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The abuse trickled in.
At first, it was just little things. A squeezed wrist. A sharp word. An insult that meant shewasn’t good enough, wasn’t smart enough, couldn’t possibly understand.It got even worse when Oren realized that Rose’s French was better than his already. When she embarrassed him at a café in the third because her French was lilting and beautiful and the barista said so, Oren smacked her on the street outside. The smack startled Rose out of her skin. She blinked at Oren, at this man she’d fallen head over heels for, and turned on her heel, hurrying away from him.
Oren ran after her, turned her around, and kissed her. “I just want you to respect me,” he whimpered. “I just want you to love me most of all.”
On either side of them, tourists and Parisians hurried past. They had places to go. They had things to do, people to love, and food to prepare. Nobody could really see the quivering young woman with the slightly pregnant belly. Nobody could see her tears.
Sometimes entire days passed by when Oren didn’t touch her, criticize her, or smack her. Rose reminded herself of these on the bad days.He’s stressed because of the baby. Maybe we should go back to Manhattan. Perhaps we should go back to Nantucket. That’s where we fell in love. Maybe our love is waiting for us there.
A business associate of Oren’s came to Paris in early February. He wasn’t married, and Rose wasn’t needed to “keep the wife company,” so the men went out alone. Rose adored those nights to herself. She walked by herself through the shadows of this tremendous city. She shivered outside of cafés with cups of tea and fluffy croissants. She went to a few museums and wept openly in front of impressionist paintings. She couldn’t believe how farshe’d come in her life. Why was it she felt so alone? Was loneliness to be expected, no matter where you went or what you did? Was loneliness just a fact of life?
Why had she imagined her loneliness would die out the minute she fell in love? Why had she imagined loneliness was a fact of the poor rather than the rich?
That first night, Oren came home reeking of perfume. It didn’t take an expert to make sense of what was happening. Oren’s business associate wanted to be around beautiful women, so that was what they did. Rose pestered Oren about it. She asked him, “Do you really want to be with me?”
His face scrunched to a tight red ball, and he said, “How could you ask me something like that? Don’t you know how much I love you? Don’t you know what I’ve done so we can be together?”
The abuse continued. It followed them into mid-February. Oren’s business associate remained in Paris, taking an apartment in a trendier district. Oren often spent the night there, leaving Rose to twist alone in their silk sheets and marvel at the weight in her chest.At least he’s not here to beat me,she found herself thinking. She cursed these thoughts and reminded herself just how in love she was. Just how happy she was.I’m in Paris! I’m in the most beautiful city in the world!
Rose called Mississippi on February 13th.
It was the first time she’d dialed her parents’ home number in three or four months. They hadn’t been invited to the wedding. Rose sensed they were resentful, though they probably wouldn’t have been able to afford the trip to New York City in the first place.
Rose’s little sister answered. She snapped her gum and said, “Mom’s here.” She sounded like a brat. Maybethey all hated Rose now. Maybe they thought she was too big for her britches.
“Hello?” Rose’s mother sounded obstinate. Rose could picture her in the glow of the television, maybe with a few chip bags beside her on the sofa. What time was it there? Rose quickly calculated to glean that it was nearly three in the afternoon in Mississippi and nearly nine at night in Paris.
“Hi, Mom.” Rose’s voice cracked open.
“What’s the matter?” There was no tenderness here. Only intrigue. Probably, her mother wanted to laugh in her face.
Rose took a sharp breath. She told herself not to sob.
“What is it, Rosie?” her mother demanded. “Did you call just to breathe at me?”
Rose closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s face—craggy from cigarettes with nicotine-stained teeth.
“Rose? Where on earth are you?” her mother asked.
“I’m in Paris.”
“Well, well, well. How nice.”
Rose sniffed. “I don’t know what to do.”
Her mother coughed and inhaled, proof she was smoking. “Is my daughter unhappy with the wealth she’s fallen into?”
Rose was quiet. Her heart felt so bruised.
“Is my daughter ungrateful for the wonderful life she has?” her mother demanded.
Rose closed her eyes. Her head throbbed. It occurred to her she hadn’t eaten much today. The baby needed nutrients. It needed proof that someone loved it out here in the open air.
“I’m not ungrateful,” Rose breathed. “It’s just that…”
“It’s just what? You got out of here,” her motherreminded her. “You got out, and you’re living high on the calf over in Paris. Tell me one reason I should feel sorry for you.”
Rose hiccuped with sorrow, then smacked her hand over her mouth.
