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| In the Bistro by Camille Bombois |
My sister and I feel responsible for our second cousin, Clare, because she’s the only child of an only child, and although she was married for 25 years, she never had any children of her own, and then her husband suddenly died of a heart attack 10 years ago, so now we’re some of her closest family members. That’s why every year on Clare’s birthday we give her flowers and invite her out to lunch to celebrate. We’d love to give her a gift, too, because we know she’s living on a tight budget now, but we just can’t bring ourselves to give her “stuff” because we know she’s a hoarder
(it started after her husband died and she could no longer afford the mortgage on their two-story house so downsized and bought a small two-bedroom, one bath condo—with a plan to make the second bedroom her “quilting room,” where she would set up her sewing machine, quilting frame, and large collection of fabrics—and she put most of the furniture from the big house into a storage unit—I might need it one day, she told us—and she put all her husband’s clothes, papers, and gaming equipment into the second bedroom so she could sort through it when she had the time, but that time never came and meanwhile she began acquiring more and more fabric for the quilts she would be making one day until there was so much fabric in the apartment that piles of it started taking over the living room, the bedroom she slept in, and even the kitchen).
Clare always chooses the same restaurant for her birthday celebration: the charming, old-fashioned French Bistro, with dark wooden booths, where she used to go with her husband to celebrate their anniversaries. And she always wears the same basic outfit to her birthday lunch that she wears every day—baggy, elastic pull on-pants with an oversized logo t-shirt, with her long frizzy gray hair looking like it needs a good conditioning treatment, unlike my sister and I, who always dress up for the occasion. And while we take our time deciding what we’ll have this year (Salad Nicoise? Sole Meunière, Bouillabaisse?), Clare always orders the same thing: onion soup, Croque Monsieur, and chocolate mousse. But this year when it was time for her to order her chocolate mousse, Clare surprised us by telling us she didn’t have time for dessert that day, saying, “You’re going to laugh when I tell you why—you see, the other night I was looking at the local free stuff website when I saw that some guy was getting rid of these beautiful bolts of Japanese fabrics—just giving them away!—and I thought they would be so perfect for my next quilt—but the only time he could meet up with me was today at 1:30—so that’s where I’m going now!” My sister and I just glanced quickly at each other, horrified
(we had already tried three times to help Clare clear out her apartment so she could set up her quilting room, but she each time she ended up on the floor, clutching an old sweater or shirt of her husband’s or one of her faded bolts of fabric with tears streaming down her face, so eventually we had to give up and let her be).
But Clare didn’t seem to notice the expressions on our faces, and simply kept on smiling, her pale blue eyes sparkling with excitement, as she gathered up her things and headed off to her car. When my sister and I were finally alone, I said, “We’re not exactly laughing, are we?” and my sister replied, “No, we’re not laughing, but honestly I can’t remember the last time I saw her looking so happy,” and I said, “Yeah, you’re right, she looked positively radiant there for a few minutes.” Then the waiter came by, and we ordered two coffees and a slice of Tarte Tatin to share.
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