Page 65 of Come Back To Me

He shakes his head. “She’s…in Los Angeles.”

What was that on his face? Regret? I don’t know him well enough anymore. He has new expressions. I wonder if Petra knows we’re still married? If he’s sneaking off to get this sorted out without her knowledge.

“Does she know about…?”

“Yes,” he says quickly.

“Okay,” I say, relieved. “Okay.”

“I have to get to work,” I say.

He doesn’t move as I walk past him. His eyes are soft as they watch me and then he slips on his sunglasses. I turn around just as I pass him and he turns too. We’re just inches apart and I can see myself reflected in the blue/green of his lenses. I look scared, a deep line etched between my eyebrows. And I am scared about why he came all this way when he could have just slipped the papers in the post. There are better ways to divorce someone than showing up every few months out of the blue. And how does he find me? That is the fucking question of the hour, isn’t it? I’ll have to remember to ask, won’t I?

“David,” I say softly, as I cross the street. “David is here, in Paris.”

It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to say his name freely without the pain attached.

A few blocks down the street there is a gypsy woman standing with her back to a wall. She’s holding a baby against her chest and her fingernails are black like she’s been digging in the dirt. She stares at me through hooded eyes as I pass her. The baby is no more than a few weeks old and it wails in that thin way new babies do. Celine has told me not to give them money, but I can’t help it. I pull the spare euros from the bottom of my bag and walk them over to her. She doesn’t take her eyes from my face as I drop them into the paper coffee cup at her feet. I am kneeling in front of her, trying to ignore the smell of incense and body odor when I see that she has written numbers on the cup, scribbled in blue pen. I stare at the numbers, a tingling sensation sliding up my back like an invisible hand. 49. Why has this number shown up again on the same day David did? Is it a sign? A strange coincidence. I point to the number and ask, “Qu’est-ce que cela signifie?

What does that mean?

She gives me a strange look and I realize I probably should have asked:What does this mean?

“This number means something to you?” she asks in a strange accent.

I stand up so that we’re on eye level. The baby has stopped crying. It’s latched onto her breast and is making noises as it eats.

“Yes,” I say. I’m not sure how much to tell her.

“Then I write it for you,” she nods, “this morning.”

I stare at the cup and try not to cry. Was the universe trying to send me a message? God? I don’t believe in God. David used to tell me that not believing in God was a defense mechanism against human suffering.It’s easier to say nothing exists than to say something exists and He just lets us suffer.

I wonder if this woman, who is reduced to begging for money with her infant clutched in her arms, believes in God? I don’t know how to ask her, so I stare into her eyes and try to understand. The baby falls off her breast asleep; the smooth skin of its cheek has a line of milk where it ran out of its mouth. I try not to look at her puckered nipple, but it’s right there on display.

“I have to go,” I say, as if she cares. I turn and walk away.

“This number,” she calls after me, “be careful of it.” I wonder if her warning would be different had I not given her four of my euros. Would she have told me the number meant nothing? Would she have cursed me with it? Maybe I am already cursed.

I am already walking away. I lift a hand to indicate I heard her. I would, I would be careful. But that number is like splattering fat. It rises up every now and again to sting me.

After work I rush home to change my clothes. It wasn’t until I was feeding Henry his lunch that I realized I’d been wearing my uniform when I saw David, a white polo shirt and tan chinos. What had David said once about people who wear polo shirts and chinos? I smile at the memory. He called them spa people.

“The poor serve the rich in polo shirts and chinos.”

Henry asks for more fruit, and as I cut into the melon, I laugh at the irony. He’d had a job once, he’d told me, at a country club the summer he turned sixteen, collecting golf balls at the driving range.

“What do you think they made me wear, Yara?”he’d said.

I’d laughed when he described how high he wore his pants. How the older ladies, the wives, made comments about his backside. I am doing just what he said, too: serving the upper class, raising their young son while they are off getting rich.

Henry asks me why I look like I want to cry when I’m leaving.

“I’ll just miss you so much when I’m gone,” I say. He puts his little sticky hand on top of mine and says, “Je t’adore.”

I sniffle on the train and all the way home. Child-tending is softer than bartending. For instance, they drink milk to comfort themselves, not liquor. And when they are upset with you, they too yell and call names, but they get over it faster—never holding a grudge longer than it takes for their tears to dry.

Rifling through my belongings, I find nothing to wear. I hadn’t brought much with me during my last exodus. Just a few pairs of jeans and some summer tops. Celine once told me to help myself to her wardrobe. She’d always wanted a sister, she said. I imagine that’s why she’s yet to evict me from her tiny flat, though I am starting to feel hungry for my own space. She said her flat was haunted and I believe her. Things we’ve thrown away are always showing up again in closets or on dressers.

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