Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
January 1994
O ren and Rose reached Paris on January 9, 1994. Rose was three months pregnant and called herself “happily married” in letters she sent back to Mississippi—some of which she wrote on the private plane that took them across the Atlantic and slipped into a yellow mailbox at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Her wardrobe was nothing she recognized—a series of taupes and whites and soft blues made of exquisite fabric.
Oren didn’t tell her that he owned his own place in Paris.
He kept it a secret, like so much of his life. But Rose was still of the belief that secrets between them were romantic. They brought a certain electricity to everything they did.
At the airport, Oren and Rose slipped into a taxi and whisked off to his place in the Saint-Germain-des-Pres on the Left Bank. The taxi driver opened her door, and Rose stepped out onto the sidewalk and raised her chin to see Notre Dame, little cafés with circular tables, gorgeously dressed people, and bakeries just about everywhere she looked. Rose hadn’t yet started to gain real weight, perhaps because she was only twenty-two and three months into her pregnancy, but she was ravenous. She made a plan to eat from every bakery in their neighborhood. She made a plan to really live.
Within that first evening with Oren, Rose was captivated enough by the city to ask, “What if we lived in Paris for the rest of our lives?”
Oren cackled. “Why not?”
The apartment was sensational. It was much smaller than the one in New York, but because it was Paris, Oren said he didn’t care. “What do we need all that space for, anyway?” There was a living room, a kitchen, a beautiful bedroom, a guest bedroom, a dining room, and a room that doubled as the library and study. Half of the books were written in French. Oren told Rose that he’d always wanted to get better at French, so Rose set to work learning so they could do it together.
“This is why I fell in love with you,” Oren said. “You’re the kind of girl to go after things. That’s why you left Mississippi.”
They lived that first week in Paris in a bubble of love, beauty, and joy. They ate everything. They slept in. Every late morning, Oren went out for croissants and fresh butter, and they ate in bed.
Rose felt her belly get slightly bigger. She felt sure she was going to pop from all this French butter.
“I want you big and pregnant and powerful and strong,” Oren said.
Rose’s heart cracked open with joy. She remembered how judgmental her own mother had been about other people’s bodies, including Rose’s, and thanked her lucky stars she’d found someone who didn’t care about that. Who wanted her healthy. Who wanted a big and bouncy baby.
Most afternoons, they walked along the Seine, as Rose had always read you were meant to when you were in love. They people-watched from cafés. Oren told her stories about growing up different fights he’d gotten into with Zachary, and Rose found herself sharing her own life in Mississippi—how difficult it had been to be the eldest of so many children and how she’d once begged her parents to “stop making more babies” because they were running out of food.
Oren took her hand and breathed, “You’ll never go hungry again. I’ll protect you and the baby forever.”
It was January 20th already. Oren’s friends were in town, and they planned to go out to Clown Bar, a sensational restaurant in the eleventh. Rose got ready in the guest room. She was getting better at matching the makeup of the French women she saw on the street every day. It was understated yet elegant. The dress she wore had an empire waist and flowed over the growing bulge so nobody could see it—not yet. But Rose was a little over three months along. Oren said it was nearly time to share with everyone. It was almost time to announce “the next generation of Graysons.”
Oren and Rose took a cab to Clown Bar. It was raining and black and damp. They got out and met Oren’s friends beneath a splendorous ceiling painted with old-fashioned clowns and detailed with gold. Rose was sure she’d met Oren’s friends Barbara and Scott at the wedding, though she couldn’t remember a single detail about them. It was clear they came from money. They had that smell about them. And there was something in Barbara’s eyes that Rose had once recognized in Mrs. Walden’s gaze. She was judgmental. She didn’t believe Rose belonged. She never would.
Rose put on a false smile but felt her confidence shatter.
Rose’s intellect and background were often put to the test that night. Barbara and Scott had read everything and traveled everywhere. They could speak on Greek politics from 1000 BC or cuisine in the Napa Valley or Japanese television stations. Nothing was out of reach.
By contrast, Rose knew very little about anything. She’d read a great deal, especially since coming to Paris, but most of what she’d read had been fiction. There’d been a lot of Jane Austen. Her cheeks flashed with heat.
Sometime after the third course, Barbara left to have a cigarette, and Scott excused himself to go to the bathroom. Oren took Rose’s wrist in his massive hand and squeezed hard.
“You’re embarrassing me, darling,” he shot.
Rose felt it like a dagger. She stuttered and tried to pull her wrist away, but Oren was too strong. Anxiety filled her chest, and she found it difficult to breathe.
By the time Barbara and Scott returned, Oren had released her wrist. But there was a sharp red outline where his hand had been. It felt like a warning.
That night, Oren didn’t bring up his embarrassment. But the way he looked at Rose was different. She felt like a dog that hadn’t performed correctly at a dog show. She hadn’t caught the Frisbee. She’d disobeyed.
That night opened a portal.
The abuse trickled in.
At first, it was just little things. A squeezed wrist. A sharp word. An insult that meant she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t smart enough, couldn’t possibly understand. It got even worse when Oren realized that Rose’s French was better than his already. When she embarrassed him at a café in the third because her French was lilting and beautiful and the barista said so, Oren smacked her on the street outside. The smack startled Rose out of her skin. She blinked at Oren, at this man she’d fallen head over heels for, and turned on her heel, hurrying away from him.
Oren ran after her, turned her around, and kissed her. “I just want you to respect me,” he whimpered. “I just want you to love me most of all.”
On either side of them, tourists and Parisians hurried past. They had places to go. They had things to do, people to love, and food to prepare. Nobody could really see the quivering young woman with the slightly pregnant belly. Nobody could see her tears.
Sometimes entire days passed by when Oren didn’t touch her, criticize her, or smack her. Rose reminded herself of these on the bad days. He’s stressed because of the baby. Maybe we should go back to Manhattan. Perhaps we should go back to Nantucket. That’s where we fell in love. Maybe our love is waiting for us there.
A business associate of Oren’s came to Paris in early February. He wasn’t married, and Rose wasn’t needed to “keep the wife company,” so the men went out alone. Rose adored those nights to herself. She walked by herself through the shadows of this tremendous city. She shivered outside of cafés with cups of tea and fluffy croissants. She went to a few museums and wept openly in front of impressionist paintings. She couldn’t believe how far she’d come in her life. Why was it she felt so alone? Was loneliness to be expected, no matter where you went or what you did? Was loneliness just a fact of life?
Why had she imagined her loneliness would die out the minute she fell in love? Why had she imagined loneliness was a fact of the poor rather than the rich?
That first night, Oren came home reeking of perfume. It didn’t take an expert to make sense of what was happening. Oren’s business associate wanted to be around beautiful women, so that was what they did. Rose pestered Oren about it. She asked him, “Do you really want to be with me?”
His face scrunched to a tight red ball, and he said, “How could you ask me something like that? Don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t you know what I’ve done so we can be together?”
The abuse continued. It followed them into mid-February. Oren’s business associate remained in Paris, taking an apartment in a trendier district. Oren often spent the night there, leaving Rose to twist alone in their silk sheets and marvel at the weight in her chest. At least he’s not here to beat me, she found herself thinking. She cursed these thoughts and reminded herself just how in love she was. Just how happy she was. I’m in Paris! I’m in the most beautiful city in the world!
Rose called Mississippi on February 13th.
It was the first time she’d dialed her parents’ home number in three or four months. They hadn’t been invited to the wedding. Rose sensed they were resentful, though they probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the trip to New York City in the first place.
Rose’s little sister answered. She snapped her gum and said, “Mom’s here.” She sounded like a brat. Maybe they all hated Rose now. Maybe they thought she was too big for her britches.
“Hello?” Rose’s mother sounded obstinate. Rose could picture her in the glow of the television, maybe with a few chip bags beside her on the sofa. What time was it there? Rose quickly calculated to glean that it was nearly three in the afternoon in Mississippi and nearly nine at night in Paris.
“Hi, Mom.” Rose’s voice cracked open.
“What’s the matter?” There was no tenderness here. Only intrigue. Probably, her mother wanted to laugh in her face.
Rose took a sharp breath. She told herself not to sob.
“What is it, Rosie?” her mother demanded. “Did you call just to breathe at me?”
Rose closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s face—craggy from cigarettes with nicotine-stained teeth.
“Rose? Where on earth are you?” her mother asked.
“I’m in Paris.”
“Well, well, well. How nice.”
Rose sniffed. “I don’t know what to do.”
Her mother coughed and inhaled, proof she was smoking. “Is my daughter unhappy with the wealth she’s fallen into?”
Rose was quiet. Her heart felt so bruised.
“Is my daughter ungrateful for the wonderful life she has?” her mother demanded.
Rose closed her eyes. Her head throbbed. It occurred to her she hadn’t eaten much today. The baby needed nutrients. It needed proof that someone loved it out here in the open air.
“I’m not ungrateful,” Rose breathed. “It’s just that…”
“It’s just what? You got out of here,” her mother reminded her. “You got out, and you’re living high on the calf over in Paris. Tell me one reason I should feel sorry for you.”
Rose hiccuped with sorrow, then smacked her hand over her mouth.
“I know. Boo-hoo,” her mother sang.
“It’s just that he’s not very nice to me all the time,” Rose hurried to say.
“You’re saying the wealthy man you married isn’t always so nice?” Her mother was condescending. “How surprising!”
Rose curled into a ball on the sofa and gazed out at the black night. Where was Oren right now? Probably with some French woman who took his breath away. Probably drinking wine and eating decadent food. They’d only been here five weeks or so, and already her marriage was off the rails. It had to be Rose’s fault.
Oren was probably thinking he shouldn’t have married her.
He was probably thinking, I’m not over Natalie. I’ll never be over Natalie.
“I need help, Mom,” Rose breathed. She sounded pathetic. No wonder her mother hated her so much.
“Honey, you need to learn to help yourself,” her mother said.
Suddenly, there was a horrible twist in Rose’s abdomen. She groaned and stretched out. Pain electrified her head. The baby. What’s wrong with the baby?
Rose hung up without saying goodbye and limped across the living room. Her stomach spasmed. Pain was the only thing she understood. A few minutes later, blood dripped from between her legs, and she understood. I have to get to the hospital immediately.
Rose hobbled downstairs to hail a taxi. She felt stupid, especially when she cried and winced and smacked her thigh with pain in the back seat. The driver kept glancing back with worry. But every time he asked her a question, she couldn’t answer. The stress made her French fly out of her head.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Rose lost the baby.
Perhaps it shouldn’t have shocked her so greatly.
But one minute, she’d had all the ingredients for a happy life—a handsome husband, a baby on the way, and apartments in Manhattan and Paris and Los Angeles and Dubai. A fat bank account. A fresh wardrobe. And the next, she was twisted up in bloody sheets at a hospital in Paris, asking them to call her husband. “I don’t know where he is,” she yelped. “I don’t know!”
Rose couldn’t tell Oren about the loss of their baby until the following afternoon. She was released and took a cab back to their apartment, where she found Oren nursing a hangover and already sipping a glass of whiskey. She’d calculated the cost of each pour of that particular whiskey before. Seven hundred dollars each.
Oren was quiet for a long time after she told him what happened. He looked at her as though it was all her fault. Maybe it was. Perhaps this was Rose’s body’s way of saying Get out of this situation. Get yourself back to America.
But Oren wrapped his arms around her and held her as she wept. He cried, too.
They made promises that night. They told each other they would continue to try. A baby was in their future; they were sure of it; they’d already set so many plans. Oren was going to stay home more often; he was going to take care of his wife. And Rose was going to be better; she was going to be great. She was going to know everything there was to know, but she was never going to “upstage” Oren, especially not in front of his friends.
Being married was like a balancing act. In her post-miscarriage haze, Rose was so sure she could manage it. She could carry her and Oren and their love for the rest of her life. It would probably get much easier from here on out. Probably.