He went back to the kiss in his mind. He could live there a long time. It was warm there, and good.
2015
From the bedroom, Fiona Skyped her therapist. Elena’s image kept freezing but the sound would continue, so it seemed as if entire sentences came from her closed lips, or serious questions came from a mouth open in laughter. Elena said, “Waiting for anything is hard. And this is a lot of stressors.”
It was three days since she’d knocked on Claire’s door, and she’d heard nothing. “I feel so foolish sitting here,” she said. “And for making Cecily come, when maybe we never even get to meet our granddaughter.”
“Has Cecily seen Kurt again?” Elena was frozen now with her head down, her black curls filling the screen.
“I don’t think so. I’m not prying. She took a day trip with her friend, the one she’s staying with.”
“And you’re connecting with old friends too.”
“I’m underfoot. And I’m just supposed to hang out six more days now till Richard’s opening?” Julian would be back then, at least. He’d had to fly to London but would return on Monday just in time. “If Claire hasn’t called by then, I’m leaving right afterward.”
“Just like that?”
“Well. I could—I could slip a letter under her door first. That wouldn’t be such a violation, would it?”
“I think that’s a solid plan.”
“I ruined things by going over there. How is that even fair? I fucked up all along by not being there enough for her, and now I fucked up by smothering her.”
Elena took a deep breath—Fiona could hear it rather than see it, as Elena was now stuck with her lips pursed—and said, “Here’s something I’ve been thinking. We’ve talked so much about how there are things you can blame yourself for, but how Claire has to share the blame.”
“I—”
“And I know that’s been hard for you. To blame Claire. But I wonder if it isn’t time to let go of the whole idea of blame.”
The sentence crashed Fiona back into a hundred conversations she’d had years ago. Asher Glass ranting about “blame and shame,” the twin scourges that scampered after the virus.
Fiona said, “I’ve been down that road. The thing is, if you stop blaming people and everything’s still crap, the only thing left is to blame the world. And when you blame the whole world, when it seems like the planet doesn’t want you, and if there’s a God, he hates you—that’s worse than hating yourself. It is.”
She expected Elena to tell her that she was wrong, that self-hatred was the worst kind—but Elena’s pregnant silence stretched too long to be good.
Fiona said, “Hello?”
Elena’s hand was frozen near her cheek. She was gone.
* * *
—
It was still dark on Wednesday morning when Fiona’s phone rang, and she thought at first it must be someone calling from the States. It was Claire.
She said, “So, I want to let you know I’m safe. There’s stuff going on like five blocks away, I don’t know. But we’re fine.”
“What’s happening?” Fiona was on her feet.
“It’s a police thing, not another attack. But there’s some gunfire.”
“Oh! Wait, are you—thank you for calling, sweetie. Thank you. You’re inside?”
“Yeah, this officer came around. We’re basically on lockdown.” Claire sounded preternaturally calm. Fiona almost would have believed her steady voice if she hadn’t known that Nicolette must have been sleeping there beside her—and what mother could possibly be calm in a moment like that? She wanted to fly across the city.
“You’re not near a window, are you?”
“Well, it’s a small place.”
“Can you move a shelf in front of the window?”
Claire was quiet and Fiona worried she’d offended her. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Are the doors locked?”
“Of course.”
“And you have enough food? Are you on Twitter? Richard’s boyfriend was getting his news from Twitter.” Because she wasn’t yet awake enough to stop herself, she said, “This is a sign, Claire. That you should come back to Chicago.”
And she was sure, then, that this had done it, that Claire would hang up.
Claire laughed. “Everyone here is terrified of Chicago. They can’t believe I made it out alive.”
“Or we’ll get you a safer place in Paris. In a better neighborhood. Your father and I could chip in.”
She was literally trying to buy her daughter’s affection. Well, her safety first, and then her affection. At five in the morning, with a shoot-out in the background.
“Mom,” Claire said, “just go back to sleep, okay?”
“Will you call again later?”
“Sure. I—just don’t panic if you don’t hear from me, okay?”
“I will panic, sweetie. But you could email your dad again, if you don’t want to call, and he could pass the message on. He appreciated hearing from you.”
Fiona turned on the TV in the living room—on mute, because she couldn’t understand the rapid-fire French anyway—and she logged onto Richard’s computer to find CNN.
* * *
—
By noon, she hadn’t heard from Claire, but she’d learned from the news that they’d caught and killed the last suspect. No reports of any civilian deaths five blocks away.
It occurred to her to check if her phone had saved Claire’s number when she called. “Blocked Caller,” it said.
* * *
—
She ate lunch, and then she called Jake and asked if she could see him again. He, too, was staying here at least until Richard’s opening; his story wouldn’t be complete otherwise, and his friend was (against what Fiona assumed must have been this woman’s better judgment) continuing to let him crash. He asked Fiona if she wanted to go for a walk, and she said no, she’d very much like to fuck him again if he could figure out where that might happen.
He called her back with an address, a place that turned out to be a small office building in Saint-Germain, and he led her up to a small, empty office with a window, a desk, a chair, some architectural prints on the walls.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought there might be a couch at least.” It belonged to his friend’s roommate’s boyfriend, a guy who’d apparently understood instantly and handed over the key. Maybe everyone in France understood things like that.