26. Indie
INDIE
AUGUST
Strange things are happening in Paris.
And by strange, I mean… convenient for me.
It starts when I arrived at the train station in Paris and found a shorter, blonde man in a suit holding a sign that read Dr. Indie Miller.
Indie, not Indiana. And my doctor title. Interesting.
“Uh, hi,” I say, walking over to him tentatively. “I’m Indie Miller.”
“Mademoiselle Miller,” he says, his English smooth but edged with a French accent, his smile gentle and professional. “I’m Antoine. I was hired to drive you to your hotel.”
“By whom?” I ask, though my heart already knows who. I shove that down. Deep down.
“It’s…” He clears his throat and smiles. “…er, complimentary.”
I knew he was lying through his teeth. I had checked transportation obsessively for this trip.
Before I went anywhere with him, I asked him to show me his credentials. He had them ready, as if he knew I would ask.
Interesting.
Sure enough, he is legitimate, and once I’m satisfied, he takes my suitcases and puts them in the back of the car. He opens the door for me, waits until I slide into the back, and then gently eases us onto the streets of Paris.
Antoine says the complimentary service will be for my entire stay in Paris, then gives me his work number for transportation. I want to decline, both because I am fully prepared to use public transport and because I know who hired him, but I take the card anyway.
And honestly, from the money I lost when Teddy backed out of the vacation, from losing the house I wanted in Cape May, and from the general treatment by his mother over the past two years, I see it as restitution.
He isn’t done there, though.
“These are for you,” Celia, the front desk receptionist who checks me in, says, handing me an envelope before I head up to my suite. “Courtesy of the hotel. We hope you enjoy your stay, Mademoiselle.”
“Merci,” I respond before heading over to the elevators with the bellboy carrying my bags.
Once I’m in my room, I check the envelope and huff a wry laugh.
A ticket for an after-hours private group tour of the Louvre.
Very expensive. I know this because I inquired about it for Teddy and me. I thought maybe he would love it, that the art would inspire him, but ultimately decided waiting in line would be fine, maybe even fun, because it would be with him. But this saves me time, allowing me to do more in Paris.
“Idiot,” I mutter, again not knowing who I’m referring to as I sip on the champagne waiting for me in my room. Though I don’t really put up a fight against the smile on my face.
Not that hard, at least.
The guided tour is incredible. Just a group of about ten people after hours, a tour guide giving us the ins and outs of every romantic, beautiful piece of art. Winged Victory, Venus de Milo, The Great Sphinx of Tanis, and, of course, the Mona Lisa.
The museum’s quiet feels heavy with history, and we all barely raise our voices above a whisper, as if we are trying not to disturb the art. It is wonderful. Something I’ll cherish forever.
And yet, I keep turning to my side to share something new I notice in the art, or some joke that comes to mind, but no one is there. There are other couples around me, and a group of three friends giggling and taking pictures together.
I feel lonely for a moment because I want to share this experience with someone. Not just someone, the idiot who broke my heart. That idiot who made this possible. My idiot.
But then it’s like I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a sweet, slightly sarcastic voice in my ear.
You’re never alone.
Chin up, Indie girl.
And I smile, and feel better. I’m alone, but I’m not lonely. Not really. I always have Ellie with me. And I have… my guardian angel, as I’ve taken to calling him.
Antoine is there to pick me up after my meals, and it just so happens that my meals are taken care of every time I go out to eat—my breakfast, lunch, and dinner already paid for.
It gets to the point that by my second dinner, I don’t even take my wallet out when the server comes over and says it has been handled.
Then, on my last morning in Paris, room service appears at my door. Gluten-free honey crepes and eggs. And when I say I’m confused because I didn’t order room service, the kindly worker tells me that it is—
“Complimentary, Mademoiselle.”
And my protest dies in my throat.
I sit in my king-sized bed, eating the delicious breakfast, and then realize there is a paper tucked underneath the plate.
A drawing.
It’s me, the Eiffel Tower in the background, my hair blowing gently in the wind as I gaze up at the impressive structure with a smile on my face. There are faceless people milling around me, but one figure catches my eye. Not a person. Far in the back is a big bear whose eyes are on me.
And at the bottom of the page, in blocky, familiar script.
Bears love honey, and I love you.
I almost fight the pleasant warmth that spreads through my chest. But I don’t. I should be mad. I should be angry, and I am, but not at this, at least.
Because, as annoying as it is to admit, I am able to experience so much more than I would have. I am able to see Notre Dame and the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and the Seine River Cruise and try all the restaurants I wanted to, while still getting a full eight hours of sleep.
I don’t have to decide which sight I want to see more.
With the complimentary tickets, the car service, the private tours, and the meals being taken care of, I am able to do everything I want, and I have extra money to buy little trinkets to send back home to Phoebe.
I find a classy, vintage-looking cigarette holder for her that she’ll get a kick out of.
I even buy some things for Danielle and Stephanie—a little Eiffel Tower for Stephanie, who likes to collect miniature replicas of places she or her friends have visited. She sets them up on her mantle like it’s a small town.
Danielle loves sweatshirts; she’s always cold in Ireland, so I buy her a really nice one embroidered with a baguette and croissant.
Even though Teddy and I aren’t together, they always treated me so well, and I’m grateful to them for that.
By the time I board my train to Amsterdam, I feel genuinely happy and light and—okay, maybe a little excited to see what else my guardian angel has in store for me.
It’s restitution, after all.
Just restitution.
That’s it.
London and Paris felt historic.
Amsterdam and Berlin feel tragic.
But also beautiful. I walk the canals in Amsterdam as planned, take pictures, eat Dutch street food—a lot of it surprisingly safe for someone with celiac—and take in the sights.
At my hotel, waiting for me at the front desk, is an envelope.
“Complimentary?” I ask the receptionist, who looks surprised for a moment before chuckling.
“Yes. Complimentary,” she says. “Let me know if you need anything else, Mevrouw Miller.”
I wanted to go to the Anne Frank House so badly, but because of all the stress over the last two months, I missed the window to purchase tickets. It was unfortunate, but there are other things to do in Amsterdam.
And then I open the envelope. I don’t know how my guardian angel did it, but there is a ticket for me.
And I get to see the heaviest sight I think I’ve ever seen—the Annex.
I am practically shaking throughout it as I walk through the same place where a little Jewish girl hid with her family and documented her thoughts.
Just a child, who was then torn away from her mother, from her father, from the small, hidden world where she tried to survive, and was sent to die in a camp.
Tears sting my eyes, and I can see others on the tour are just as affected. By the time I leave, I feel emotionally drained, but so fucking grateful to have seen it.
The next morning, breakfast arrives at my room, the worker kindly stressing that it is all gluten-free. There is coffee, fruit, eggs, something sweet with honey, and tucked beneath the tray is another drawing.
It’s me standing on a canal bridge, smiling softly, hair blowing in the wind. The expression on my face can only be described as freedom.
The caption makes my nose sting, and I have to breathe through the pressure in my chest to push back the tears.
You survived so many things, I can’t even comprehend your strength sometimes.
I am sorry that I became one of them.
I stared at those words for a long time and felt their weight.
Not I’m sorry I hurt you.
Not I feel sorry for hurting you.
I’m sorry that I became another wound.
But I don’t know what to do with it yet, so just like I did with the other drawings, I tuck it carefully away in the bottom of my suitcase to ponder later. Not now. Not while I’m on vacation.
But even as I tuck them away, they stay with me, and the weight feels comforting.
Then, in Berlin, I stare at the memorial to the Berlin Wall, the crumbling structure that divided families, and think of the other things that divide families.
Things you can’t always see. Things not made of brick, but alcohol. Guilt. Obligation. Fear. Comfort, even when it is toxic. Familiarity mistaken for normality.
There was a clear wall between Dawn and her mother, her daughters, and I was on that side too. Teddy stood on top of the wall, trying to play the balancing act, even though his mother was desperately pulling him toward her, away from me.
It’s in Berlin that my anger and heartbreak don’t soften, but they become clearer.
Teddy tried to keep the peace to the point of conceding so much ground that I don’t even think he realized he was losing it. He gave so much to Dawn, and she catered to him just enough, praised him just enough, needed him just enough, that it probably felt like a victory for him.
Like he could have it all—his overbearing mother, his toxic family, and his girlfriend.
Even though I felt like canon fodder. I wonder if he sees it now, and that’s why he’s here.
Restitution.
But it’s something else, too.