Chapter 26
ELSA
Sitting outside Les Deux Magots in the warm evening air, I feel as if I’ve fallen into a Renoir painting.
From where I’m sitting on the café’s canopied terrace, surrounded by box hedge, the full aspect of the neighbourhood is in view: the boulevard bustling with life despite the late hour, the limestone church opposite, and to my right, the entrance to the historic, literary café, frequented by everyone from Joyce to Hemingway.
With Fran and Marleen busy chatting to eager readers at their designated tables, alongside Christopher Rose, and with Carly selling books, and Frank occupied with others, I take a moment to enjoy the quiet, to drink in the surroundings and to remember the cafés of Paris I’ve sat in over the years with Bill by my side.
My mind wanders to other trips we took all over the world in the late nineties, to Mexico and Peru, Spain, India and Japan, anywhere rich in ceramic culture and textiles.
Bill and I trekked for days to meet artisans in places off the beaten path, to areas most tourists would never see.
There was something about that time, the reliance on each other, the self-discovery and inspiration, that was richer than anything we’d ever experienced before.
The emotion of those journeys spills from my eyes and down my cheeks and, dabbing my face with a handkerchief, I’m reminded of what Marleen told me: don’t cling to the past; be here now.
I think too of Marleen telling me not to desire things to be different, to not wish Bill’s condition away, to not compare the love of then to now, to accept life as it is.
And within moments my thoughts and emotions have passed and I’m back in the city, present in this beautiful moment, this gift.
What will you do with that gift? I hear Marleen ask.
As I look out over the street, I’m struck by my new friendships with Frank and Marleen, how much I enjoyed chatting with the man at the bar, and how even after only thirty-six hours I feel more confident in myself, more able to see the habits I’ve created in caring for Bill, and the mental loops too, that I have a new perspective on how things are and might be.
And as I sit, lost in the flow of activity, it occurs to me that I can now clearly imagine a version of life that enables me to still care for Bill, but one that also gives me the opportunity to do something for me, to be more than a wife and carer. To fill up my cup.
‘Where are your thoughts?’ asks Fran, pulling out the cream and green wicker chair and joining me at the table.
‘I’ve decided to do an introduction to counselling course, see where that leads,’ I say, possibly surprising myself more than Fran.
‘Elsa, that’s wonderful news. I’m proud of you.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, not usually one to accept praise, or knowing how I’ll go about doing it, but even I can see how far I’ve come in a short space of time.
‘How about you?’ I look at her outfit and shoes, her hair elegantly styled.
I assume she’s planning some time with Alistair later, a stroll down memory lane.
‘How are you feeling about Robin?’ I ask, mindful of keeping her rooted.
‘I’m not sure how I’m meant to feel about Robin any more,’ she says, her eyes losing their shine.
‘Give him time, Fran,’ I say, reaching out to squeeze her forearm. ‘It may be nothing more than a brief depression.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she says, and she tells me how she fears he regrets his life choices, that his resentment has shifted into something more: a dissatisfaction, a defeat. ‘And he blames me. I’m responsible. The loss of Mum, my career. His life would look entirely different without those things.’
‘It’s completely normal, Fran, to have this mid-life reflection,’ I tell her, and I remind her of the difficulties Bill and I had during our own middle years when it became clear that children weren’t possible.
It took us a while to find our feet, we both retreated into ourselves, but we came through it with renewed purpose.
If we’d had kids of our own, our lives would have looked very different: I wouldn’t have had my career in the gallery, his work might not have been so far-reaching.
With children, Bill and I may not have travelled, and yes, our lives would have been richer in other ways, but we and others would have missed out on so much.
‘Robin has lost his way, his purpose, his confidence. This is his period of contemplation and processing. Whichever path he chose, he would have reached a point of questioning. A change is needed, you both know that. The bookshop isn’t what it used to be, and he may not be the one who can turn it around.
He may need to do something else, but that won’t be at the expense of his love for you. We are human beings, not human doings!’
Fran shifts in her seat, sits a little straighter.
‘For now, you’re the obvious target – we hurt the ones we love – but trust me, he’ll soon realise it’s not about you. Robin is responsible for the choices he’s made and will make. He will find his purpose and his way back to you.’
‘And in the meantime? What do I do while my husband, my rock, is not there? What if there’s another rock?’
Marleen joins us, many of the readers now having headed elsewhere in the city or back to the hotel.
‘Fran was just asking what we do when our rock is not there for us,’ I say.
‘We become our own rock; you are the only constant,’ she says without pausing.
Fran’s brow crumples in confusion.
‘Where did you find your sense of self before your husband came along?’ Marleen asks.
‘In Mum,’ says Fran, tears springing into her eyes.
‘Fran’s mother passed away a month before she met Robin,’ I explain. ‘Carly came along not long after.’
‘I see,’ says Marleen, accepting a peppermint tea. ‘It sounds as if you’ve never had the opportunity to find your own centre, your own sense of peace. Life has moved too rapidly.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Fran, sounding as she did when she was a little girl, when she wasn’t allowed ice cream before dinner.
‘Our sense of peace doesn’t come from others; it can’t. Everything changes, no thing or no one is for ever. Our sense of peace must come from within.’
‘How do I find that peace?’
‘There is nothing to find; it is already there. Simple awareness. The reason you can’t see it is because of your “self”.’
‘Marleen, you’re speaking in riddles,’ says Fran agitatedly.
‘Our self is made up of our thoughts, emotions, our sensory experience,’ Marleen explains patiently. ‘Beneath self is simple awareness, peace. Once we find that peace, then we can enter into compassion. That’s when the real work begins.’
‘What work?’
‘Of being one with everything and everyone.’
Fran rolls her eyes in either irritation or frustration or both. ‘You’ve lost me,’ she says, turning her attention to the menu as Ginny comes to join us.
‘Ginny, thank God,’ she sighs. ‘Please, join us, save me from this New Age mumbo jumbo we’ve fallen into.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Ginny laughs.
‘You look as if you need a drink,’ says Fran, once Ginny is settled. Fran’s right, Ginny does look as if she’s had a day of it.
‘I’m not sure a drink will cut it,’ she laughs. ‘Perhaps a new career instead?’
‘How so?’ I ask, noticing a theme beginning to grow between us: me, Fran, Robin, Ginny, even Carly.
‘I just can’t keep up any longer. I’m not even sure it’s worth it any more.’
Ginny gives a brief overview of how her life has become: no balance, little sleep, poor diet, no weekends, ill health, dwindling confidence, the desire to hide away.
‘You sound burnt-out,’ I say, having recently read an online article about its rise.
‘You sound like Robin,’ says Fran, not cynically, worriedly.
We chat for a while about Ginny’s situation, what would happen if she gave up her job, if she could take some time to travel and work remotely as a freelance consultant, but the conversation is left unfinished when both she and Fran are pulled away by a handful of remaining readers to discuss their work.
‘Aren’t you glad you’re not in that period of life any more?’ I ask Marleen.
‘It feels like a lifetime ago, don’t you think?’ she says pensively.
‘Almost as if it were someone else’s life,’ I say, no longer able to recall exactly how I felt when Bill and I gave up on the idea of a child, as if the memory belongs to somebody else.
‘It was at that stage of my life that I learnt the real meaning of self-compassion.’
‘How so?’ I ask, keen to learn more about Marleen’s past, certain that she hasn’t been this version of herself all her life.
‘That’s definitely a story for another day,’ she says, emptying her cup, leaving me with a head full of stories.