Hourglass
Memories and Warm Places
I can’t get over the utter ludicrousness of the situation: An ex-model and a chubby eight-year-old sitting in the heap in the third-floor landing of an upscale French apartment at two in the morning, sobbing. But at the same time, something in its dysfunctional nature makes it feel so right. With this realization, I laugh. Coughing and laughing. I am filled with warm memories, whirling around, spilling out, and boiling over. My mother, bent over the oven, smiling. Warm plates of baked goods, tall glasses of milk. And suddenly, I know what to do.
“Cookies.”
I say the word matter-of-factly, decisively. “Quoi?” Noelle looks at me like I’ve gone absolutely insane. “Uh… You know cookies. Des biscuits?” I stand up, wiping my eyes. “Your mom know that you’re out here, Kid?”
“Maman? Non, sh-she is out still. With her work, probably. She is never home.”
“Your dad?”
Noelle looks as if she is about to cry again, her blue eyes watering, her little pink mouth shivering. She is so delicate, so young. She speaks after a long moment, her words careful, concealing, “Non, il n’est pas la. He… he is not there. But he is coming home.” She casts her eyes downwards, looking at her pink boots, her hair falling over her eyes in fine pieces. “Alors… only the babysitter. She is there. Sleeping. She does not care that I am here. She never cares.”
I shrug, smoothing my rumpled clothes. “Suivez-moi.” I say, with a flourish, opening the apartment door and beckoning her inside.
*******
Within the hour, the apartment holds a warm glow, soft voices, cookies baking, a warm fire burning in the art-deco fireplace the real estate agent so highly recommended. Noelle and I sit on the couch in the living room, amidst cardboard boxes and crates of cigarettes. I light one for myself. Noelle eagerly crams three cookies into her little mouth. I alternate: a drag of the cigarette, a bite of cookie, a drag, a bite. “I lied to you earlier,” I tell Noelle finally, “I didn’t always want to be a model. Once upon a time, I wanted to be a doctor. When I was about your age come to think of it.”
“Un docteur? Mais Pouquoi? Why?”
“I don’t really know. It was interesting, I guess. Here, look.” I pick up the copy of Grey’s Anatomy up from where it was lying at our feet. Noelle examines the dark green volume in her hands before flipping through a few pages, her eyes resting on pictures, then dancing away, her cheeks flickering pink in the firelight. Soon, she loses interest. “Well,” she says, boldly, “I am going to be a model. Un mannequin. Just like you. Look!” She pulls a hideous, bulky, purple, puff-paint-covered wallet out from her jacket pocket. She opens it carefully, deliberately, folding out the pictures inside. My face stares back at me. Natasha Steel on the runway, in a garish silk kimono, dark hair piled up on top of her head. Natasha Steel stepping out from a limo and onto a red carpet, teetering on delicate heels. Natasha Steel in a tropical garden, embracing a tall, handsome man as he brushes her cheek with his hand, his other hand resting in the small of her back.
I look at this strange woman in the photos, her intense, sea glass eyes staring out from beautifully sculpted face. They look me straight in the eye, questioning: Where are you? What happened? Why? I gnaw at the end of my cigarette, my bare foot tapping the floor. Drag, bite, drag, bite. The cookie is sickeningly sweet. “See,” says Noelle again, “a model just like you.” I nod, my eyes wandering the room, nervously, resting on boxes, magazines, clothes, memories. The room is closing in, suffocating. I tug at my shirt collar, trying to take a deep breath and having a coughing fit instead. Noelle looks worried. Her upturned nose twitches and her eyebrows bunch upwards. With her puffy white coat and pink boots she strongly resembles a frightened rabbit.
“You know,” she says, carefully considering each word, the English coming slowly, “I have been telling lies too.” Drag, bite, drag, bite. “My father, I do not think he is coming home. He became very… how do you say it? Very sick and he went away. Maman, she says he is happy now. Happy somewhere, in a different place. Without me.” Drag, bite, drag, bite. She smiles sadly, turning her head to the window. I scratch at my nose, suddenly uncomfortably warm. She speaks again, “Models, do they ever miss someone? Do you miss someone very much?”
I think for a moment; think back to warm arms and soft skin, silky suits and piney cologne, soft kisses and red roses. “Yes,” I say, slowly, quietly, “I miss someone, very, very much.” Noelle, seemingly satisfied, picks another cookie off the tray on the table and eats it quickly. She blinks rapidly, her eyes watering, contributing even more to her rabbit-like appearance. A mask of grief briefly passes over her face. Suddenly, she shakes her head and mutters something to herself as she reaches for another cookie, our little conversation forgotten. Her hand hesitates in midair, her lips parted.
“Nat-te,” she asks, in her adorable broken English, “Nat-te, are all models thin.” I freeze, fine plumes of smoke swirling in the air. I can almost feel the cool porcelain in my hands, feel my heart quickening, my fingers in my throat, vomit on my breath. I lie, quickly, certainly. “No,” I reply, “definitely not.”
“You are sure? In the magazines¬–“
“No!”
Noelle looks a bit taken aback, frightened. I am almost afraid she will scamper back to her apartment. “D’accord…” Satisfied once again, Noelle curls on the couch, folding her feet under her body. Within minutes, she is fast asleep, her fine hair falling over her face, the fire drawing sharp patterns on her skin. Lulled by her gentle breathing, I lay my head down on the arm of the couch, my feet resting on a stray cigarette carton, my hand resting on Noelle’s soft little arm.
“Cookies.”
I say the word matter-of-factly, decisively. “Quoi?” Noelle looks at me like I’ve gone absolutely insane. “Uh… You know cookies. Des biscuits?” I stand up, wiping my eyes. “Your mom know that you’re out here, Kid?”
“Maman? Non, sh-she is out still. With her work, probably. She is never home.”
“Your dad?”
Noelle looks as if she is about to cry again, her blue eyes watering, her little pink mouth shivering. She is so delicate, so young. She speaks after a long moment, her words careful, concealing, “Non, il n’est pas la. He… he is not there. But he is coming home.” She casts her eyes downwards, looking at her pink boots, her hair falling over her eyes in fine pieces. “Alors… only the babysitter. She is there. Sleeping. She does not care that I am here. She never cares.”
I shrug, smoothing my rumpled clothes. “Suivez-moi.” I say, with a flourish, opening the apartment door and beckoning her inside.
*******
Within the hour, the apartment holds a warm glow, soft voices, cookies baking, a warm fire burning in the art-deco fireplace the real estate agent so highly recommended. Noelle and I sit on the couch in the living room, amidst cardboard boxes and crates of cigarettes. I light one for myself. Noelle eagerly crams three cookies into her little mouth. I alternate: a drag of the cigarette, a bite of cookie, a drag, a bite. “I lied to you earlier,” I tell Noelle finally, “I didn’t always want to be a model. Once upon a time, I wanted to be a doctor. When I was about your age come to think of it.”
“Un docteur? Mais Pouquoi? Why?”
“I don’t really know. It was interesting, I guess. Here, look.” I pick up the copy of Grey’s Anatomy up from where it was lying at our feet. Noelle examines the dark green volume in her hands before flipping through a few pages, her eyes resting on pictures, then dancing away, her cheeks flickering pink in the firelight. Soon, she loses interest. “Well,” she says, boldly, “I am going to be a model. Un mannequin. Just like you. Look!” She pulls a hideous, bulky, purple, puff-paint-covered wallet out from her jacket pocket. She opens it carefully, deliberately, folding out the pictures inside. My face stares back at me. Natasha Steel on the runway, in a garish silk kimono, dark hair piled up on top of her head. Natasha Steel stepping out from a limo and onto a red carpet, teetering on delicate heels. Natasha Steel in a tropical garden, embracing a tall, handsome man as he brushes her cheek with his hand, his other hand resting in the small of her back.
I look at this strange woman in the photos, her intense, sea glass eyes staring out from beautifully sculpted face. They look me straight in the eye, questioning: Where are you? What happened? Why? I gnaw at the end of my cigarette, my bare foot tapping the floor. Drag, bite, drag, bite. The cookie is sickeningly sweet. “See,” says Noelle again, “a model just like you.” I nod, my eyes wandering the room, nervously, resting on boxes, magazines, clothes, memories. The room is closing in, suffocating. I tug at my shirt collar, trying to take a deep breath and having a coughing fit instead. Noelle looks worried. Her upturned nose twitches and her eyebrows bunch upwards. With her puffy white coat and pink boots she strongly resembles a frightened rabbit.
“You know,” she says, carefully considering each word, the English coming slowly, “I have been telling lies too.” Drag, bite, drag, bite. “My father, I do not think he is coming home. He became very… how do you say it? Very sick and he went away. Maman, she says he is happy now. Happy somewhere, in a different place. Without me.” Drag, bite, drag, bite. She smiles sadly, turning her head to the window. I scratch at my nose, suddenly uncomfortably warm. She speaks again, “Models, do they ever miss someone? Do you miss someone very much?”
I think for a moment; think back to warm arms and soft skin, silky suits and piney cologne, soft kisses and red roses. “Yes,” I say, slowly, quietly, “I miss someone, very, very much.” Noelle, seemingly satisfied, picks another cookie off the tray on the table and eats it quickly. She blinks rapidly, her eyes watering, contributing even more to her rabbit-like appearance. A mask of grief briefly passes over her face. Suddenly, she shakes her head and mutters something to herself as she reaches for another cookie, our little conversation forgotten. Her hand hesitates in midair, her lips parted.
“Nat-te,” she asks, in her adorable broken English, “Nat-te, are all models thin.” I freeze, fine plumes of smoke swirling in the air. I can almost feel the cool porcelain in my hands, feel my heart quickening, my fingers in my throat, vomit on my breath. I lie, quickly, certainly. “No,” I reply, “definitely not.”
“You are sure? In the magazines¬–“
“No!”
Noelle looks a bit taken aback, frightened. I am almost afraid she will scamper back to her apartment. “D’accord…” Satisfied once again, Noelle curls on the couch, folding her feet under her body. Within minutes, she is fast asleep, her fine hair falling over her face, the fire drawing sharp patterns on her skin. Lulled by her gentle breathing, I lay my head down on the arm of the couch, my feet resting on a stray cigarette carton, my hand resting on Noelle’s soft little arm.