My friend James and I were having an argument.
He was telling me about his super-creepy people-finding abilities. It was one of those brotherly moments in which I refused to give him the last name of a jerk ex-boyfriend because I was concerned about the likelihood he would find the guy and beat him to a pulp. He told me that, taking only this guy's (very common) first name, he could find him and his address in a couple days at the most.
I was thinking "Psh, I spent years looking for my father on the internet, I know how this whole thing works. I've got tricks up my sleeve--I know how long it would take to find a person. And he's not on Facebook. There's no way." So, I challenged James. I told him he had two days, and if he found the guy, I would write him a story.
An hour later, he sent me a Google Earth picture of the guy's house.
Yes, I have creepy friends. So...don't stalk me, manipulate me, or lie to me guys. James will find you for me.
Anyway, writing his stupid story has been using up all my creative energy lately. Since it has distracted me from you guys, I thought I would at least share it with you. I'm not looking for any criticism, constructive or otherwise...I'll admit that right now. I'm insecure about my serious fiction (lol not the blog...bash away at the blog, I can take it) and I need support more than anything.
I would just like to note that despite the dedication at the beginning, none of these characters bear any sort of resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead. They are purely fictitious. The dedication is to honor an actual person, not to credit her for a character. :)
*Whew* I'm nervous, you guys...
Vera
***
For Lisa
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. ~e.e. cummings
***
Alex licked his fingers.
Nothing like frosting.
He took a look at his freshly made and decorated batch of chocolate coconut cupcakes, and proudly sprinkled a bit of the leftover coconut on the top of each one. They were beautiful.
There was a knock at the door. Alex started, then looked in horror around his kitchen.
The evidence was everywhere.
In a panic, he began throwing muffin pans in the oven, scooping up all his icing apparatus and shoving it in a cupboard, and carefully transporting his beautiful cupcakes to the fridge. Who the fuck was knocking on his door at 8 pm on a Wednesday? What if they saw him baking?
Rushing to the door and answering it after, at the last second, shoving his apron under the sofa, he discovered two delivery men with a clipboard.
“I’m going to need you to sign here for the couch.”
Shit, that’s right! His new couch was supposed to be delivered today. How could he have forgotten?
He signed the papers and let the men bring in his new couch, heaving a sigh. This was exhausting.
“Hey…what’s this?” one of them asked, picking up a wrinkled yellow object from the floor. Alex turned in horror to see his chocolate-stained apron in the hands of one of the deliverymen, who had apparently been trying to move his old couch out of the way for the new one.
Shit.
Fumbling for an excuse, Alex muttered something about wives and losing things and “she’s a damn good cook though.” The man nodded at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Whatever, man.”
After getting his new couch put in place, Alex closed the door behind the two men, his cheeks a bright shade of pink and his dignity quite shattered.
This wasn’t the first time this had happened. God, why did he have to love baking so much? Couldn’t he be a normal man, and be into golf or football or something? No wonder none of the guys at work wanted to hang out with him. Not that any of them would want to anyway. They hated him, because he was the boss, and he was terrible at it.
Oh, not that he didn’t have the experience or the ability. He knew he could do well at his job--he’d graduated Yale with a degree in business management and had run this hotel for 4 years now. It’s just--he hated it. He hated his job, he hated his life, and he hated his coworkers. It showed, so he had a hard time making friends.
He’d thought about leaving, of course, but this was fucking New York City--when you get a job that earns you $90,000 a year, has full benefits, and is only 10 minutes from your apartment, you don’t give it up lightly. Besides, what was the point? Work is work. It all sucks. It’s not like he’d be happier at some other hotel.
It left him exhausted, so he relaxed by baking. What was the big deal, anyway? A man can make a cupcake or a pie now and then, can’t he? Why did he constantly feel the need to hide frosting evidence and make up wives just to cover it up? Something must be wrong with him. Shouldn’t a real man be secure enough to decorate cookies without fearing judgement?
Alex didn’t want to think about it anymore. He turned on the TV and sat down with a cupcake on his new couch. By the weekend, there were already stains on it from 3 different colors of frosting.
***
One Saturday morning, Alex received an incoherent phone call from his mother. He was groggy and not quite awake, and had to rub his eyes and ask her to slow down.
“Mom…what’s going on? Why are you crying? You have to speak more slowly, I can’t understand you.”
“Alex,” she sobbed. “Your grandfather! He just passed. Heart attack…Grandma found him this morning…she’s okay, but I’m so worried about the funeral, and the will, and…everything’s a mess, I don’t know what to do, and Grandma can’t handle all of it, she’s too old…”
“Mom…it’s okay. I’ll come as soon as I can get a flight, okay? Let me call work and get Stan to take charge for a week, and I’ll call you when I have a plan. Okay? Tell Grandma I love her.”
“Thank you so much honey. Call me when you know, and I’ll send Dad to pick you up at the airport. I’m so overwhelmed, I just don’t know what to do!”
“It’s okay Mom, I’ll be there soon, and I’ll help you take care of things. Just calm down; drink some tea or something.”
“Okay, honey. Thank you so much. I love you.”
“I love you too Mom. See you soon.”
He hung up, in a bit of a shock. Grandpa died, huh? He should probably feel a little more upset. Somehow he couldn’t feel much for the old bastard. He never knew him very well for one, and on top of it something had always seemed a little off about him. It was like he didn’t feel anything for anyone, not even Grandma. And who could possibly not love Grandma?
He supposed that made him the right person to deal with the proceedings. Poor Mom sounded like a wreck. He wouldn’t mind seeing the family again anyway, and it would give him an excuse to let Stan, the assistant manager at the hotel, take over for a while and give himself a much-needed break.
He called in to the hotel and spoke to Stan, who it turned out was thrilled for the extra hours, and told him to take all the time he needed. He scheduled a week off, with a tentative note that he may need to extend it. He called the airline, then his mother, then packed his bags.
Late Sunday afternoon his plane landed in Connecticut. His dad picked him up in the old beat-up ‘94 sedan that they’d had since he was a kid, and they went straight to Grandma’s house, where Mom met them and they had a very quiet, very somber dinner together. He slept in Grandma’s spare room that night, and he heaved a deep breath right before he closed his eyes. His body found peace in his soul’s moment of freedom.
***
The funeral went about as well as one could expect a funeral to go. Alex organized the whole thing, and even baked the treats for the wake, although he made his Grandma promise to tell everyone it was her handiwork. He didn’t want even his parents to know--he only trusted Grandma with that information. She was the one who had taught him how in the first place, and she never judged him. Not even when he confessed that his greatest talent was for fondant roses.
After the service, Grandma sidled up to him, her head barely reaching his shoulder, and whispered, “Alex, dear. Could you do me a favor tomorrow? I want to go through your grandfather’s things in the attic, and all those boxes are so heavy. Will you help me?” He noticed her eyes were dry and her handkerchief, which she kept in her left hand, was unused.
“Of course Grandma. I’m happy to help with anything you need.”
She patted his arm. “Thank you dear. You’ve been of great help to me. And your mother is so pleased to have you here--I don’t think she’d have made it through planning the funeral alone. She’s devastated, you know. She loved her father very much. Sometimes I think she was the only person in the world that he really…that he really loved.”
Despite the break in her speech, Grandma didn’t seem personally hurt by the thought that her husband had only really loved their daughter. Which surprised him very much, because she seemed to be implying that he had never been in love with his own wife. She was a very fascinating lady--he had never really understood her.
The next morning, Alex got up at 6 am to start work on the attic. Grandma was already awake, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in her tattered blue bathrobe. The window was open and the sun spilled through it onto her wrinkled face, and it struck him suddenly that she was very beautiful. Age had done nothing to detract from her beauty; in fact the wrinkles and the wisdom in her eyes seemed only to add power to it. She smiled at him as he walked into the room.
“Good morning, Alex. Are you ready to get started?”
“Sure Grandma, whenever you want to. Let me grab some coffee and we’ll head up.”
They began in one corner and worked their way across the room, one box at a time. They went through knick-knacks, rifles, Grandpa’s old uniform from the war, box after box of clothes, and old tax documents and bank statements. Halfway through the morning they had made it through about two thirds of the attic, putting most things in a stack of boxes to donate to the Salvation Army, and putting the rest away neatly in the corner. Alex was going through a box of letters when he uncovered an old photograph of the family that looked like it had been taken in the late 60’s. His mother was only about 18 in the picture, and she was standing in front of the house (back when it was bright blue!) with Grandma, Grandpa, and some man who looked to be in his early twenties. Who could he be? He didn’t look familiar--possibly one of Mom’s old boyfriends? He puzzled over it for a moment.
“Grandma, who is it in this picture?” He brought the photograph over to her, where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by old books that seemed to have been stacked according to genre.
She took the picture from him, squinting at it. “Ah,” she said simply, the word full of something he couldn’t define. “That, my dear, is a tale which is long overdue to be told. Let’s take a break--we’ll have some tea, and I will tell you the story of that man.”
Intrigued, he followed Grandma downstairs to the kitchen, where they sat at the table with a pot of earl grey and leftover cranberry orange scones from the wake. What could she possibly have to tell him about this mysterious man that would require such ceremony?
Grandma took a sip of her tea and cleared her throat.
“As you know, your grandfather was in the war. When he came home, we didn’t wait to have children--I was pregnant within a few months. Our first child was a beautiful, beautiful boy. We called him Joseph.
Your mother didn’t arrive until a few years later. She and Joseph got along splendidly--they played together, they ate together; even their naps were perfectly synced. They used to sit with her tiny tea set and her dolls and they would both dress up in her little bonnets and ribbons. It was darling to see them together like that.
But your grandfather was a very religious man, and he thought that Joseph playing girl games with his sister meant he was on the path to homosexuality and, therefore, extreme sin. He tried very hard to get Joseph to play baseball at school, but Joseph never wanted to. He was much more interested in the school’s drama program, and he was in nearly every play and musical they put on. He had the voice of an angel, and could play any role and dress any part. He was spectacular. Your mother and I saw every last play he was in, but your grandfather refused to go. He was ashamed of Joseph, and they fought often. He called him so many names, some of which I don’t wish to repeat to you. Let me just say that the term “nancy” was used regularly in our household. Nothing I said to him made any difference, and he favored your mother strongly. He was always telling Joseph that his sister was the only good child.
Needless to say, Joseph was unhappy living at home, and when the time came for him to go to college he went as far away as he could--to California.
His first year away was very hard on both me and your mother. When he called to say he was coming home for Christmas, we were thrilled and we both worked especially hard that year to make the house beautiful for him and to make him feel loved and welcomed. Your mother missed him desperately, as did I, and when he arrived at the house on Christmas Eve morning we were all giddiness. We even took that family picture that you found in the attic. Your mother and I cooked all day for our Christmas Eve supper, and Joseph kept us company in the kitchen. It was just like old times. Joseph had changed a little though--there was an air of confidence and peace that he hadn’t had when he left, and I noticed it immediately.
The air shifted to the uncomfortable as soon as we all sat down to dinner, however. For some reason everyone became very tense simultaneously, as though we sensed something soon to come. Our fears were proven correct when Joseph told us he had an announcement.
He calmly asked us to please listen to what he had to say and his reasoning before passing judgement. We all closed our mouths and listened--even your grandfather, although I would say that he less closed his mouth and more pinched it shut. Joseph, it seemed, had never felt very comfortable in his own skin, and had decided to make a dramatic change in his life. He felt that he belonged in a woman’s body, and not a man’s, and he had decided to undergo a sex change operation. He said he wanted us to be the first to know, since he loved and respected us, and that he hoped we could support him.
Well, your grandfather didn’t like that one bit. He began to scream at him, calling him the most horrible things, and threw food and plates around in a fit of anger. Your mother and I tried to calm him, but we were frightened at his rage. He threw Joseph out onto the street with his bags--literally in the snow and cold--and told him to get out of his life, and that he never wanted to speak to him again. Your mother ran to her room in tears, and I begged your grandfather to give my son another chance, but he refused, and threatened me with violence if I should ever speak Joseph’s name to him again. He ran around the house in a fury such as I had never seen him in before and never have seen him in since, destroying items that were once Joseph’s, burning photographs, and yelling at the top of his lungs. I managed to save that picture you are holding, Alex, because the film was still in my pocket from that morning, and I secretly took it to the developer many months later. Everything else that reminded Grandpa of Joseph was destroyed or thrown out, and my own son was cut off from me.
As far as I know, your mother has never spoken with Joseph again. He always called me every mother’s day, and pretended he was my brother Jerry if his father answered the phone--so I have managed to have brief and minor contact with him, but that was all I have had. I considered leaving your grandfather many times because of that episode, and I still wonder sometimes if I shouldn’t have. But I think that would have devastated your mother even further, and I couldn’t do it to her.
Your uncle Joseph, whom I should call by his new name now, as a matter of fact--Vera--lives in Paris now and teaches music. I know she is happy, and that she misses me, but that is about all I know of her. I think you would like her, Alex. You’ve always reminded me of her.”
Alex came out of his state of shock to respond to her.
“But…Grandma. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t Mom tell me? Why didn’t she keep up with him…or rather, her...secretly too?”
“I can’t speak for your mother, Alex, but I think it comes down to this: your mother has never been completely sure that her father wasn’t right all along about Joseph. Not that he was a bad person, necessarily, but that he was wrong for having the operation. I tried to provide another perspective on life for her, but your grandfather drilled his religious beliefs into her quite harshly. She respected him very much and idolized him, and while I think on some level she knew he was wrong to treat her brother that way, it was too difficult for her to believe he could fail in such a deep way.”
“I just can’t believe this, Grandma. I had an uncle all this time and didn’t know about him? How could everyone just forget he ever existed?”
“Not everyone did, darling. Your grandfather certainly did--he felt that Joseph was not only dead to him, he actually erased him from his life entirely. And your mother…well, I think that she prefers to forget that anything happened after things became unhappy. She has a rather selective memory sometimes, bless her heart. But I never forgot. And I kept Vera’s contact information for you--so that you could meet her someday, if you liked.”
Alex opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He stared at his Grandma’s calm, wrinkled face in shock. He had an uncle? His mother never told him? His Grandpa was a heartless bastard? Well…that one didn’t much surprise him, just made him feel better for caring so little about him. But…his uncle was a woman?? That he couldn’t wrap his mind around. He’d met transgender folks before, of course, but they were all prostitutes he passed on the street on the way to his favorite pizza joint at home. He had always assumed they were the only ones who did that kind of shit. The idea intrigued him, while also making him distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps the good kind of uncomfortable--the kind that makes you wonder why.
“Grandma,” he asked, “you said he lives in Paris now? As in Paris, France?”
“Yes, dear. She teaches voice lessons and leads a choral arrangement at a music school there.”
“Right, she’s a she. So…what does she look like now, then? I mean, like the man in this picture but with long hair? Or does she really look like a woman now?”
“One of the greatest regrets in my life, Alex, has been never to lay eyes upon her as Vera. I couldn’t ask her to send a picture, because if your grandfather found it…well, I don’t know what he would have done, but it wouldn’t have been pleasant.”
Alex realized suddenly that she meant he would have hit her. He was glad his Grandpa was dead already, because suddenly he was overwhelmed with a desire to kill him all over again. God, what a morbid, violent thought. He couldn’t help it though…the thought of anyone laying a finger on his darling Grandma was too much for him.
And Vera! Thrown out mercilessly onto the street, in the middle of winter, on Christmas Eve, suddenly without a home or a family. His heart burned, and his soul felt like ice. Anger boiled in him.
“Grandma. I want to meet her.” He said firmly. He didn’t know why he wanted what he wanted, he just knew it more surely than he ever had known anything before. It was almost a need. It screamed at him, his insides stirring deeply.
“Of course, dear. Let me give you her address and phone number. It’s in my handbag, in the wallet, behind the photograph of you and your parents.” He dug around in her purse, pulling out the wallet, and gently removing the small piece of paper tucked behind his family picture.
“Vera England, 42 Le Bois, Paris, France, 06-20-86-12-42,” he read.
“As far as I know, that information hasn’t changed in the past 2 years,” Grandma said, nodding.
“Grandma--I’m going to Paris. I have to meet her.”
“Like I said, darling--I think you’ll like her. You’ve always reminded me of her. You both have a special spark to you that I have never seen in anyone else. She’s learned to nurture her spark--I think you could learn how to from her.”
That left him a little puzzled. Special spark? He had a special spark that he wasn’t nurturing, or something? Sometimes Grandma could be a little too enigmatic.
***
Two days later, Alex was on a trans-atlantic flight from JFK to Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris.
He got to his hotel at 7 p.m., exhausted, and went straight to sleep.
He slept for 15 hours, not waking until 11 am. The morning sun shone through the lace draperies, casting an elegant, complex shadow around the room. He could smell coffee brewing from the breakfast room down the hall, and fresh, fluffy towels awaited him in the beautiful, pink wall-papered bathroom. He showered slowly, savoring the feeling of the hot water on his skin and the smell of the french soap. He dressed slowly, brushed his teeth slowly, and even stood at the window staring out at the city for 20 minutes. His room didn’t even have a view--all he could see was the building next door, some woman doing laundry and if he leaned his head just far enough he could catch a tiny glimpse of the street below, and the people walking past. A woman carrying a loaf of bread reminded him that he was hungry.
He decided it was time to call Vera, and ask her to meet him. He nervously dialed her number, which it turned out was her number at the school, and left a message with her secretary asking her to meet him at a cafe near his hotel that afternoon. Her secretary told him she’d schedule it for Vera’s lunch break, at 1 p.m.
That didn’t leave him much time. It was fifteen past noon already, and he wanted to bring her something. Flowers, perhaps? Surely those would be easy enough to find. He set out to find a place that sold flowers, marvelling at the difference between Paris and New York City. There were more sidewalk tables, markets, and people smiling here. And probably the biggest difference was the color. No one wore color in New York--the whole city was black and grey. But here, oh, here…there were colors everywhere, and tasteful ones too. There was an old, rich elegance about the entire city that looked to have rubbed off on its inhabitants.
Alex ended up buying a small bouquet of tiny pink and white flowers from a street vendor, and made it back to the corner on which the cafe was located right at 1 p.m. He looked around the busy place, trying to find her. Was she here yet? There were so many women here alone.
One woman looked up at him from a table in the corner. She had red hair that poured down over her shoulders, large brown eyes with heavy lashes, lipstick, and small, wise lines in the corners of her mouth. She entirely lacked awkwardness, her manner graceful and elegant. Her eyes were soft, her smile was gentle, and she seemed to somehow fit comfortably in a world that couldn’t possibly manage to live up to her. She was beautiful. He was instantly in awe.
He approached her shyly, silently offering her his measly bouquet. He was speechless; he could do nothing but stare into her eyes. There was so much warmth in them. It was as if he were staring into love itself.
“You must be Alex,” she said, her voice like music. He looked around the cafe, as if to ask, ‘Did anyone else hear that?’ “I’m pleased to meet you. Have a seat, have a croissant, have a cup of tea. We must get to know one another.”
He sat, his mouth stupidly half open. “I’m sorry--” he stuttered, “you’re just so beautiful. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”
She laughed softly. “It’s sweet of you to say so. You’re a very handsome young man yourself. We must share a beautiful gene.”
“Well Grandma is beautiful,” he offered. “And so is Mom.”
“Yes, your Grandma is beautiful. And your mother is too, although I haven’t seen her since she still had pimples and braces.”
“She’s much more beautiful now, although she is very tired. Her eyes are sad, and she has terrible worry lines. Grandpa’s death didn’t help.”
Vera nodded. “Yes, Mother called to tell me. I hope everyone is okay. I know it must have been hard on you all.”
“It was. At least on Mom. Grandma seems fine, and Dad is more worried about taking care of Mom than anything else. Personally I couldn’t care less. He was a horrible person.” A dark feeling wrinkled Alex’s forehead.
Vera reached out a hand and placed it on his.
“It’s okay to grieve for him, you know. It doesn’t mean that you support his actions, or that you are betraying someone he has hurt. He was your grandfather--try to feel something for him. If not for his sake, then for your mother’s. She loved him deeply, and he loved her too. He can’t have been all bad if he had the capacity to love her so.”
He looked up at her in surprise. “But…after how he treated you…”
“I forgave him long ago for that. He wasn’t capable of understanding. It’s hard to blame him for too long once you’ve made enough mistakes of your own.”
“And the way he treated Grandma! He threatened her!” Alex was confused.
“I can’t say I’ve ever fully forgiven him for how he treated my mother,” Vera said slowly. “But I did realize it was her battle to fight, and that it wasn’t my place to involve myself. I tried to convince her to leave him; I even offered to bring her out here to stay with me, where she could be far away from him. But she always told me that she already lost one child--she refused to lose another. And she was certain that if she left Dad, she would not only be estranging herself from my sister, she would also be hurting and confusing her beyond repair. I never agreed with her, but I always admired her. She is a remarkably unselfish person. We were both lucky to have known her. And I miss her deeply.”
Alex looked at her sadly. “Do you ever regret it?” he asked, gulping. “Breaking away, I mean…taking such a risk.”
“Regret? Never. Doubt…every day. Perhaps if I had remained miserable, I’d still have a relationship with my mother and my sister. But what kind of relationships could I have, with anyone, if I wasn’t whole? And I wasn’t whole. I wasn’t myself. I was uncomfortable in my very skin, Alex--it was as if I were living someone else’s life. So I took a risk, and lost much, in order to live my own, and I have never regretted it. I have so many beautiful, deep, wonderful relationships now, and I know who I am, and I have the chance to love so deeply now that I can focus my attention on others and not on my own issues.
You see, Alex, there is no greater beauty in life than simply to love, and to love as deeply and as fully as you can. And that includes loving yourself. And if you live in misery because you are afraid to risk your feelings or even someone else’s, you aren’t really loving anyone--you’re actually limiting your own capacity to love. Make yourself whole; make yourself happy--then what follows is purity of heart and deep compassion for the world.
Because you are whole, you can help others to be whole. I have found no deeper joy than to share my passion for life with my students through music. I know no healing greater than that achieved by simply singing your heart out. And discovering the passions of others has itself become a passion for me. I can share with you no deeper truth than these, my dear.” She smiled at him.
“You’re the most amazing person I have ever known. How did you discover all this? Where did you uncover such wisdom?”
“When we are forced to change, Alex, we are also forced to delve deep into our souls for understanding. There is truth in there that I believe most can find if they simply search deeply enough.”
Alex bit into a croissant, more for something to do than because he remembered that he was hungry.
“Wow. Grandma said you had a special spark--I didn’t know what she meant until just now. Good lord, this croissant is unbelievable. This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted!” He exclaimed suddenly.
She smiled. “Welcome to Paris, my dear.”
He gaped at her. “Is all food like this here?”
“Well…we have our nasty things too. In many restaurants here you can order steak tartare cheval, which is raw horsemeat. That wasn’t a pleasant accident to make. But yes, French cuisine is of course famous worldwide, and aspiring chefs come from everywhere imaginable to attend our cooking schools.”
“I suppose I knew that…I just didn’t realize why. And this is only a croissant. What must it be like to eat--oh my god--cupcakes, here?”
Vera cocked her head at him with a knowing smile. “You like to bake, don’t you.”
He blushed. “Well, I mean, Grandma taught me when I was young, so sometimes if I have to I’ll make cookies or something…” he trailed off. Her smile was getting bigger.
“I’ve stumbled upon a passion, haven’t I?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say a passion. It’s really just something I do in my spare time. It helps me relax, is all.” He was suddenly very defensive.
“Are you ashamed of it, Alex?” She asked gently.
“I…suppose I am a little, yes.” He replied, bewildered.
“Why?”
“I guess…I guess I’m afraid of being judged for it. People would call me names; I’d be ridiculed. No one would think I was very manly.” He blushed suddenly. “Oh…not that…I mean…” Shit. He had to have said the wrong thing. She was going to be pissed.
She smiled. “Alex. It’s okay. If anyone understands, it’s me.”
He sighed, his tension slipping off of him. “I suppose that’s true.”
“It is. Now I just have to ask you--have you considered that hiding who you are so they won’t think you’re gay is harmful not only to you, but also to everyone around you? If you lead by example, don’t you think that even the people insulting you will start to wonder, just a little, if maybe it isn’t normal for men to enjoy cooking? And the more people like you who are open about your so-called oddities, the more that wonder will turn to a real thought, and soon an opinion. And all the little boys who ever see you or hear about you will realize that if they, too, love to cook--perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.”
“I never thought of it that way. You’re right, of course.” His eyes started to well up. “Vera, my life is in a shambles.”
She looked into his eyes with genuine concern. “Is there something you can do about that?”
“There has to be. But I keep coming back to the same roadblocks and can’t think of what I could possibly change. I wonder…” he paused.
“I see an idea forming. What are you thinking?”
“Well,” he hesitated. “Well, it’s a little far-fetched. But what I’d love to do is go to cooking school, and become a professional chef, and then open my own bakery. And--I just realized this, and it surprises me--I don’t want to live in New York anymore. I thought it was the place to be, and where all the action and the living was going on, but I think I was wrong. There’s a lot of moving there, but not very much living, and certainly not very much loving. I might move back to Connecticut and take care of Grandma.”
“I know the dean at the culinary school down the street from where I work. You could train with the best cooks in the world.”
Alex looked at her suspiciously. “Are you real?”
She laughed, this time heartily. Even her guffaws sounded like music.
“Oh Alex, of course I’m real. And I’d be happy to talk to him for you. I could probably get you an interview while you’re in town. You could stay in my spare room while you’re studying--I’d love the company, I have had only a cat for a companion for several years now. And I’d love to have family again.”
“Vera--you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever known.”
“Then, darling, you have a lot more people to meet.”
They hugged before they parted ways, and Alex felt the same love he felt from his Grandma. They were kindred souls, he thought.
***
Dear Grandma,
My first few months at culinary school have been incredibly difficult. Chef Fournier is very strict, but he has the driest, most hilarious sense of humor. He will be talking about how to beat eggs properly, and then slip in some dry, witty joke, and I’ll be the only one who catches it and laugh aloud, embarrassing myself in front of the whole class. It’s okay though, because I think he likes me. And I’ve learned so much already! Including some French words! Bon jour!
How’s Mom? Give her and Dad my love, and tell them I’ll be visiting for Christmas. I’ve enclosed a photo of Vera and I at our favorite cafe. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I think I’ve convinced her to come home with me this Christmas--keep your fingers crossed!
I’m missing you very much! I miss Connecticut too. But Grandma, you know something crazy? I don’t miss New York at all, or my old job, or my old apartment. Not a bit. It’s like that part of my life didn’t really happen, because I wasn’t really living. Every singly day is a new adventure for me now--an opportunity to learn something new or to experience some new beauty or to do something nice for somebody! I’ve made a habit of bringing cupcakes to Vera’s students. They love them. Especially my chocolate coconut ones.
Write back!
All my love,
Alex
***
Ils vécurent heureux et eurent beaucoup d'enfants.
(And they lived happily ever after).
La fin
