Summer’s End

17

The sun was just coming up as they left the hospital. It had taken more than an hour to sign the papers and make the arrangements. Marc had decided that he wanted the funeral held in France. Deanna didn’t care. One of her babies was buried in California, the other in France. It didn’t matter to her now. And she suspected that Pilar herself would have preferred it. Dr. Kirschmann had been sympathetic and kind. There had been nothing for him to do. She had been much too far gone when they brought her in from the South of France. The blow to her head had been too severe, and he marveled only that she hadn’t died in the moments after the accident. “Ahh… motorcycles!” he said as Marc visibly cringed.

They had been offered coffee, which they had refused, and finally they were through. Marc took her arm and guided her gently toward the street. She felt as though her brain had ceased to function within the last hour. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even feel. She had gone through all the formalities mechanically, but she felt as though she too had died.

Marc walked her to the little blue Renault and unlocked the door.

“Whose car is this?” It was a strange question to ask on a morning like that, but her eyes stared at him almost blindly as she spoke.

“It doesn’t matter, get in. Let’s go home.” He had never felt so tired, or so lost, or alone. All his hopes had been dashed, all his joys, all his dreams. It didn’t even matter to him now that he had Deanna, and Chantal. He had lost Pilar. The tears rolled slowly down his face again as he started the car, and this time he let them flow unchecked. He didn’t care.

In her seat Deanna put her head back and closed her eyes, feeling a knot in her chest and a lump in her throat. There was a lifetime of crying lodged there, but for the moment it wouldn’t come out.

They drove slowly through Paris, as street cleaners swept and the sun shone too brightly on the pavement. It should have been a day of rain and heavy mist, but it wasn’t, and the bright sun made the horror seem a lie. How could she be gone on a day like this? But she was… she was-gone. The thought kept running through Marc-Edouard’s head-gone-while Deanna stared unseeingly out of the window.

The maid was already at the door when they reached the Duras apartment, still draped in her bathrobe. She had heard the elevator and come running to know. Marc-Edouard’s face said it all. Silently she began to cry.

“Shall I wake Madame?”

Marc shook his head. There was no point waking her now. The bad news could wait.

“Some coffee, monsieur?”

This time he nodded and softly closed the door as Deanna stood by, feeling lost. He looked at her for a moment, wiped his eyes, and held out a hand. Without saying more, she took it, and they walked slowly to their room.

The shades were drawn, the shutters were closed, the bed was turned down, but somehow Deanna did not want to go to bed. She couldn’t face it, couldn’t bear lying there and thinking, couldn’t bear knowing that Pilar was dead. Marc Edouard sank into a chair and put his face in his hands. Slowly the sobs came again. Deanna went to him and held his shoulders in her hands, but there was nothing more she could do. At last he cried himself out, and she helped him to the bed.

“You should try to sleep.” She whispered it to him as she had to Pilar.

“And you?” His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“I will. Later. Didn’t you bring a bag?” She looked around the room in surprise. None of his things was there.

“I’ll get it later.” He closed his eyes. Picking up his bag meant seeing Chantal. He would have to tell her about Pilar. As he would have to tell his mother. And their friends. He couldn’t bear it. Telling them would make it real. The tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes again. Finally, he drifted to sleep.

Only Deanna drank the coffee when it came. She took her cup to the salon, where she sat alone, looking out over the rooftops of Paris, thinking of her child. She felt peaceful as she sat there, thinking, looking at the gilt-edged morning sky. Pilar had been so many things, and not often easy in recent years, but eventually she would have grown up. They would have been friends… Would have been. It was hard to imagine. She felt as though Pilar were right there, nearby, and in no way lost. It was inconceivable to her that they would no longer talk, or laugh, or argue, that Pilar would no longer fling that long golden hair like a mane, or flash those blue eyes to get whatever she might want, that Deanna’s slippers would no longer be borrowed, her lipstick wouldn’t be gone, her favorite robe wouldn’t disappear along with her best coat… As she thought of it, the tears finally came in great waves. She knew, finally, that Pilar was no more.

“Deanna?” It was the old woman, standing in the center of the room, looking like a statue in an icy-blue robe. “Pilar?”

Deanna shook her head and closed her eyes. Madame Duras steadied herself on a chair.

“Oh, my God. Oh, bon Dieu… bon Dieu.” And then, looking around, tears rolling down her cheeks: “Where is Marc?”

“Asleep, I think. In bed.” Her mother-in-law nodded and silently left the room. There was nothing she could say, but Deanna hated her once more for not even trying. It was her loss too, but she owed Deanna the words at least.

On tiptoe Deanna walked back to their room. She was afraid to wake Marc and she opened the door very quietly. He was still sleeping, snoring softly. This time, as she watched him, he no longer looked young. His whole face seemed to sag with grief and even in sleep Deanna could see that he wasn’t at peace.

She sat for a time, watching him, wondering what would happen, what they would do. A great deal had changed in a day. Pilar. The woman she had seen him with at the airport. She realized now that was probably where he had gotten the car and where he had left his bag. She wanted to hate him for it, but now she didn’t care. She suddenly realized she had to call Ben. A glance at Marc’s watch told her that it was past eight-thirty. It would be midnight in San Francisco. He might still be up, and she had to call him now, while she could.

She ran a hand over her hair, put her jacket on again, and grabbed her handbag. She would make the call half a block away at the post office where Parisian residents without telephones made their calls. She didn’t want his number on her mother-in-law’s bill.

She felt numb as she rode downstairs in the tiny elevator and then walked the half block to the poste. She could not move her feet quickly and she couldn’t slow her steps either; she just kept moving at the same pace, like a machine, until she reached the post office phone booth and closed the door.

The number rang only twice, and the connection had been rapidly made. She felt herself tremble as she waited, and then she heard his voice. He sounded sleepy, and she realized then that he had already been in bed.

“Ben?”

“Deanna? Darling, are you all right?”

“I…” And then the words stopped. She couldn’t say more.

“Deanna?”

She was trembling violently, still unable to speak.

“Oh, darling… is it…? How bad is she? I’ve been thinking of you every minute, ever since you left.” The only sound Deanna made in answer was a short convulsed sob. “Deanna! Please, sweetheart, try to calm down and talk to me.” But suddenly a ripple of fear raced up his back. “My God, is she… Deanna?” His voice was suddenly very soft.

“Oh, Ben, she died this morning.” For another endless moment she couldn’t speak after she said the words.

“Oh, God, no. Darling, are you alone? Where are you?”

“In the post office.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what are you doing there?”

“I wanted to call you.”

“Did… is he in Paris too?”

“Yes.” She tried to catch her breath again. “He got here last night.”

“I’m so sorry. For both of you.”

She sobbed again. With Ben she could let herself go, she could reach out to him and show him how badly she needed him. With Marc she always kept up a front. She had to live what he expected, be what he thought she should be.

“Do you want me to come over? I could take the first plane out in the morning.”

And do what? she wondered. It was too late for Pilar. “I’d love you to, but it doesn’t make much sense. I’ll be home in a couple of days.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a problem, but I’ll come over right away if it’ll help. Would it?”

“Very much.” She smiled through her tears. “But it’s better not to.”

“And… everything else?” He tried not to sound concerned or upset.

“I don’t know. We’ll have to talk.”

He knew she was talking about Marc. “Well, don’t worry about all that now. Just get through this, and then we can worry about the rest. Is it… are you going to have it here?”

“The funeral?” She wanted to die when she said the word. Her hand shook terribly. She tightened her grip on the phone. “No, Marc wants it here. It doesn’t matter. I think Pilar probably would have preferred it too. In any case I’ll be home in two or three days.”

“I wish I could spare you all that.”

“It…” but she couldn’t go on for a moment, “… doesn’t matter. I’ll be all right.” But would she? She wasn’t so sure. She had never felt this shaky in her life.

“Well, remember, if you need me I’ll come. I won’t go anywhere for the next few days without leaving a number, so you can always reach me. O.K.?”

“O.K.” She tried to smile as she said it, but the effort made her cry more. “Can you… could you call…”

“Kim?”

“Yes.” It was a sad little croak.

“I’ll call right away. Now I want you to go home and get some rest. Darling, you can’t keep pushing. You have to rest. Go get some sleep. And as soon as you come home, we’ll go to Carmel. No matter what. I don’t care what happens after that, but you’re coming to Carmel with me. We’ll walk on the beach, and we’ll be together.”

She was sobbing violently now. They would never be together again. She’d never walk on that beach again, or any other. She would be trapped in this nightmare forever, alone.

“Deanna, listen to me,” Ben was saying. “Will you think of Carmel through all this, and try to remember that I love you?”

She nodded sadly, still unable to get out the words.

“My love, I’m with you every moment. Be strong, my darling. I love you.”

“I love you too.” But her voice was only a whisper as she hung up the phone, then walked to the counter and paid the woman at the desk for the phone call-and passed out cold on the floor.