In Manhattan, my mother left our family car in a parking lot with a note pinned to the windshield for Malcolm to find there. We need prayer. We need a miracle. I have taken the girls and gone to Lourdes.
That night, my mother and I stayed at the Barbizon on the Upper East Side. I remember sitting on the bed and talking with my mother, looking out the window. She didn’t tell me this was the place she had stayed when she first came to New York. The following day, we went to buy tickets on an ocean liner bound for France; my mother didn’t want to fly because of Robin’s health issues. The plan was to meet Jill and Robin down at the docks later in the day, but at the last minute, we learned that Jill wouldn’t be joining us. My father had returned from his business trip just as Jill was trying to leave with our suitcases. He was refusing to let her go. This was bad news. Not only could my father potentially come into the city to try to stop us now, but Jill had my suitcase with her on Long Island.
I wasn’t going to have any of my clothes for France.
I remember my mother taking me to B. Altman’s department store on Thirty-fourth Street, where she said I could pick out a pair of pajamas so I would at least have something to sleep in. I chose a short-sleeved yellow pair, dotted with orange flowers, that buttoned down the front. We didn’t have time to purchase anything else. We needed to get to the docks as soon as we could.
Robin met us at the pier. She looked so beautiful, with her wide-set brown eyes and long light brown hair. She was wearing a white pantsuit, very fashionable at the time, which made me feel even worse about my lack of any clothing. I was twelve years old and going to live in France without any of my clothes or books. Robin must have sensed I was worried, because the minute she saw me she wrapped her arms around me.
“What do you think?” She grinned. “Ready for an adventure?
I nodded.
Truthfully, I didn’t feel ready. Everywhere I looked, there were people carrying suitcases, and I had nothing. I looked down at my little white peasant blouse and my striped woolen dirndl skirt that I’d been wearing since we left Long Island yesterday. I knew the kids at school were right: I looked like a baby. How can I meet Aunt Grace, I thought, when I don’t have a pretty dress to wear?
We joined the long line of passengers waiting to board the boat.
The SS Michelangelo had a vast, windowless hull and giant funnels rising from its deck. We had a cabin with four bunks in tourist class, at the bottom of the boat. The walls were mint green, and there were no windows. At night, we had dinner in the dining hall. There were decanters of wine on every table, and I remember being impressed that even the young people were served wine with dinner. Robin explained it was the European way. I had a small sip of wine but didn’t like it. Every night we sat at the same table with the same people. I prayed they wouldn’t notice I was still wearing the same outfit: my white blouse and striped skirt. I remember feeling a constant and creeping sense of discomfort. Even at the best of times, it was hard for me to talk to people I didn’t know—I didn’t have any practice at it. When I wasn’t with Robin or on the deck with my mother, I read books from the ship’s library, curled up in the bottom bunk in the cabin.
Then one day, when we were getting ready to go for dinner, there was a knock on the door. We were being summoned to the purser’s office immediately. My mother had a phone call. The purser was standing outside his office in a hallway lined with glass cabinets holding ship’s instruments and official documents. He ushered us inside. I sat down near his desk, watching as he carefully positioned two speakers on the table. Then he pressed a button. The speakers began to crackle and hiss.
“Carolyn, it’s Malcolm.” I could hear my father’s voice through the interference. He sounded furious. “Carolyn, I need you to turn back. When you get to France, you need to turn around and come home, do you hear me?”
My mother looked horrified. She turned to the purser as if to say, How could you do this to me?
Another voice was coming through on the second speaker.
“Carolyn, it’s Grace,” said the voice. I recognized the soft, almost English-sounding accent from the films. “Carolyn, you need to go home to Malcolm. It isn’t right. You have to do as your husband tells you.”
My mother didn’t reply. She looked as if she wanted to run from the room.
My father’s voice returned. “Carolyn, when you get to Cannes, just get on the next boat back, do you hear me?”
I could hear the exasperation in my father’s voice. This was yet another thing my mother had done that didn’t make sense and made his life harder. Grace sounded so calm, repeating whatever my father said. They were both on the same side, against my mother. I felt so sorry for her. At the same time, I had a strong feeling that I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation, that this should be between the adults.
The boat rocked beneath us. My mother
