le 7 décembre 1989
Meg's honestly not sure if she slept at all, if thoughts ever gave over to dreams, but she knows that it was 3:27 am when she turned her bedroom clock to face the wall so she would stop staring at it.
It's 6:32 when she gives up, gets out of bed, and turns the clock to face the day.
It's just after 7:00 when she leaves a note on the kitchen table, and pulls on her coat, and goes out.
It's almost strange to find that the city looks the same.
Meg walks the few blocks to the newsstand to buy the morning papers -- The Gazette and La Presse both. The information there isn't all that different than what had been reported on television the night before, but Meg's always responded more to having things set down in writing, words you can read as often and as slowly as you need to.
The stark black and white of the headlines, things set down and not changing . . . it's real in a way it wasn't yet.
Meg thanks the man behind the counter and walks back to her apartment, reading as she goes. Just before she reaches the building, someone steps out in front of her and she all but collides with him.
Alain's hands catch her arms at the elbow, steadying her. "You will walk into someone, doing that, ma belle," he says.
"Only when they step in front of me," she says, trying for a smile.
Alain lets go of her elbows, and she takes the one step between them, into the circle of his arms. They stand like that until Meg's entirely too aware that they're sort of blocking the sidewalk, and steps back again, and then closer to the building along side them, out of the flow of traffic.
"How are you?" Alain asks.
"I don't know. I really don't know. You?"
"The same."
"How's your cousin? And Georges?"
"Maryse is . . . " Alain trails off, either looking for a word or trying to remember what it would be in English before picking " . . . shaken up. Maman stayed with her last night. But I think she will be all right. Georges . . ."
The pause is longer this time, before finally he sighs and shrugs and shakes his head. "He was in the building but not right where it happened. Luc says he won't say anything thing else about it."
"Maybe he just needs some time to . . . he'll talk about it when he's ready."
"Peut-être," Alain says. He's looking away, down the street.
When a minute has passed, Meg hazards, "Alain?"
His eyes come back to her. "Sorry," he says.
"It's all right," she says. "It's a lot to think about."
"Yes." Alain reaches one gloved hand out to push a wayward stand of Meg's hair back from her face, and looks down at her for a moment. Then he says, almost briskly, "Have you eaten?"
Meg shakes her head.
"Did you eat last night?"
"No," Meg says.
"Come on," Alain tells her, settling one arm across her shoulders and starting them down the sidewalk, away from whatever he'd been starting at. "I'll buy you breakfast."
It's 6:32 when she gives up, gets out of bed, and turns the clock to face the day.
It's just after 7:00 when she leaves a note on the kitchen table, and pulls on her coat, and goes out.
It's almost strange to find that the city looks the same.
Meg walks the few blocks to the newsstand to buy the morning papers -- The Gazette and La Presse both. The information there isn't all that different than what had been reported on television the night before, but Meg's always responded more to having things set down in writing, words you can read as often and as slowly as you need to.
The stark black and white of the headlines, things set down and not changing . . . it's real in a way it wasn't yet.
Meg thanks the man behind the counter and walks back to her apartment, reading as she goes. Just before she reaches the building, someone steps out in front of her and she all but collides with him.
Alain's hands catch her arms at the elbow, steadying her. "You will walk into someone, doing that, ma belle," he says.
"Only when they step in front of me," she says, trying for a smile.
Alain lets go of her elbows, and she takes the one step between them, into the circle of his arms. They stand like that until Meg's entirely too aware that they're sort of blocking the sidewalk, and steps back again, and then closer to the building along side them, out of the flow of traffic.
"How are you?" Alain asks.
"I don't know. I really don't know. You?"
"The same."
"How's your cousin? And Georges?"
"Maryse is . . . " Alain trails off, either looking for a word or trying to remember what it would be in English before picking " . . . shaken up. Maman stayed with her last night. But I think she will be all right. Georges . . ."
The pause is longer this time, before finally he sighs and shrugs and shakes his head. "He was in the building but not right where it happened. Luc says he won't say anything thing else about it."
"Maybe he just needs some time to . . . he'll talk about it when he's ready."
"Peut-être," Alain says. He's looking away, down the street.
When a minute has passed, Meg hazards, "Alain?"
His eyes come back to her. "Sorry," he says.
"It's all right," she says. "It's a lot to think about."
"Yes." Alain reaches one gloved hand out to push a wayward stand of Meg's hair back from her face, and looks down at her for a moment. Then he says, almost briskly, "Have you eaten?"
Meg shakes her head.
"Did you eat last night?"
"No," Meg says.
"Come on," Alain tells her, settling one arm across her shoulders and starting them down the sidewalk, away from whatever he'd been starting at. "I'll buy you breakfast."