Legacy (32 page)

It made her sit down at her desk with real determination and get back to her book about the women’s vote. She reorganized all her research, weeded through it, and took some things out, and by Tuesday, she started to write again. She had written a whole chapter by the end of the week. And then she read it. When she had finished reading it, she burst into tears. It was the most boring thing she’d ever written. Even academics wouldn’t want to read the book. She didn’t know what to do.

She was sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, when her mother called her on Friday night. She sounded excited. She’d been reading everything in the folder Brigitte had brought back from the trip.

“The material on our little Sioux relative is incredible. And the marquis sounds like quite a guy too. The stuff on her is riveting, and she was barely more than a girl.”

“Yes, it is.” Brigitte sounded lackluster, and her mother could hear it.

“Something wrong?”

“I’ve been working on my suffrage book all week, and it stinks. I don’t know what made me think anyone would care about this. It’s like reading cereal boxes, or tax forms, or prune juice labels. I hate it, and everyone else will too. And I’ve invested seven years of my life in it. I should just throw it away.” Her mother had never thought it an interesting subject, but Brigitte had always argued hotly for it, as an
anthropologist and a woman. As a reader, and a retired editor, Marguerite had always thought it sounded pretty dull, but she didn’t want to be rude. “What do I do now?”

“Maybe your friend in Paris is right. Maybe you should write about Wachiwi. I agree with you. I don’t think you need to fictionalize it. It’s terrific the way it is. What about doing something with that?” Her mother was trying to be helpful.

“Maybe,” Brigitte said, sounding depressed.

“Have you heard from him, by the way?” her mother asked her with interest.

“No.”

“Then why don’t you write to him? You can send him an e-mail.”

“I don’t want to muddy the waters, Mom. We left things pretty much the way they should be. Friends who would get in touch from time to time. If I start writing to him, it’ll confuse us both.”

“What’s with all the
shoulds?
And what’s wrong with a little confusion between friends?” Her saying that reminded Brigitte instantly of the night they had kissed under the Eiffel Tower. The confusion had felt good that night. But that was then, this was now. And she was home. Paris was like a distant dream. And so was he.

“I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself. It’s kind of a letdown to come back from Paris. What I need is a job. No one seems to be hiring right now.” She had enough to live on until the end of summer, or longer if she was careful, but more than anything she was bored. And her mother could hear it in her voice.

“Well, come back to New York anytime. We can play. I’m in a bridge tournament next week, but after that I’m free.” At least her
mother had bridge. She didn’t have that. She had nothing to keep her busy right now. And every time she thought about the material on Wachiwi, it scared her to death. And she didn’t want to tell Amy how she was feeling, or she’d tell her to go back to therapy. Amy suggested that when Ted left, and Brigitte didn’t want to do that right now either. She didn’t know what she wanted, or who.

She watched old movies on TV until late that night, and then, for lack of anything better to do, she sat down at her computer and wrote Marc an e-mail. She wasn’t sure what to say. Hi, I’m so bored I could scream … I still don’t have a job, my social life seems to have gone down the tubes … my book is the most boring piece of crap on the planet … and I’m thinking of burning it, and how are you?

Instead, she wrote him a short e-mail, saying that she was thinking about him, that she’d had a wonderful time with him in Paris and Brittany, and the little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower was sitting on her dressing table. And she said that her mother was thrilled with the material she brought back, and thanked him again for his help. She said she hoped everything was fine with him. And then she sat staring at it, wondering how to sign off … “Bye” sounded juvenile, “All the best” too businesslike, “Warm regards” ridiculous, “Fondly” pathetic, “Love” misleading. Finally she came up with “Thinking of you. Take care,” which sounded honest and real. She read it about six times to make sure it didn’t sound mushy, romantic, or whiny. And then she hit the send button, and it went. She gulped when she sent it, and was sorry instantly. There it was. The risk thing again. What was she doing? The guy lived three thousand miles away. What was she thinking? She finally told herself that she was sending an e-mail to a nice guy she had met in Paris, to say hello.

“Okay. I can live with that,” she said out loud, trying not to feel stupid or anxious. She read it again, even though it was too late to do anything about it. And then she went to bed. And for a second as she climbed into bed, she decided she was glad she’d sent it, and hoped he’d write back.

Chapter 21

When Brigitte woke up in the morning, her heart pounded when she saw she had an e-mail from Marc. She felt like a kid, when a boy slipped her a note in class. She felt excited, and guilty, and scared, and she wasn’t sure why. She hadn’t felt like that in Paris. But this was different. It seemed strange writing to him from here, and a bigger commitment, or a bigger statement. But she had written to him, so she had to deal with the consequences now. She opened his e-mail, and took a breath, and then sighed with relief when she read his. It was fine. Friendly and nice.

Dear Brigitte
,

What a nice surprise to hear from you. How is Boston? Paris seems very quiet without you. I’ve had very little to do. My students have spring fever and keep cutting class. And I want to too!

The book is going well, my editor has been very helpful, and I
hope to turn it in soon. My publisher seems to have calmed down a little and is not threatening my life
.

I miss Wachiwi, and you. I’m glad your mother liked the material you found. I still hope you will write the book about Wachiwi, sooner rather than later. I hope that all is well with you. Stay in touch
.

And he signed it “
Je t’embrasse,”
which she knew was French for “I kiss you” (as in on both cheeks, not on the mouth). It was a harmless greeting, and he had signed it Marc, and then added a P.S. “Each time I see the Eiffel Tower now, I think of you. I feel now as though it belongs to you, especially when it sparkles because you like that so much. Good thoughts to you from Paris. Come back soon.”

It seemed like a totally benign, friendly, warm e-mail, and she thought the “Good thoughts to you from Paris” was sweet. He had hit just the right tone. It wasn’t scary, overly personal, or uncomfortable, it was just warm and nice and open enough, like him. She was glad she’d written to him. Her mother had had a good idea.

She had nothing to do after that. And the next few weeks seemed like the most boring and unproductive of her life. She finally called a few friends and went out to dinner with them. They didn’t make a big deal about Ted, and just said they were sorry they had broken up, but she felt like the odd man out now. They were all couples. The only unattached person she knew was Amy, and she was busy with her kids. One or the other of them had had a cold for the past two weeks so she couldn’t get out, and Brigitte didn’t want to catch whatever they had. Kids that age were always sick.

It was spring, and Boston was in full bloom. She spent Memorial
Day in Martha’s Vineyard, which was fun, and then she came back to Boston, and her life stalled again. It was hard keeping busy without a job, and she had shelved her book for now.

She heard from Marc a few times, and she kept her e-mails to him light. She didn’t tell him that she was freaked out about not having a job and her life felt like a wasteland right now.

And finally, when she got back from the Vineyard, she took her notes out one night about Wachiwi, and read them, and fell in love with her all over again. More so than ever, with a little distance now. It was an amazing story, and she could see why her mother and Marc thought she should write a book about it.

She thought about it for days after she read it, and just to see what would happen, she tried to write a first chapter, starting with Wachiwi in her own village. She read up on the Sioux on the Internet, so she could describe them properly, and what she wrote about the young Sioux girl seemed to write itself. It was effortless, and when she finished after three long days of working on it, it seemed beautiful and mystical. It was a story she wanted to tell, and suddenly she wasn’t afraid of it anymore. It was beckoning her, and she threw herself into it wholeheartedly. The days flew after that. She had never enjoyed writing anything so much in her life. She thought about sending an e-mail to tell Marc she had started it, but she didn’t want to jinx it. She decided to wait for a while, until she had written a few more chapters. It was still very rough, but she really liked what she had.

She had been writing for ten days, and she was hard at it late one night, when her computer told her she had an e-mail, but she didn’t want to interrupt what she was doing, so she kept going for several
hours. It was like flying, and she didn’t want to stop. She was shocked to realize it was almost five in the morning when she sat back with a satisfied look. She saved what she had written. And then she remembered the e-mail she had heard come in. She went to her e-mail and saw it was from the AUP in Paris. She opened it, and discovered it was from the man she had interviewed with. She wasn’t particularly interested in it, but she read it, and then stared at it and read it again. They were offering her a job, part time, at a decent salary, that she could live on, three days a week. And they told her that they had studio apartments available for students and faculty, for a nominal fee. The job had opened up because the number-two person in the admissions office had announced that she was pregnant and wanted to take maternity leave for a year. He said she was forty-two, it was her first pregnancy, she was having twins, and they had just put her on bed rest, very early in the pregnancy. So they could offer Brigitte the position for a year. And he made a point of telling her that the head of the admissions office was retiring in a year, so there might be other possibilities for her at AUP, if the current job they were offering her didn’t turn out to be permanent, which he thought was a possibility too. In any case, they could promise her a year. And it was also clear to her that if she wanted the job, this time she’d have to take more responsibility and step up to the plate. It was a small school and they needed everyone to pitch in and be flexible, and she was willing to do that. She had learned her lesson. By taking so little responsibility at BU, she had been the first to become obsolete. She wanted this to be different, if she took it. But did she want a job in Paris? She wasn’t sure.

They were offering her everything she needed—a job, decent pay,
a part-time schedule that would allow her to write the book about Wachiwi if she wanted to, and an apartment for little money if she wanted that. It was all right there, if she took it. She didn’t know what to do. She stared at the e-mail and then walked around her apartment.

She never went to bed that night, and she saw the sun come up from her living-room window. She wanted to ask someone’s advice, like Amy or her mother, but she was afraid they’d tell her to take it. And what did they know? It was easy for them to say. What if it was a terrible mistake? If she hated it? If she was lonely? If she got sick in Paris? If she missed a great job in Boston because she was in Paris? She had a thousand worst-case scenarios ready. But she also knew that no one was offering her a job in Boston, or hadn’t yet. Her CV hadn’t shaken the world, and no one had responded. And what if they didn’t, and she had no job here either? What if … what if … what if … She had worn herself out totally by ten o’clock that morning, worrying about it. And they had asked her to respond soon because they had to fill the position. They said that the woman taking maternity leave was leaving immediately, and they wanted Brigitte to be there in two weeks. Two weeks to wrap up her life in Boston. What life? she asked herself. She had no life. She had an apartment she had never really liked, she wasn’t dating anyone, and she had been out of work for four months. She had started a book, maybe, which she could write anywhere, and maybe better in Paris. But what about Amy? Her mother? She was crying by noon, and by late afternoon she was panicked. The phone rang at six o’clock, and she was terrified it was her mother. She didn’t want her to hear how upset she was or have to tell her why. She felt like a four-year-old, and she
wanted to hide in the closet. The phone went on ringing. She went to check caller ID and didn’t recognize the number, so she answered, and she was even more stunned when she did. It was Ted. She hadn’t heard from him since he left. She was shocked to hear him on the phone, and couldn’t imagine what he wanted. Maybe he was sorry he’d left her. Then maybe she wouldn’t have to go to Paris. It was just too scary.

“Hi,” she said, trying to sound casual, and feeling stupid as she did it. They knew each other too well to play games or at least they used to.

“How are you, Brig?” He sounded happy and in good spirits. She had no idea what time it was for him, or exactly where he was.

“I’m fine. Is something wrong?” Maybe he was in a hospital and needed her. Or had too much to drink, and drunk-dialed. Anything was possible after four months of silence.

“No, everything’s great here. I was wondering how you are. I’m sorry things got so botched up when I left. It was hard.”

“Yeah, it was. I’m okay,” she said, but her voice sounded small. He didn’t seem to notice. “I went to Paris and did some research for my mother.” She realized that he’d never known she got laid off. She hadn’t wanted him to know.