Thirty-Seven
Happiness is a state of mind; however, just declaring yourself happy did not, in itself, persuade others, nor did it fool you. No one but you would know the lie, if you told it. Aunt Evelyn wanted to be happy. It was the reason she moved to Paris and chose this neighborhood. I had to help her.
I searched for an opening to speak with my uncle in private about my plans to reunite Aunt Evelyn with Girard. When my aunt excused herself to take a call from Ines’s mother, I took advantage of the situation and asked Uncle Michael to go for a short walk. He balked at the suggestion, but I convinced him that we wouldn’t cross any intersections and that fresh air was conducive to recovery. Besides, I needed to test out the cane and learn how to navigate with it.
“I don’t think Evelyn will be pleased.” He closed the apartment door behind us.
“She’s busy. As long as I’m being chaperoned, I don’t think she’ll mind.” I linked my arm with his. “Her whole life is in that store and she’s doing her best to save it.”
At six thirty in the evening, most of the shops were preparing to close. We went into an antique store, perusing antiques, furniture, and artwork. I took care maneuvering around the breakables with the curved handle of the cane. I was grateful for the extra stability that helped take the pressure off my sore hip.
“I warned her. Opening a shop is difficult even with support; then you add in a different culture, on a new continent, in a competitive city.” Uncle Michael picked up an old framed black-and-white photograph of an apothecary storefront. “It helps that she knows the language, but she’s all by herself here.”
“She has friends. She’ll be fine.” I set down a painted ceramic bird I had been examining.
“I have to admit, I had been concerned about how well you two would get along.”
Years ago, during one of my failed clairvoyance lessons, Uncle Michael had picked me up from Aunt Evelyn’s. He gathered a sobbing six-year-old and drove to our favorite gelato shop, where he listened to my biased version of how the lesson went.
“It was as bad as you expect. She’s a strict teacher; I’m a terrible student. I’m not like any seer she’s seen before. We argued, but when we weren’t bickering, we enjoyed one another’s company and ate the best food. We don’t see fortune-telling the same way, but I think it’s okay now. We’ve reached a truce, and all I had to do was almost die.”
I picked up the bird again and, on a whim, decided to buy it for Ma. It fit in the palm of my hand and was painted with a robin’s-egg-blue crackle finish. It would look perfect on the fireplace mantel next to the white ceramic stag she had bought from a local gallery. My uncle offered to carry it for me.
His manicured hand clutched the small bird. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”
“I emerged relatively unscathed. Sure, my left hip is sore and I have this awesome scar, but I’ll take that over the alternative.” A married couple in their early thirties entered the antique store, a baby in the man’s arms. A red thread linked them both, heart to heart. Even when they wandered apart, they remained tied. Threads were everywhere. “I see red threads connecting couples now. I couldn’t do that before.”
Uncle Michael squinted at the people around him. “Well, that’s certainly new. When did it start?”
“When Jack called your phone. That couple with the baby has it too.”
“You seem sanguine about this new ability, unlike earlier. Is this something you want?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so naturally, I almost thought I hadn’t responded. I rejected fortune-telling because of the burden, embarrassment, and shame that came with it. Knowing the future held no appeal to me; however, my new aptitude didn’t terrify me. I wanted to learn more, what it meant and its scope.
“Given your history, that’s not at all how I expected you to answer.” He headed toward the cash register with the bird and the photograph.
“It hasn’t made anyone run screaming from me. It’s nice seeing their connection. Speaking of which, you probably won’t approve, but know I’m going forward anyway.”
My uncle seldom used his warning tone, but a rebellious child knew the inflection—whether from family or a stranger. “Vanessa.”
“Aunt Evelyn is in love and I’m certain he feels the same way. It’s someone she was involved with when she was in Paris in her twenties. Recently, they saw each other for the first time in decades at his restaurant. There are unresolved feelings.”
“Did your aunties back home put you up to this?” he asked.
I shook my head. “They didn’t. This is my idea. They are busy meddling in their own way: they hired a private investigator.”
My uncle covered his face with his free hand and uttered a curse in Mandarin. “I expected this from them, but not you.”
“I want her to be happy. I think she will be with him, and vice versa. It’s a gut feeling I have, but it’s the same one that told me Jack and you belong together.”
We reached the counter, and my uncle stopped me from taking out my wallet. He paid for both the bird and the photograph.
“This old boyfriend of hers, what does he look like?” he asked as we entered the next store.
“A French version of Robert Redford. Quite dashing. The aunties were impressed.”
Rococo oil paintings, in their gilded frames, stood out against the deep red walls. Bronze sculptures populated the shelves. My fingers itched to reach out and touch them.
“Evelyn is one of those rare souls who is open to others but also guards the most private parts of herself,” Uncle Michael continued. “She knows the name of every family member, is generous at every occasion, and attends every function. Yet, how many do you think she’s invited into her home? Me—and you.”
I had never realized how alone Aunt Evelyn was.
Red threads were everywhere. Sparkling ruby garlands wove through people like a moving spiderweb. If I could fly overhead, I could see the patterns of constellations representing the bridges of humanity. For someone who never had one of her own, seeing them brought me joy. This was what I’d been missing all my life.
And my aunt didn’t have one.
It was a steep price to pay for her clairvoyance.
It wasn’t fair.
Thirty-Eight
The next morning, I woke up breathless. My heartbeat hovered near the edge of my throat as my skin hummed with an electric energy that popped the sheets and blankets around me. It was as if my body was reminding me that I was alive.