Chapter 53
Aurora
For seconds, he looks between his wristwatch and me, a mix of resignation and bitterness in his expression. I wish there were a hint of hope in his demeanor, but all I see is the cold white-blue light of the bar.
With just my gaze, I plead for him to stay. To bear the silence, I take a sip of my cocktail.
Now he stands up. "Time is up."
No, he can't do that. Not before he hears what I've been trying to tell him all this time!
But should I force him to stay? Is it right to stand in his way and undermine his decision?
"I wasn't honest with you," I say hastily, and my stomach immediately knots up. "I was scared, and I still am. But I have to tell you the whole truth." I want him to see the world through my eyes for just one moment. And feel what I feel.
The helplessness. The weakness. The guilt.
He hesitates in his movement. "What?"
I exhale forcefully. "When we met again, I couldn't think clearly. I..."
It takes forever, but eventually, he sinks back into the chair. "What?"
My fingers fumble nervously around the ice-cold stem of my glass.
It has to happen now.
Now or never.
"You think I'm a fighter, and I used to think that too. But that's not true." I lower my gaze to the yellow cocktail umbrella in my glass. "The truth is, I've always wanted to be a fighter." That's a difference, and it's a significant one.
I cautiously glance at him. He shakes his head, as if he can't comprehend what he just heard. I have to keep going. Just stubbornly keep going and say what needs to be said.
"In the past few days, I've been wondering when exactly our relationship broke." Hopefully, he'll notice that I said relationship and not love . Because the feelings are still there, at least for me.
"When you decided all on your own that we should break up." Filled with disappointment, he hurls the words at me and raises his glass to take a big sip.
"Really?" I ask, no longer trying to hide my fear.
"Get to the point, Aurora." His expression silently adds, I can't take this any longer .
"Not even back then, when I wanted to ignore my pregnancy while you loved our baby unconditionally from the start?" I ask meekly. He looks at me intently, and I think I can see him searching for an answer in his mind. "Or not even back then, when you made it clear to me that dancing was your only chance for a good life?" I dare to add, because that is also true. "Or when I decided to lie to you so that you could continue with Alice?"
The anger that had just dominated his expression transforms. "Or when I began clinging to that lie because it felt like the last straw I had left?" he says in a toneless voice.
I resist the urge to press my lips together to stop them from trembling. "Perhaps even when the miscarriage ripped the ground from under my feet, and I convinced myself I had to be strong."
"Maybe when I forced myself to dance the mambo with Alice at the tournament," he adds, his forehead creasing with concern. "Our dance..."
The dance of our hope. "...that I couldn't dance with you anymore." Because I was so afraid of reliving the miscarriage in my thoughts again and again. Because I was certain I couldn't be strong if I let go of control. I reach for his hand. "We both made mistakes."
He doesn't reply, but at least he doesn't pull his hand away either.
"My mistakes, however, were much bigger than yours." That's the truth, and it will always be.
He lifts his eyelids. "You should have talked to me. Long before the selection show in Lyon."
"Yes." Swallowing hard, I reach for his other hand. "I should have shown you more clearly the wound that the miscarriage had torn open inside me. I should have asked for your help."
My chest tightens painfully. Because inevitably, I have to think about the other moment that changed my life forever. Those few minutes that threw me off course so much that I could only see one way out back then.
"But there's more," I whisper weakly.
It's time to tell him everything.
"It happened on the way to Lyon," I tell the story, mentally sitting in the train with Maxime, recounting how I answered the call from an unknown number and looked out into the barren landscapes.
I dive deep into the events of that day and share them with Maxime.
"Bonjour," I timidly say into the phone in my memory.
"Mademoiselle Olivetta. I apologize for calling so late," replies a woman's voice that sounds familiar.
It's the receptionist from my gynecologist's office. What does she want from me?
"Your test results have been available for weeks, and I forgot to inform you," she says.
What test results? "I'm afraid you have the wrong person," I reply hastily.
"No, your name is clearly here. It's about a sample taken at H?pital de la Pitié-Salpêtrière after your miscarriage." Paper rustles in the background. "Okay," I say, stretching out the word.
She clears her throat. "Monsieur Guiot would like to discuss the results with you personally. Is next week suitable for you?"
Suddenly, it feels like I'm no longer sitting in the comfortably heated train but outside in the winter cold. "No. I want to know now," I respond reflexively.
"I can try to connect you." Is there pity in her voice? Or professionalism?
"Please." I press the fingernail of my pinky finger frantically against the tip of my thumb.
A playfully cheerful melody plays as I anxiously wait to hear Monsieur Guiot's voice.
"Do you have the test results?" I ask breathlessly after he greets me, pressing the phone closer to my ear.
For a moment, I hear nothing.
"Monsieur Guiot? Are you still there?" I slide my index finger under the collar of my sweater to pull it away from my neck, yet I still feel like I'm not getting enough air.
"Yes," he clears his throat. "I'm sorry to inform you that you are a carrier of Robertsonian translocation," my doctor says empathetically.
I sink deeper into my seat. "Rob... what?"
"A genetic abnormality, possibly inherited, possibly acquired." He pauses briefly as if expecting a reaction from me. "It was the reason for your miscarriage."
No. Dancing was the problem. I pushed myself too hard, didn't take good enough care of myself! "I don't understand... what...?"
"Your fetus suffered from Trisomy 22, and a miscarriage within the first twelve weeks of pregnancy was almost unavoidable," he explains slowly, but I still struggle to follow him.
Trisomy 22? I've never heard of that.
So our baby was sick. Because I have a genetic defect.
Genetic defect, genetic defect, it echoes through my head and that's when I realize what that means.
A cold shiver runs down my spine, and my throat tightens. "It will happen again, won't it?" I ask in a hushed tone, gripping the seat as if I could prevent the train from spinning around me.
"Well, the likelihood is high," he replies with a strained voice.
So we might never...? And if we do, we'll probably go through countless... Oh my God...
"Oh my God," Maxime stammers amid my narration.
I tear myself away from the memory, lift my gaze, and look at him across the ice table.
"I received this diagnosis just a few hours before the show in Lyon. The little information I could gather about my genetic condition until your performance was..." I strain to find the right word. Devastating? Frustrating? "It robbed me of all hope," I admit openly.
Thoughtfully, he shakes his head. "The doctor only said it was likely. That means there's a chance..."
The same sadness from back then permeates me. "Would we have survived that?" I ask him pointedly and suddenly feel liberated, able to tell him all that burdened me back then. "How many miscarriages would our love have endured? How many deaths would we have had to mourn, perhaps even without me ever being able to grant you your great wish?" With each word, my voice grows weaker. "I couldn't do that to you. To live such a life..."
The expression in his eyes softens. "My biggest wish was always just to be with you."
Hardly has he spoken the words when he covers his mouth with his hands.
Tears well up in the corners of my eyes, and I allow them to flow. It's okay for everyone to see my vulnerability.
"I couldn't dance with you, and I couldn't start a family with you." What would we have had left together? Who would we have been? "I thought there was nothing I could give you. Not even hope."
"What are you talking about?" His chest heaves, and his fingers nervously stroke mine. "Your love was all I ever wanted."
"And it hasn't faded," I say, filled with pain. "I left my whole life behind me. Everything that mattered to me, my friends, my dream of dancing, my family. You."
My voice falters, and I beg him with my eyes, finally admitting to myself what I hadn't even acknowledged before.
"I ran away, literally. For years, I ran until I collapsed, exhausted, just to find some rest. I exploited my body to keep going." It was an addiction, the only thing I had left. "Yet I could never forget you."
Suddenly, his hands rest on my cheeks, and he gently wipes away the icy tears with his thumbs. "My God, Aurora," he whispers, almost inaudibly.
I dare to stroke his temple. "You deserved a chance at a better life. That's all I wanted."
He shakes his head. "A better life?" he asks weakly. "Without you?"
My shaky breath forms a small white cloud between us. "I wanted to be strong," I repeat my words from earlier, as the circle closes. "But in reality, I was weak."
Too weak to explain to him what I feared so much. Too weak to show him that I was not the fighter I pretended to be.
Too weak to let go of control.
I look at him, urging him to understand. "What I did had nothing to do with not trusting you. It was about not trusting myself, about not being able to face everything that would inevitably come."
I would like to say so much more, but he surely knows what I mean.
"And now?" His voice trembles. "Have you learned to trust yourself now?"
I nod, feeling the fear creeping up inside me.
Maxime reaches his hand toward me but withdraws it before touching my cheek. Then he smiles wistfully. "Why should I believe you?"
A dark heaviness takes hold of me.
"What are we doing here, Aurora?" His exhausted gaze meets mine. "What are these memories supposed to achieve?"
"Maybe nothing," I confess openly. Then I take a sip of my ice-cold Cosmopolitan, my thoughts drifting to what's to come. "But maybe everything. We should find out together."
He looks at me for longer than necessary, then reaches for his cocktail and empties the rest in one go. As he has done so many times before, he glances at his watch.
I also sneak a look there. It's 7:06 p.m. The three hours he promised me in the park are long gone.
"You decide," I say with a trembling voice. "Will you give me the chance to show you that I'm no longer the blind fighter from the past?"
He swallows hard, biting his lip. Then he takes the cocktail umbrella from my glass, carefully folds it, and hands it to me. "One last memory, then I really have to go."
It's just a small gesture, but it fills me with so much warmth that I no longer feel the cold of the ice bar.
I tuck the umbrella into the front pocket of my backpack and stand. "Off to Japan."
***
Ninety minutes later, Maxime is still with me. Several times he has made it clear that he has no more time, yet we are now on our bicycles heading to the last stop. Although our shared experiences have changed something in his closed demeanor toward me, my nausea is increasing with every passing minute. During the picnic in the Japanese garden of Bois de Boulogne, I could hardly eat a bite of the prepared tapas. And when we posed for a memory selfie with small torches in our hands next to the minimalist version of the Statue of Liberty in Jardin du Luxembourg, I felt dizzy for the first time.
Maxime has scrutinized me again and again, but he hasn't asked any questions. Instead, he has answered mine, and we have told each other about our new lives. Sometimes we laughed together, and sometimes we smiled wistfully. Sometimes I cried, and sometimes he looked at me as if he wanted to embrace me.
We've talked about so much. That's why I now know why he keeps checking the time. His train to London departs in ninety minutes. The Eurostar is not an ordinary train; you have to go through a procedure like at the airport to board it. A procedure that normally takes three hours. Yet Maxime is here with me. He can still make the train, although time is running out.
Will he leave after our last experience?
With that question in the back of my mind, I park my bike next to Maxime's at the Paul Gasq fountain.
With every memory, I asked Maxime if he was ready for it.
But this time, I can't do it.
Because I don't even know if I'm ready for it.
With a pounding heart, I glance at the two long staircases leading up to the forecourt of Sacré-C?ur.
"Unfortunately, we don't have time for that," Maxime says, appearing next to me unnoticed.
"It's the last memory, then you can..." I want to say, go forever, if that's really what you want , but the words won't come out.
"We don't need the caricature of us," he says, shaking his head.
So he doesn't even dare to imagine that something entirely different could be waiting for him up there. Is it because he himself doesn't want it? Or because he doesn't believe I can do it?
My fingers tremble as I push my hair away from my face. "Yes," I whisper, tense.
It would be so much easier for me to let him go now. But we still have to live through this last memory together, no matter how much it scares me.
It's something worth fighting for.
The conversation with Maxime in the ice bar was clear. He doesn't believe me when I say I have learned to trust myself. He thinks I still want to control everything, can't let go, and hand over control to others. Our future depends on proving him wrong. And proving it to myself as well.
"It's just before nine o’clock." I catch myself reaching for his hand but stop just in time.
He scrutinizes me for too long. "Okay," he finally says.
Together, we climb the stairs. Maxime never stops reminding me that he will miss his train if he doesn't leave for the station in the next fifteen minutes.
"We'll call you a taxi, it'll be faster," I suggest. The evening traffic has already eased up, it should work. "You've already checked in, so they'll probably let you go ahead in the queue, right?" I ask even though I can hardly breathe myself.
He grumbles, half agreeing, half reluctant.
The higher we climb, the thinner the air seems to be. My legs feel infinitely heavy, and the nausea in my stomach becomes overwhelming.
Finally, with weak knees, I step onto the crowded forecourt of Sacré-C?ur.
Here, among loving couples, skateboarders, and street artists, in the dim light of the setting sun and with a view of all of Paris, our storm is about to come to an end.
Suddenly, Maxime stops. "Listen, Aurora," he says uncertainly. "I don't think this is a good idea. What are we going to do with the picture?"
But yes, it is a good idea.
I can do this. We can do this.
"This means the world to me," I reply, not wanting him to feel like I'm taking charge.
He runs his hand through his hair, looks at his watch, around the square, at me, back to the watch, and finally nods to the right. "Over there?"
Silently, I shake my head, my heart galloping.
"Then where?" He looks around. "There's no other caricaturist here."
Is he just pretending to be clueless, or is he really unaware?
I let my eyes wander over the square, and I spot Sky hiding behind a tree, just as we had planned. She gives me a thumbs-up.
I'm ready , that means.
Oh, God.
"Aurora?" Maxime shakes me.
Before, I wouldn't have shown him my nervousness, but today, he can see it. I press my hand against my stomach. "I'll be right back, wait here," I stutter, then rush toward the wrought-iron railing that separates the square from the green area.
"I really don't have any more time," he calls after me, but I don't respond.
Torn between fear and hope, I climb over the fence and disappear into the darkness. I run straight to Sky. She has my white summer dress ready, just as planned. Despite the mild May evening, I shiver all over as I put it on in the shelter of the trees.
"I can't do this," I say, standing before my friend when I'm dressed.
She smiles encouragingly, her green eyes sparkling. "Go get him back," she says, giving me a gentle nudge.
Can it even work? Haven't I taken on something here that is simply impossible?
The ground sways beneath my feet, but I stagger back and climb over the fence. My knees go weak as soon as my shoes touch the square in front of Sacré-C?ur.
I cling to the railing, searching for him.
Where is he?
I don't see him where I left him.
Did he leave? Without saying goodbye—just like I did back then?
Please, no.
Suddenly, my nausea takes a back seat. The dizziness doesn't matter anymore, nor does the fact that my legs can barely carry me.
I stumble across the square, pushing through the dense crowd of tourists, passing a street artist disguised as a statue. I keep looking around, stretching to spot Maxime in the tightly packed crowd, but I can't find him.
Has he given up on us? Before I even …
Tears of desperation well up, yet I keep pushing through the crowd. A group of Japanese tourists blocks my path, but they immediately form a lane for me as soon as I get their attention.
I walk through and see that the square behind is at least a bit less crowded. Just a second later, I realize the tree canopies are too close. I have reached the other end of the square. Panic sets in, and I quickly turn around, maneuvering through the crowd again until it thins out.
At that moment, Maxime comes into view. The warm light of the setting sun falls on his chiseled features. His eyes roam over my outfit, and my nervousness returns instantly. He knows.
He knows what I intend to do. Will he also understand what it means?
With trembling legs and a racing heart, I approach him, no longer noticing the other people on the square. Only Maxime and that tiny spark of hope igniting inside me matter now.
My heart pounds hard against my chest. I gesture for him to follow me to where Sky has secretly taken her position. He does. Thank goodness.
I stop and turn to face him, breathless. I kick off my shoes, feeling the ground under my bare feet as I gather all my courage for what comes next.
Slowly, I close my eyes, signaling to Sky as we had agreed. With fluttering eyelids, I wait until the first notes start to play.
Now, Aurora. Now.
The times of doubt and blind fighting are over. I trust myself. Whatever happens in the next few minutes, I will allow it. It's okay to be vulnerable. I no longer want to control anything.
A shiver runs through my body as I lift my gaze and gracefully offer my hand to Maxime.