his mother, started treatments one week after Hal oween. His father is in California, driving her five days a week to radiation therapy and once a week to chemo.
St. Clair is here.
I want to kil his father. His parents have lived separately for years, but his father won’t let his mother get a divorce. And he keeps mistresses in Paris and in London, while Susan lives alone in San Francisco. Every few months, his father will visit her. Stay for a few nights. Reestablish dominance or
whatever it is he holds over her. And then he leaves again.
But now he’s the one watching her, while St. Clair suffers six thousand miles away. The whole situation makes me so sick I can hardly bear to think about it. Obviously, St. Clair hasn’t been himself these last few weeks. He’s ditching school, and his grades are dropping. He doesn’t come to breakfast
anymore, and he eats every dinner with El ie. Apart from class and lunch, where he sits cold and stonelike beside me, the only times I see him are the
mornings I wake him up for school.
Meredith and I take turns. If we don’t pound on his door, he won’t show up at all.
The pâtisserie door opens and a chil y wind whips through the shop. The chandelier sways like gelatin. “I feel so helpless,” I say. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Mer shivers and rubs her arms. Her rings are made of fine glass today.They look like spun sugar. “I know. Me too. And I stil can’t believe his dad isn’t letting him visit her for Thanksgiving.”
“He’s not?” I’m shocked. “When did this happen?” And why did Mer know about it and not me?
“Since his dad heard about his dropping grades. Josh told me the head cal ed his father—because she was concerned about him—and instead of
letting him go home, he said St. Clair couldn’t fly out there until he started ‘acting responsibly’ again.”
“But there’s no way he’l be able to focus on anything until he sees her! And she needs him there; she needs his support. They should be together!”
“This is so typical of his dad to use a situation like this against him.”
Gnawing curiosity gets the best of me again. “Have you ever met him? His father?” I know he lives near SOAP, but I’ve never seen him. And St. Clair
certainly doesn’t own a framed portrait.
“Yeah,” she says cautiously. “I have.”
“And?”
“He was . . . nice.”
“NICE? How can he be nice? The man is a monster!”
“I know, I know, but he has these . . . impeccable manners in person. Smiles a lot. Very handsome.” She changes the subject suddenly. “Do you think
Josh is a bad influence on St. Clair?”
“Josh? No. I mean, maybe. I don’t know. No.” I shake my head, and the line inches forward.We’re almost in viewing range of the display case. I see a
hint of golden apple tarte tatins. The edge of a glossy chocolate-and-raspberry gâteau.
At first everything seemed too sophisticated for my tastes, but three months into this, and I understand why the French are famous for their cuisine.
Meals here are savored. Restaurant dinners are measured in hours, not minutes. It’s so different from America. Parisians swing by the markets every day
for the ripest fruit and vegetables, and they frequent specialty shops for cheese, fish, meat, poultry, and wine. And cake.
I like the cake shops the best.
“It just seems like Josh is tell ing him it’s okay to stop caring,” Mer presses. “I feel like I’m always the bad guy. ‘Get up. Go to school. Do your homework.’