Free Hidden in Paris by Corine Gantz Page B

“Oh, like, totally,” she said.
    “I can’t get any sort of fresh start in L.A. My husband would talk me out of it,” Lola said, blowing her nose again. This time, Annie was sure she was crying. “He can be very persuasive. I can’t say no to him.”
    Annie had to ask. “How does he feel about your separation?”
    “Well,” Lola seemed to consider how to respond, “it’s really been years in the making. Mark has resigned himself to the idea. I’m sure.”
    “And he’s fine with you going to another country?”
    “Well, this would be temporary, of course.”
    “Of course,” Annie said. “When a woman decides to leave, it is always the right thing to do,” she said, forgetting that she knew nothing on the subject. She decided to appeal to Lola’s intuitive side. “We have instinct, and something tells me you’ve been fighting yours for a while.” And by then, she had managed to convince herself that what she was truly being helpful.

    “I’m making roast beef for lunch. It was on sale so I said, ‘Why not!’” Pamela chirped.
    Althea contemplated the idea. Red meat. Meat on sale. Rotting meat. “Great!” she said flatly as she took off her coat. On the counter, the meat was thawing. She wondered how long it had been sitting there. Many times as a girl she had sat for what seemed to be hours in front of her cold plate unable to lift the fork to her mouth, until her mom, in furious exasperation, slapped her across the face and sent her to finish her meal in the bathroom. It was the ultimate punishment as well as the only way out for everyone. There, Althea would cry in despair and relief and tip the plate of food down the toilet after staying in the bathroom for a respectable amount of time to avoid suspicion. Then she would wait there in dry sobs until Pamela came to free her and give her the profuse love that always came after the storm. In the end, her mother had the last word since Althea had eaten all of her food. The last word, but not the victory.
    During lunch, sometime between the roast beef, the rice pudding, and Althea going to the bathroom to vomit, Pamela revealed to her husband the barely formulated concept that Althea had immediately regretted sharing.
    “She should take a cruise instead. At least she won’t get any of those diseases they have overseas.”
    “Cruises are for old farts like us,” tried her dad.
    Pamela rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Your father has no idea what I’m talking about. You spend two or three days in one city, say, Vienna and...”
    “Vienna’s not in France; it’s in Germany,” Henry said.
    “Anyway, Germany might be better. Cleaner. The French think they’re better than us, after everything we’ve done for them.”
    “Actually, Dad,” Althea asked, “isn’t Vienna in Austria?”
    Her father looked up from his plate. “What, sweetheart?”
    “Vienna’s in Austria.”
    “Forget Vienna, Althea,” her mom cut in angrily. “Your dad has no idea about geography and never has.”
    The day dragged on painfully. Her dad went for a nap and she accompanied her mom on a walk, their weekly walk in a park deserted by humans and pigeons alike. France was not brought up again. Later on, when she was alone in the kitchen folding her laundry on the counter and smelling each item before folding, Althea was surprised to see her dad come in.
    “Your mother is talking to the TV—the TV, for Pete’s sake!” Standing next to her, her father looked frail. These days, his hands always seemed to shake ever so slightly. He was holding a neatly folded piece of paper between his fingers. Watching him, she felt suddenly drained.
    “This idea of going to Paris, I think it’s a good one,” Henry said abruptly. “You need a little fun, a little adventure, you know.”
    “I’m probably not...”
    “You were the best in your French class at school I reckon. That’s a talent, languages.”
    “It’s just a silly idea,” she said, powerless.
    Her father