Thirty-Nine #2
I have no memory of it. I don’t know if I can do this.
My breathing is shallow. I’m spinny, nauseous, and there’s a figure at the hostess counter now, blocked by other people, maybe it isn’t her, but the hostess walks her toward us, and there’s Delphine, clear as day, and now she’s slipped quickly into the booth, no time for us to stand to greet her.
Her hair’s pulled to one side in a braid.
Little makeup, a naturalness to her that seems to be the fashion here.
A softness around her eyes, but still youthful.
Lovely. Nervous, but nothing of the franticness of the street, the brokenness of the hospital.
It’s the Delphine of before all that. Just herself, only I know nothing about her anymore.
Apparently she’s used to the summer chill, wears a turtleneck pulled to her chin, long tight sleeves that bell at the wrists. Nathalie scrutinizes her. Of course. There’s nothing Nathalie won’t look at straight on.
Delphine says, “You used to watch me in exactly that same way.”
Nathalie says nothing but finds my hand under the table and squeezes it so hard I fear she’ll snap a bone.
“How long have you been here, in San Francisco?” I ask.
“Almost ten years.” I wait. “I work at the state college,” she finally says. “I’m an assistant in the Psychology Department. I handle the admissions materials. Arrange faculty meetings. Assist some of the professors in their research.”
I get a flash of Delphine in a grand library, pouring over a thick book, taking notes. Another of her in an office, speaking on the phone with efficiency and importance.
“You’re probably surprised,” she says.
“I’m not at all surprised, actually,” I say.
“I guess I’m the one who was surprised,” she says. “I surprised myself.” I wait for her to say more but she shifts in her seat and asks, “How are your sisters?”
“They’re well.”
She says, “If you two have time tomorrow, the cable cars are fun. And the sea lions are very cute.”
“We didn’t come to sightsee,” Nathalie says. “I have to get back for work. You said there was something you needed to talk to us about.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I prepared for this, but everything I rehearsed has flown out of my head.”
Nathalie squeezes again. I say, “I found the drawings we did of each other and got them framed.”
“They’re hanging in my room,” Nathalie says.
“Really,” Delphine says, but she’s distracted. It’s possible that she’s forgotten all about the drawings.
“My brother and I, we’re both about to be juniors at UCLA.”
“Oh?”
“I’m studying music. Composition. Clément’s considering veterinary medicine.”
“You weren’t anywhere near the violence, were you?”
Another squeeze. “It was happening all around us.”
But Delphine’s frowning, not listening. “I’ve been wondering if you remember me.
” She looks down at her lap, so she can’t see Nathalie’s reaction, and rushes to add, “But I wouldn’t ask you such a thing.
Please, don’t say a word.” She pulls her handbag onto her lap and unclasps it.
“I had a feeling this might happen. That I’d get here and be tongue-tied.
I wrote a letter for you, just in case.” She hands a thick envelope over the table.
“Please read it. Talk it over with Odette. Write me back or don’t write me back.
It’s all up to you. Gosh. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for dinner.
” She finally looks at our faces again, mine and then Nathalie’s.
As she’s standing, she says, to me, “You look just the same.” And to Nathalie: “You’re more beautiful than I could have imagined.
And very strong. I can tell.” Nathalie blanches, watching her edge away from us.
“No,” she says. “We came all this way. You’re not leaving?”
“I’m sorry,” Delphine says again. And she’s gone.
Nathalie and I look at each other—dazed, silent.
She’s pale, shaking, and the waitress is back and all I can think to do is order food for us.
I choose off the menu at random. Soon our table is filled with fried oysters and abalone and crab legs and a baked potato.
All of it, delicious. We stay seated next to each other, say nothing through the meal, just pass the plates of food back and forth, reach to pluck bites with our forks.
We’re ravenous. We finish everything. Order strawberries smetana for dessert.
Exhaustion descends before we even pay the bill.
We trudge up the hill to the inn, squinting against the wind, and we take off our jackets and fall into the bed. She’s holding Delphine’s letter.
“Do you want some time alone?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll read it tonight.
I’m going to read for class instead.” She sets the letter on her bedside table, opens her textbook, falls fast asleep within minutes.
It’s barely past nine o’clock. I turn off the lights save for the one by my bedside.
I try to read the novel I brought, wish I was already in the middle of it, keep reading the first page over, unable to sink in.
I set it down. Camera obscura in my mind’s eye.
The slow spinning motion of it, the ever-shifting horizon.
Near midnight, a soft rap on the door. I ease it open and the night receptionist tells me he’s sorry to disturb me but there’s a woman downstairs, waiting in the restaurant.
I expected it, somehow. It’s why I kept myself awake for these hours.
I tiptoe past Nathalie, pull my shoes back on, smooth my hair in the bathroom.
Delphine’s the only person in the restaurant. The kitchen is closed but there’s a pot of coffee on a hot plate, a pitcher of cream. “Want some?” she asks.
“I’ll fix it for myself,” I say. My hand shakes as I pour, coffee splatter on the white cloth. I carry my cup to the table.
“Did I wake you?” she asks.
“No.”
“Good.”
She studies my face and I’m nervous, mind racing. Just to break the silence, I say, “So you’ve been here ten years. And you’re doing well?”
“I am.” I wait for her to tell me more, watch her as she decides on what to say. Finally: “The last time we saw each other, I had lost everything. But step by step I built a new life.” I nod. “I never got to hear what happened. How you and Cyril ended up married.”
“No,” I say. “You didn’t.”
There’s a pause, an opening for me to tell her, but I stay quiet. I’ll let the expanse of my years remain as much a mystery to her as hers are to me. It’s not out of spite. Or maybe it is. But then she says, “If there’s anything you want to ask me, go ahead. I’ll tell you,” and I don’t stop myself.
“That day when I saw you in the road. What were you doing there?”
“I had to get away from the trees,” she says. “I had this idea, that if I could get away from the trees, I could keep living my life.”
“I went to your old house. I saw the lines cut in the maple tree.” She swallows, says nothing. “And then a couple years ago, Nathalie and I went to the attic of the laundromat and I saw them again, cut into the windowsill.”
“There’s a logic,” she says. “When you’re inside of a delusion. Those notches were a way of protecting myself. It doesn’t make sense when sane, of course. But when you’re inside of it…”
“No,” I say. “I think I understand. There are no trees in the middle of Crenshaw Boulevard.”
Behind her eyes, something catches. A recognition, maybe. Like she’s seeing me through time. She nods.
“Do you still have delusions?” I ask.
“It’s been ages. About a year ago I had a period of detachment.”
“What does that mean?”
“I lost my motivation, lost my usual energy. I could barely stand to take a shower or eat a meal. Mary Beth and Pascal—my flatmates—they helped me through it. They know what to look out for. I took some time off work, saw my doctors. It passed.”
“How did you meet Mary Beth and Pascal?”
“When I first got to San Francisco, I stayed in a little room in North Beach. We spent a lot of time at the same cafés there. Went to the same poetry readings and art shows, became good friends. We’re all interested in dreams, we start our mornings by sharing them.
None of us have other family. We became each other’s. ”
A burning in my chest. I don’t know where to rest my eyes. I turn to my coffee, lift it to my mouth. It’s so strong it hurts my teeth.
She shifts in her seat. “What about you?” she says. “Are you in love?”
Ginny must be asleep now, in our bed. She’ll be waiting for me when I get home. I find my voice again. “Yes,” I say. “We live together.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. Ginny.”
Delphine smiles, full of tenderness. After what she did to me.
“You threatened me,” I say. “I never would have done that to you. Never.”
“I’ve loved you, always. My best friend. No one has ever been the same.”
Each of her words, a stab. “Then why?”
“I was desperate. And I had a feeling, in the hospital, like you weren’t actually you. You were a replica. And when you talked about Nathalie, I felt like she was a replica, too. But by the time I was better, I knew I’d given you to each other. That I’d made the right choice.”
“We could have all had each other,” I say. “I’ve tried to piece it together, why you didn’t call me for help, I still can’t make any sense of it.”