Plum Blossoms in Paris Read Online Free

parents foot some of my bills, and I have the requisite loans that will haunt me for twenty years. But I had to do something, and there was this ad over the summer that filled me with noble thoughts for about five minutes. Long enough to employ me at a home with my new clients, Bill, Irene, and Lucy—all of whom I had just left behind without a backward glance. My Canadian friend’s arguments aside,
I
am actually the personification of America’s international aid policy: a spew of lofty rhetoric with a predisposition to exaggerate its compassion and, when push comes to shove, to skip out on its responsibilities.
    It should be hard to forget about my clients, especially Irene. Every Saturday and Sunday, she comes up to me, that wretched pair of grandma glasses perched on the end of her nose, before taking my hand and tentatively asking, “Friend, Daisy?” It is the only question anyone has ever asked that makes me feel both hopeful and lousy. There’s too much naked vulnerability there; I don’t know where to park it. Usually, I just say, “Yes, friend, Irene,” and direct her toward her “memorabilia,” which is what we call the box full of other people’s, mostly kids’, crap she has picked up on her walks. She can tell me what she ate for dinner on each day that she acquired a new “artifact.”
    A rainbow pencil, personalized “Brittany”: ham salad sandwich, pickle and coleslaw on the side.
    A jolly snowman mitten: pork chop, green beans, au gratin potatoes.
    A cheap watch stopped at 2:23 (“Day or night, Daisy?” “I don’t know, Irene.”): meat loaf, baked potato, more green beans.
    For my clients, time is measured by meals, or game shows.
    I considered bringing Irene with me. Simply having the thought grew me another inch, as I breathed the full-bodied air of the selfless and inspired. Just imagine the good stuff she could pick up in Paris! And the meals she could eat! It would put ketchupfied meat loaves and prissy pencils to shame. I encouraged the daydream, wrapping my generosity around myself until it hugged me tight. Too tight.
    For as much as it pains me to think of a stranger taking Irene to McDonald’s, I couldn’t have her with me now. There’s to be no context for old Daisy here. Besides, Irene loves meat loaves, particularly the ketchup on top.
    And she always asks for a slice of Wonder Bread on the side.

    Rejuvenated, and more generous toward a country that isn’t too proud to own its nook of global commerce, I easily find the train. It’s about a thirty-minute trip into the heart of Paris, so once I exchange money and board, I lean back into my nubby seat contentedly. Not wanting to look like a tourist with Rick on my lap, I pretend to read
The Razor’s Edge
(the back says something about Paris and, curiously, India), which I tossed into my carry-on at the last moment. It’s about eight in the morning, three in the a.m. Cleveland time. I slept precious little on the flight, wasn’t even tired until touchdown. Restless to be removed from The Great Accuser, I squeezed closer to the window, wearily trying to follow
The Apartment
, which, surprisingly, was the second selection in the double feature. Damn if Shirley MacLaine didn’t once look kind of cute.
    My reflection in the train window informs me that I am not so fortunate. I suppose a physical description is owed, though Isquirm at the task. The vanishing night—that evaporated time, now swirling above the dark Atlantic waters—has wounded my face. It appears sunken, a little shadowy, with the deeply set, unspectacular blue eyes retreating under an awning of bangs and unruly eyebrows. The vertical thrust of my nose—which my father terms
aquiline
, but about which I have my doubts—and chin, admittedly saucy, strikes a jagged line in a more emphatic version of myself. All the softness is stripped away. A long glob of black hair hangs limply from the hallmark scrunchy, though wisps break free to tickle my neck.
    It’s