Page 38 of Daddy P.I. 3.0

“Twenty-first century,” I sing-song. “Are you catching the thief?”

He pulls a face. “I’m distracted.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. How about I meet you on the way back? It’s a sunny day. We could have some time in the park.”

Poor Daddy. He’s clearly desperate to play hooky.

“We like that plan,” I tell him.

“Good. Anything you need me to bring?”

I shake my head. I’m equipped for anything short of an asteroid crashing into Manhattan.

“Your heart rate’s come down while we’ve been talking,” he says. “If seeing your mum’s too stressful, make it a short visit, okay?”

I nod. Visits with my mother are never anything other than stressful now. But connecting with Daddy makes everything better. “Meet you at the park in forty minutes?”

He blows me a kiss and then blows another. “See you in forty minutes, my little loves.”

Smiling, I end the call and sign in at reception. They direct me to where Maman is in the orangery. There’s no outdoor garden at this home the way there was at the home in Syracuse but they have a lovely greenhouse. Maman’s always loved flowers.

My mother’s sitting in a wheelchair between two palms. She can walk but the lesions on her brain give her vertigo, so she’s prone to falling. She’s always been small like me but sitting in the chair she looks birdlike. So very fragile. Not at all the woman who dominated my childhood.

I park the stroller and pull a chair near to her. She looks at me incuriously. Her eyes are like the ones I see in the mirror, except there’s no spark in them.

“Bonjour, Violette. I’m Emily. This is Livvy.Nous sommes venus vous rendre visite.”

She smiles pleasantly. “Bonjour, merci d’etre venue.”

It’s funny how the mind works. She remembers how to speak two languages but can’t read either anymore and doesn’t remember her own children.

I fish out the bouquet of asters I’ve tucked among the stuffies and offer it to my mother. She takes it and turns it around in her hands.

“What are these flowers called?” she asks in French.

“Asters. Aren’t they a lovely purple? I thought you might like them because your name is Violette.”

I don’t mention that her favorite color has always been purple. She doesn’t remember and telling her things she doesn’t remember anymore just confuses and upsets her.

“They’re very pretty. Thank you for bringing them.”

“I thought I might read to Livvy while we’re here. Would you like me to read to you, too?” I ask in French.

Her brow wrinkles but I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want me to read or because she doesn’t remember who Livvy is. After a moment, she nods.

I pullIn the Night Kitchenout of my bag and hold it in front of me so Livvy can see the pictures. I read slowly, turning the book around so Maman can see the pictures after I finish every double-page spread, and put it away with a sad smile when I’m finished, remembering when the tables were turned and Maman was the one reading to me. Both Livvy and Maman are quiet. I can’t see Livvy’s face with the carrier hitched up high on my chest as I sit but from the list of her head and soft sucking on the paci, I think she’s fallen asleep. Maman’s looking meditatively at the flowers.

“I had a little boy,” she says.

She remembers my brother, not me. I swallow hard. “His name is Frances.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “Not Max?”

“No, Max is the boy in the story.”

She nods but I don’t see any spark of understanding in her eyes. “My little boy liked to play airplane, too.”

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