Capturing You

Chapter 33: Oui, ça va

"Don't cry." He pouted. "I love you. Don't forget that."

Since we'd been apart, things were inconsistent between us—as expected. But ironically, Joe hadn't felt as distant as he was in the days leading up to my departure. I hadn't brought it up yet, and I was contemplating whether I would at all; there was no need to rock the boat if the water was smooth, right? I figured that Joe needed some time to process it all, and so did I. We were both reserved in that way, and moments like these—when we were back together again—reassured me that I didn't have anything to worry about, and neither should he. I felt loved, unconditionally.

He and I got to talking about how my internship has been lately, including how my boss was nothing like Elena. Mr. Dupont was difficult to read, but he spoke with a gentle tongue and guided me well. Every bit of France had been great, save for the language barrier—I was slowly but surely teaching myself fragments of conversational French—and the fact that I knew no one. I told Joe that I was homesick, and as a treat for me, he told me about what things were like between the team and how greasy Funky Anchovy still was. "Things haven't changed," he'd say, "except we just miss you more and more."

I didn't know how to tell Joe that, although I found it beautiful here, it was nothing like I imagined it would be–doing this was like nothing I imagined it would be. And it wasn't even because I missed him so badly; I knew that played a factor in its own separate way. I always wanted to do this because it was what my mom would have been doing if she ever got a chance to, but I wondered about what it was that I wanted. Guilt filled me in that those two things weren't the same, and fulfilling my mom's wishes in vain was no tourniquet to the wound, either. I thought about what she would say to me if I called her on the phone. Would she scold me for falling in love? Would she say that I was dishonoring her memory by not going through with our shared dream? Would she recognize that maybe, just maybe, it would be worse to suffer through something I only half-loved, with conditions?

-

"Put your all into everything, Avery," I remembered her telling me before she died. I wanted to hold her hand so tightly, but it felt frail; I hated the memory of not being able to fully, physically grasp my own mother. It was like the world had already begun taking her away from us.

Through tears, I nodded. She continued, "I love you so much. Unconditionally. I'm sorry that–"

I shook my head. "Please. Don't apologize." I knew she was about to say sorry for all the fights between her and my dad that she had let me see, or maybe the way she didn't join in on whatever fun there was with my dad's side of the family, or maybe she just wanted to say sorry. I didn't want the last emotion my mom to have be apologetic, especially when there was nothing for us to forgive. She was Angel, and we loved her fully, even through the gory parts.

She mustered a smile. "You are phenomenal," she told me. "I love that you're like your dad. And I love that you're like me. But most of all, I love that you're yourself. Don't be anything but that." Pivotal words for a young woman like me to hear.

-

We had never explicitly agreed that I would live out the second half of her life, this part of her that she had always wanted to carry out. It was an oath I had sworn to myself in secrecy; only Joe really knew how much it meant to me to actualize my mom's dreams. For me, beyond just honoring my mom's memory, I wanted my life to be a 'thank you' to her, and I wanted everyone to know that. Being in Paris, though, I hardly felt like I was any closer to my mom, or that I was her second being. In fact, I had never felt more unlike myself than ever.

-

"Bonjour, Monsieur DuPont," I greeted my boss in my best impersonation of a French accent, wearing a smile and carrying breakfast in a doggy bag. It was routine for me to stop by his office every morning to say hello before I sat down at my desk. "Ummm... Comment allez-vous?"

Mr. DuPont chuckled at this, but not in a mocking way. "Mademoiselle Avery, you are a little too polite and formal–I'm glad to see you're doing well in your classes." I had been taking language classes as paid for by the company twice a week, but uncharacteristic of me, I wasn't doing the best. I was sure Mr. DuPont knew that, and I was expecting him to discipline me at any moment, though nothing ever happened. Things were rosy.

"Ah, merci."

"Us French people greet each other more casually. You can try, 'Bonjour. Ça va?' And I would say... Oui, ça va. I'm not sure what Netflix show you've picked up your understandings of French people, but we're not as stuck-up as we may seem. In fact, you're doing more work than I have in years," he said, laughing. I went along with it, though I wondered if I should tell him what he just said was the stereotype Americans typically had of French people: that they were on the lazy side.

I liked Mr. DuPont, though. In complete contrast to Elena he was built like a stout egg, with a bald head to match. Though he was, similar to Elena, impeccably dressed. A cigarette always hung loose from his mouth. The travel magazine was not the only thing he oversaw; he was in charge of a handful of other trade publications. A quick glance around his office on the first day told me that among the photography magazine, he looked after one for parents, pet owners, and patisseries (that's French for bakery).

"Anyway, before you get to work today, I wanted to ask you one thing," he said. I swallowed, a bit nervous; had he noticed that I wasn't working hard enough in class? Were my photos unfocused? Thanksgiving was in about a week and that could mean two things: He was going to surprise me with a few days off to go home, or he was going to send me home permanently. Despite my dissonance over the whole job, the prospect of being fired from it felt way worse than anything.

I looked at Mr. DuPont expectantly.

"The pictures you've been taking... your enthusiasm to go wherever we ask of you," he began. "It's all truly admirable and commendable. I see so much of your mother in you and your work–you both have spectacular ways of capturing beauty in the world."

Butterflies exploded in my stomach, and my lips parted; initially, I didn't know what to say to him. "Wow, thanks, Mr. DuPont. That... means a lot more to me than you'll ever know." And it did; it refueled me with a sense of purpose, a reminder of what I was doing here all along.

"I'm glad," he said.

I then remembered he hadn't asked me a question yet, so I waited before saying anything else.

"Avery, I know we agreed your fellowship would only last until the new year. But I would be doing a disservice to all if I didn't ask–would a full-time position at Le Bon Voyage be of any interest to you?"

At this moment I felt like my jaw had hit the floor.