Chapter 3 #2
The summer before her last year of undergrad, Marlow had been an au pair in France.
Yes, she’d had to take care of two annoying kids, but Diet Coke was more expensive than a decent red (so why not drink the red), she practiced her French and it improved, cheese was stinky and, eaten with a warm baguette, the best thing in the world.
She’d taken the kids to museums and parks and galleries in Paris; she’d explored castles with them in the Loire Valley; she’d spent hours in the sunshine with them at the beach near Aix.
She’d flirted with French boys everywhere she went.
She’d felt so international, so adult, so free.
That summer had made her realize there were all kinds of choices you could make in your life—experiences you could have.
Places you could live. What she wouldn’t do to be back there.
Sabine woke her mother with light streaming in the window. Marlow hadn’t even opened the Murphy bed. She was on the couch in her clothes from last night, two empty bottles on the floor.
“I have an ice pick jabbing me right behind my left eye.”
“That’s called a hangover, Mum. Polishing off two bottles solo will do that to you.”
“It’s nice to be judged by your daughter at the crack of dawn,” said Marlow.
“It’s not dawn, it’s eight forty-five.”
“What? Crap!”
“Maybe I’ll have cake for breakfast,” said Sabine. A fine way to start fresh.
“If there’s any left,” said Marlow. “I was on a bender last night.”
“I see that.”
“Oscar’s presentation. I don’t think I finished it. Or did I? Who knows?”
“Do you need an intervention?” Sabine asked, putting the bottles into the recycling bin.
“Just because you have not one care in life,” said Marlow, opening her laptop, “doesn’t mean you can boss the rest of us.”
“Feels like you could use some bossing, though.” Sabine had plenty of cares but no idea what to do with them.
Would Willa get her first kiss at prom tonight, the prom Sabine would miss even if Bubble Tea Desmond had impromptu-style invited her?
Would she out of the ether get a message from the universe: Go to this university, get this degree, live in this city?
Today was Friday. She’d decide next week.
“I have too much open on my desktop,” said Marlow. “I can’t find the file.”
“Click on PowerPoint in the toolbar. And close some tabs. You’ll never read all those articles.”
“I might! When I have time. OK, found it. Apparently, I did not finish the revision. I’ll do it now, show up late, make up some excuse.”
“FYI, hangover won’t cut it,” said Sabine.
“Shit. There are three emails from Oscar, the first looking for the slide deck to vet, the second wondering if I delivered to Victor and forgot to cc him, and the third basically a WTF email asking if I was having internet connectivity issues.”
“Go with the last one.”
Sabine wanted a day when they didn’t talk about work, deliverables, or deadlines.
Wasn’t it all about more than that? She wanted to sit on the porch and scroll through whatever on her phone.
Sunbathe. Maybe read a book. Probably not.
Maybe make a book. Probably not. She could call Willa for Korean hotpot, although she’d be getting ready for prom.
And practicing for her first kiss with Max.
“Hold on,” said Marlow. “There’s another email here at 3:45 AM.”
“From Oscar? That’s basically harassment.”
“From the Commune de Nenier, Département de Haute-Marne,” read Marlow. “Subject header says ‘recu d’achat.’ Doesn’t that mean receipt?”
“Yep. Spam maybe?”
“Is the Advil over there? My head’s pounding.”
Sabine found the Advil on the window ledge beside a large glass jar of all of Marlow’s passes and lanyards from past festivals. A history of work and hairstyles in one vessel.
“I mean,” said Marlow, “maybe it’s spam …”
“Don’t click on it.”
“Too late.”
Sabine poured a glass of water. Her mother could be so dense about computer stuff.
“It’s all in French,” said Marlow. “It’s weird, I was just reading this article about France last night—OK, hold on—let’s see how far my au pair French gets me. ‘Chère Madame Linden, veuillez trouver ci-joint la confirmation …’ Oh God. Something happened.”
“To your French? Agreed. Your accent’s terrible.” Sabine delivered the Advil and water.
“I think,” said Marlow, throwing two back, “I might have … done a thing.”
“Like?”
“I worked late. I was on my laptop feeling sorry for myself. I drank. A lot. Then I read an article about this one-euro house-buying program in France—see? I read things on Google.”
“You just never close any tabs.”
“Then I clicked around. I have no memories after that. Wait. I clicked on the link in the article. Maybe. Then I have no idea. Then it was eight thirty in the morning.”
“Eight forty-five.”
“And you woke me up and the email said ‘Recu d’achat.’ ”
“Did you buy something?”
“No.”
“Then how come this is here?” Sabine picked up her mum’s wallet from the floor beside the couch. “And your credit card.”
“Oh God. Oh God!”
“Don’t worry,” said Sabine. “Everything can be returned, especially within the first forty-eight hours. It’s called buyer’s remorse. Mr. Simons explained it in his home finance unit in Grade 10.”
It looked like her mum was having a midlife crisis. Which made no sense because Sabine was the one having the crisis. She sat down and read the email, too. Her French was better because it was recent.
“So yeah … Looks like you bought a house in France for a euro.”
“No, no! I read an article about buying a house in France for a euro. That’s different.”
“And then you got your wallet and credit card, and, you know, ‘did a thing.’ ”
“I DID NOT BUY A HOUSE IN FRANCE.”
“It says you did. I’ll translate: ‘Dear Madame Linden, this is to confirm your purchase of a house in the village of Mirabelle-Les-Roches. We will forward paperwork within a week to ten days. Please read the details carefully, as there are many rules and regulations. Be advised that our offices are on summer hours, and processing may be slower than usual—’ ”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t think he had anything to do with it, Mum. You did this all on your own.”
“I need a shower. Read the email again. Make sure you get all the fine print. Then get us out of it.”
“Awww.We can’t keep our house in France?”
“Do as you’re told, impertinent child!”
Which Sabine did. Then her mother emerged from a very short shower. “Hit me.”
“No online refunds.”
“Well, fine. I’m OK with my one-euro drunk-dial.”
“There’s more.”
“More what?”
“Fine print. It says that the commune—”
“Commune?”
“It’s some level of government, and it’s taken a security deposit from your credit card.”
“What? I didn’t say yes to that!”
“You don’t even remember buying the house, so who knows what you said yes to.”
“How much is the deposit?”
“Thirty-thousand euros.”
“WHAT!”
“To hold people accountable.”
“I’m accountable! I’m so accountable!” said Marlow. “I’m the most accountable person I know!”
“You get it back when you claim the house and sign the deed, which you must do within two months.”
“Thirty thousand euros? I don’t even think my credit card limit’s that high.”
“Looks like it is. You didn’t get a notification from them, did you?”
“I don’t even want a house in France!”
“You did last night.”
Marlow tried to metabolize all of this. She teetered a bit and grabbed the dining room table for support. Her hair dripped and made a little pool on the floor.
“There’s one last thing,” said Sabine.
“What, did I also buy the Eiffel Tower? The Gare du Nord? Maybe I threw in the Mona Lisa for good measure. Wonder if my credit card covers all that, too!”
“If you want a refund, you can’t get it online. You have to go in person.”
“Well that’s impossible,” said Marlow. “It’s end of June—the festival is in October. Basically tomorrow. Thirty-thousand euros? I’m so screwed.”
Every once in a while, these things happened with Marlow. And Sabine had to get really calm—calm enough for both of them—so they could manage whatever disaster had occurred.
“The house is called Maison Perdue,” said Sabine. “I mean, ‘Lost House?’ That’s kinda cool.”
But Marlow didn’t have time for any of that. “Hack into my mail, impersonate me, and write back saying all the things I just said but in French. Didn’t mean to, can’t afford it, highway robbery—anything. But be polite—the French are big into polite. Make all of this go away.”
“How come I have to do it?”
“Because you have the best French. And also you have nothing on your plate. And because I have to go to work and not get fired so we don’t end up living in someone’s garage, never mind a rundown ramshackle house in France.”
“We already live over someone’s garage, Mum, and rundown and ramshackle are kind of the same.”
“This is no time to correct my English. It’s almost nine, which means it’s three in France. Their workday is almost over.”
“For the record, I had very important things to do today.”
“Like what?” Marlow shoved her laptop into her bag.
Sabine gazed at the tree out the window.
Its leaves rustled in the morning breeze.
Today’s the first day of the rest of my life, she thought.
What do you do on that day? Clean your closets?
Lie on your bed weeping? Save your mother from her impulse buy so she doesn’t wreck your lives? Maybe all of the above.