, I just might.” The phone rang. Becca went to the cordless on her work table. “It's Sam. I better take this.” “I think you should. Maybe it is time to see if you can add a vine. I think you just might be ready.” “Love makes a family grow.” Becca whispered. “Hello. Yeah, I know. I know Sara bardged in earlier. I have been working. Lost in it. Yeah. I know. Sara called out from the doorway, “You better tackle that shower. I think your kitchen is already The echo of the heavy man door, filled the loft. Becca decided that was the best idea she had heard all day.
You can go to Elisa Phillips' blog at: www.elisaphilips.blogspot.com |
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