Paris. It is a city of such splendour and beauty, I come quite close to believing my life would be brighter, lovelier – better – if I could only be there. Being there with my mother is something else, however. Because I love Paris, I was a little anxious for her to like it and because I was a little anxious, I was less relaxed than I could have been; it was a state of mind somewhere between bringing a boyfriend home and taking your mum to your rendezvous with a lover. I would be planning our outings in Paris, right down to which dress I would wear to which museum; my mother would be reminding me to wear sensible shoes. She was right, sure. But when I am in Paris, in places as beautiful as the Musee de l’Orangerie and the Musee d’Orsay – being there is like being in an enormous yet delicate porcelain piece with see-through detail, through which the sun trickles in – I don’t want to be right. I want to be beautiful. (So, after traipsing, and then limping, along pebbly paths from museum to museum on pretty leg-lengthening platforms for a day, yes, I went back to plain moccasins. But I had to try, right? I had to.)
It must be said that my mother never means to be a party pooper. She is more of a good-natured, well-mannered gatecrasher who wants in on her children’s lives. Her son is going to Venice; can she join him and his girlfriend? Her daughter has gone to a crazy retro birthday bash in her dress; can’t she call and ask how the party is going? Does everyone like the dress? Let my mother in on any drama in your life and she may be more involved in it than you.
The Paris trip was to have been a present to myself. Something to stop the march of time; something to help me recall 2010 down the road, even as the rest of my life melts into one never-ending year. But knowing my mother – feeling her longing – I knew I had to take her with me on the trip. It would be a gift to her, to make up for her tedious trips with my father. I would let her in on my trip.
Was it a present she wanted though? I wonder. We had good days sightseeing and better days shopping in Paris. She was proud of her stamina. My father couldn’t have coped with my itinerary – going here and there on foot and getting lost on the way to this and that bistro – but she could. At the end of an exhausting summer day though (in July, the sun in Paris doesn’t set until 9pm), while we were waiting for darkness and sleepiness to descend, she would wonder what, and how, he was doing at home. He, a loner who isn’t good at being alone. “Sometimes I miss that stupid man.”
It wasn’t something she would have admitted at home. In our modest room in Paris, miles from our home, however, some things were more sayable. She worried aloud about everything. About Fei. About me. About things we hadn’t told her but she had sensed. It was dark and she was beside me on our bed, whispering intensely. “Why aren’t my children happy? Why are things hard for my children?”
I have no doubt, at such moments, that my mother is a drama queen. Nor do I doubt that the drama queen loves us. Even so, I had to shrink away when she asked me why, when I had a chance to be a wife and mother n years ago, I didn’t take it. Why didn’t I stick with someone I had picked? Why did I have a change of heart? Me. A marriage, however miserable, would have been something, wouldn’t it? I didn’t answer her. I wouldn’t. Not even to tell her she had her questions the wrong way around. Not even to tell her I was angry. How could she ask about such things now, after the unrepeatable things she said then? No, I had my reasons, mine, and I wasn’t letting her near them. The night was still; my mind was swirling with words I wouldn’t speak.
And yet. And yet. I began making assuring noises about Fei…the comforting things in his birth chart…I wanted to give my mother something, though it might not have been what she wanted. It was late. She is old. She shouldn’t have to worry about us in the wee hours of a Parisian night.
