Alibi In High Heels

I did another whimper.

'I'm going to prescribe you some pills for the pain,' she continued, scribbling in my chart. Then she turned to a cabinet behind her and pulled out a pair of tall, metal crutches. 'You'll need to use these to get around. They're a little awkward at first but trust me, you'll get used to them,' she said, adjusting the height.

I took them, sticking one under each arm. Great. Not only was I a Smurf, now I was Tiny Tim.

The doctor looked down at my one good Gucci and a frown settled between her un-plucked eyebrows. 'And I'd suggest saying away from high heels until the fracture stabilizes.'

'Hold on!' I put one hand up. 'What do you mean 'stay away from heels?''

'Besides the difficulty balancing, the elevated position of the other foot puts too much stress on the injured leg. Flats only for the next three months.' And with that Ponytail left the room, still scribbling.

I stared after her, my mouth hanging open, tears starting to form behind my eyes. No heels for three months? Could this day get any worse?

As if to answer my question, the door flew open again.

'Oh, my poor baby!'

I looked up to see my mother burst into the room, head down, arms out, tackling me for a rib crusher hug.

'Oh my baby, are you all right?'

'I'm fine.' Sort of.

'I came as soon as Mrs. Rosenblatt called. Oh my poor baby, you could have been killed!'

'It's the damned clutch,' Mrs. R said. 'Too many pedals down there. I couldn't figure which one to press when. They need less pedals in them sports cars.'

'Mom, I can't breathe.'

'Oh, sorry,' Mom stepped back. And for the first time I got a good look at her outfit.

I love my mother dearly, but let's just say I'm glad I didn't inherit her fashion sense. Today she was dressed in a pair of skinny jeans (clearly made for someone three sizes skinnier than her), a blouse covered in tiny white ruffles and a pair of black L.A. Gear high-tops formerly seen on M.C. Hammer circa 1989. She topped it all off with a shade of lipstick I could only describe as neon magenta and blue eye shadow that reached all the way to her plucked eyebrows. When I was fifteen I sent applications to Oprah, Ricky Lake, and Jenny Jones hoping one of them would take Mom on their 'Please give my mother a make-over' shows. No such luck. These days, I usually just cringed in silence.

Mom looked down at my blue boot. 'How bad is it honey?'

'Not that bad,' I said bravely. Okay, fine. It wasn't courage, it was denial.

'You know, they make some very stylish sneakers these days,' my mom said. I looked down at her high-tops. And felt tears well behind my eyes again.

'Ballet flats!' Mrs. R piped up. 'They're all the rage. Last weekend I was doing aura readings down at Venice Beach and all the young kids were wearing them.'

I sniffled back the tears. 'You think so?'

'Sure. You'll be just as pretty as a peach in them.'

I sighed. 'Paris just won't be the same without heels.'

'Oh, well there's no way you can go to Paris now,' Mom said, still inspecting my boot.

'Whoa!' I held both hands up in front of me. Which, of course, made my crutches immediately slip out of my armpits and clatter to the floor. 'I am totally still going to Paris.'

'Maddie, you can't even walk!'

'I have crutches.'

Mom looked down at the floor. Then back up at me, raising one eyebrow.

'What? The doctor said I'd get used to them.'

'Maddie, you can't possibly go to a foreign country like this. Honey, what about your luggage? And traveling through the airports? And customs? How will you even get around?'

I bit my lip. 'I'll manage.' Somehow.

I'll admit though, she had a point. The more I thought about trying to navigate my way through LAX, let alone the French airports, while wearing Wonder Boot, the more my leg throbbed, my head started to hurt, and I really started jonsing for another comforting nacho platter.

But I was damned if one little Nerf boot was keeping me from Fashion Week.

'Look, I've already committed to do this. Jean Luc is counting on me. I'm supposed to fly out this weekend. There's no way I can back out now.'

Mom pursed her lips, her arms crossing over her chest as she gave me a good long stare. 'All right, fine.'

I did an internal sigh of relief. 'Thank you.'

'Then I'm going with you.'

'What?!'

'Maddie, there's no way I'm letting my baby fly all the way to Paris all by herself with a broken leg. If you're so intent on going, then I'm going, too.'

'But, Mom-'

'Well then I'm coming too,' Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up.

I tuned to her, my mouth falling open. 'What?!' This could not be happening. Again I got that out-of-body feeling like my life was spiraling out of control into some late night TV farce.

'I feel responsible. After all it was my car,' Mrs. R said.

'Besides,' Mom chimed in, 'I've always wanted to visit Paris. The museums, the shops…'

'The Eiffel Tower,' Mrs. R added.

'Oh, the Eiffel Tower! Oh, think how much fun this will be, Maddie,' Mom said, grabbing my hand. 'It'll be like a girl's night out. Only in Paris!'

Last time Mom and I had had a girl's night out, she'd dragged me to a karaoke club where we'd spent the evening sipping watery tap beer and listening to overweight businessmen butcher Diana Ross songs.

'No. No, no, no, no.' I shook my head, a sudden headache matching the throbbing in my leg. 'Look, I'm a grown woman. I can take care of myself. I'll get a skycap to help with the bags. They have bellboys in Paris. I'll be fine. I'm an adult and I can take care of myself.'

'Oh honey,' Mom said, tilting her head to the side and giving me the same look she gave me when I was five and told her I was running away from home to join the circus. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

Mental forehead smack.

* * *

There are few truly unstoppable forces in nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, an unexpected shift of the San Andreas fault line. And – you guessed it – my mother.

Which is why, one week later, as I hobbled through the front doors of the Plaza Athenee in Paris, France, I had a pair of awkward metal crutches shoved under my armpits and a pair of middle aged women flanking my sides.

'Oh my God, Maddie, would you take a look at this place?' Mom's mouth gaped open.

'It's like where them rock stars stay,' Mrs. Rosenblatt said. 'I bet Gwen Stefani stays here.'

'I bet the queen stays here.'

'I bet this is gonna max out my Visa.'

They were right. The place was amazing. The floors were a pale taupe marble beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier that was larger than my bathroom. Bright red fresh cut flowers hung from tall pillars that flanked the lobby, and the walls were done in delicately painted frescoes of wildflowers and serene lakes. The entire place felt opulent, glamorous, and oh so very French.

Okay, so I was here with two postmenopausal chaperones. But I was here. In Paris. Despite the eleven hour flight, I couldn't help a goofy grin from cracking my face.

'Puis-je vous aider?' a man behind the counter asked as we approached. He was in his fifties, tall and slim with a large nose and receding hairline exposing a shiny dome of a forehead.

'I don't know what he said,' Mrs. Rosenbaltt commented, 'but he sure looked good saying it.' She gave me a