Chapter Twelve #2
Still, he gave the answer silently, automatically. Six out of ten today. Not too bad.
“How’s Leonard?” he asked, to distract her. And himself.
“A stubborn ass,” she said, chuckling, because Leonard was, literally, a stubborn ass, the lone donkey on the property that had no purpose other than to eat every other animal’s feed and show his weird, too-big teeth to everyone who walked by his enclosure.
When Griffin left, Leonard had a sarcoid over his left eye that his mother had been fretting over. “But getting better.”
“Good.”
“And?” she said.
“And what?” He braced himself for her losing the battle against herself. What’s your pain level today?
“And how’s your stubborn ass?” she said instead, and his mouth curved up. “I hope you notice I haven’t been calling you. Like you asked.”
“I noticed. I’m doing all right, all things considered.”
The travel, he meant. The plane, the time change, the hotel, the people. That’s what she meant, when she asked—how he was managing all these things that he so determinedly avoided for the last ten years, that he’d had to train for like the most pathetic boxer before he’d left.
“I went on a boat,” he said, surprising himself. And then worse, he kept going. “Shopped at this famous store. Saw the building where they…have the opera. Looking at Notre-Dame right now.”
This was, he knew, a stunning enough recap on its own that his mom would not press for details on any of it, which meant that he would not explain that not a single thing he listed was some kind of sightseeing lark that he’d done of his own accord.
Even this morning felt like a strange necessity, a required ritual he needed to perform before doing this new day.
She didn’t speak for a long time. Or at least, what felt like a long time, when you were on the phone, thousands of miles away. Griffin could picture her, in the small kitchen of the ranch house where he never really spent much time, stirring her tea until the urge to cry passed.
“That’s good,” she finally said, her voice perfectly normal.
The light was changing now—pink sky behind streaks of wispy slate-gray clouds, the church changing color along with it, like it was getting dressed for the day.
Probably he should go back. Shower, eat something. Get ready for getting looked at.
“And Michael?” his mother asked, a chippy, nearly undetectable note in her voice.
But the truth was, he didn’t miss much about her, either.
He paused, scuffed his shoe across the pavers beneath his feet. “He’s good,” he lied.
Man, what the fuck, Michael had texted him last night, ten minutes after he’d taken Layla off the boat. Griff had been in the car with her by then, watching her faintly trembling fingers holding her dress away from her body, finally starting to reckon with what he’d done.
Handling it, he’d texted back, as though he had some grand best man plan. As though he was the crisis manager, and not half the crisis himself.
“Fitz and Paula?” his mother added, which was really what that chippy tone was about. Michael, his mother loved—complicatedly loved, Griff supposed, but still. Loved.
Michael’s parents were another story.
“They get here later. This afternoon, I think.”
“You won’t take any shit from them,” she said, but he didn’t want to get into this. They wouldn’t ever agree on what shit he’d taken—would always take—from them.
So he changed the subject.
“It’s the other family that’s messy,” he said, and as soon as it came out of his mouth, he knew it was the wrong can of worms to open. Knew exactly who it would lead to.
“What kind of messy?”
The chip was out of her voice again. Usually, she was the one telling him mess—some feud in town, drama in the comments of a local animal rescue organization she followed online, a tiff in her book club over whether a main character in the monthly pick was “waiting around for some man to save her!”
Griffin getting anywhere near gossip was about as shocking as the sightseeing.
“Emily invited her brother’s ex-wife,” he said. “It’s—you know. Awkward.”
“Weird thing to do,” his mother said. “Inviting her, I mean.”
A funny thought came into his head: Annie Testa on that boat last night, sitting next to Emily’s aunt Céline. Two women with absolutely nothing in common except their not-so-subtle judgment about asking your brother’s ex-wife to come to your wedding.
It was that little pretend scenario that somehow got him saying more: not just that the ex-wife was here, but that a new girlfriend was, too.
That everyone was acting nice about it—amicable about it—but that the whole thing had somehow given Emily the yips.
That the ex-wife—he didn’t dare say her name, for fear of what his mother would be able to hear in it—was trying to help, but maybe also making things worse.
That Griffin had to try heading it all off.
When he was done, the sky had changed again, rosy gold now, and somewhere along the line, a few stragglers—other early-rising Americans, he guessed—had shown up to get photos in front of the grand lady, newly clad for her morning of being a whole bunch of people’s bucket list attraction.
He adjusted his hat, tugged the brim down.
Imagined himself crawling out of the bell tower, crouching on one of the finials.
Later, people would zoom in on their photos.
They’d think, Is that one of those gargoyles? Some weird bird? A ghost, a monster?
“You’re not responsible for Michael,” his mother said now, interrupting his thoughts.
The chip was back in her voice.
Something else he wouldn’t argue with her about.
Something else they’d never agree on.
“It’s something to keep an eye on,” he said.
So you’ll look at me, then, he heard himself saying again.
Saw Layla Bailey’s big brown eyes blinking back at him, stained glass sparkling above her as that huge, overwhelming store started shutting down around them.
Supporting them, he said later, when they’d gotten closer to the hotel, when they both seemed calmer from the fresh air, the walking.
That’s a we thing now. We stick together.
No one looks at you as if you’re alone. No one looks at you as if you’re only looking at him.
For a long time, she hadn’t responded. She’d kept her head down, one foot in front of the other, studying her new sneakers.
But when he finally heard her quietly say, “Okay,” he realized he’d been holding his breath. He realized how badly he’d been wanting her to agree.
And that scared him half to death.
Scared him out of an unexpected sleep, a soft dream he couldn’t talk about.
Scared him back into a burned-out bell tower.
His mother made a hmming noise on the other end of the line. She wouldn’t argue, either, especially not when he was this far away. It was too unusual, for them to fight with this much literal distance between them.
“So what’s today, then?” she asked instead.
He swallowed, took one last look. Thought about today, and everything about it that would be hard. A train ride, a lot of people, long lines, camera phones everywhere. A six out of ten. A bunch of shit he would probably find pretty disgusting to look at for any length of time.
And Layla Bailey, looking at him, exactly like he’d asked her to.
But since he wasn’t going to say all that, he simply turned his back on his pretend house, started walking, and said, “Today, we go to Versailles.”