“Quit moanin’. Go to Hades!”

 

That was Mom’s reply. “Quit moanin’. Go to Hades!” Followed her rather emphatic “NO!”

 

Dad just stared at the text. Then as if awakening, he feverishly started to remove the battery, but not before I had a glimpse of the message. Still in possession of Dad’s pen, I decoded Mom’s message, writing the numbers on a page in the book. I instantly wished I’d written it on one of the pre-title pages instead of a page of text. 7-1-3-2-2-7-1-1-0.

 

I handed the book to Dad. “Page 91.”

 

He opened it and looked at the code for a second before tearing out that part of the margin. “Tomorrow, flight 7110.” He started walking. I followed him to where we could see a flight schedule monitor. “That’s an incoming flight. Your mom will be here tomorrow at 6:20.”

 

“So, we’ll be here to meet her?” I stupidly asked. Stupidly because I needn’t have asked, knowing that he wouldn’t answer.

 

“She’ll find us.”

 

I had no idea how that would happen. Paris is two million people and forty square miles. There are probably two thousand hotels. Dad must’ve seen my eyes crossing.

 

“There’s a block on Charles Flouquet Avenue. Little restaurants with outside tables like in the movies, with an unobstructed view of the Eiffel and Champ de Mars. That’s like a cross between a farmers’ market and the DC Mall.”

 

Of course, I knew that he meant the reflecting pool and monument strip leading up to the Capitol, not a shopping mall. I didn’t ask when we would meet her. Too much information for speaking aloud in public, even disguised. We went to a hotel, which was actually more like a rooming house. I got rid of the wig and bra at the first public toilet. Well, took them off and put them into my backpack, anyway.

 

When the proprietor of the apartment-like place gave Dad, and then me the stink eye, Dad snarled at him, telling him that his son had cancer and that we were in Paris to see doctors. That shut his yap. For supper, along with a sausage, I had some kind of pastry that was like a thousand layers of flakes. I was full, but I ate it all anyway. I didn’t care if I threw it up, it was so good.

 

I’m not sure, but I think it made me feel a little better.

 

The next day we laid low. I rested. The pastry did not cure cancer, I’m sorry to say. I felt terrible. Standing up unassisted was difficult.

 

Walking was torture. Dad talked about going to the hospital to try and get some meds that might make me feel better. And getting a wheelchair. I told him what the DC doctors had said. Sure, there were drugs to relieve pain and deal with the ongoing issues, but all of them would put me in bed – to stay. We figured to let Mom in on the conversation since she would probably be hauling me home anyway.

 

That was something I would spend the rest of the day and night thinking about. I needed to know what I wanted before Mom got here to tell me what she wanted.

 

Disguised, Dad went out for food. And probably, try to see if there was anyone lurking about trying to find him. Lurking about. I thought about chasing a rabbit down a mysterious trail, wondering if people really thought in clichés. I didn’t even consider that the rabbit was one, too. It sounds counterproductive, but it made sense in a way, Dad looking for lookers. Better to know than to be surprised by a bullet in the brain.

 

The next morning we were seated at a tiny little table for four that barely held two coffee cups. Dad and I were both disguised. The coffee tasted like hot turpentine, as opposed to the cold turpentine in London, and felt like so much sludge in my mouth. Dad drank mine after his while I had him bring me a Pepsi. My mouth had a party.

 

Mom showed up looking great. I’d never seen her that dolled up. Her hair was all glamourized. Dad even raised his eyebrows. And I saw that little twitch at his left lip. Dad stood to assist Mom with her seat. Wow! Who are these people? Our disguises evidently didn't fool her.

 

“Nice boobs,” Mom said.

 

I snorted my Pepsi.

 

“The hair needs work, though.” She grinned a kind of smirky grin, not really a smile, but a contortion that said “Hi, I love you.” She stared at Dad. “I’m guessing there have been, uh situations?”

 

“I killed two men. Dad killed one. We ran away from a couple more.” I blurted it out quicker‘n swiped candy went into a kid’s jaw.

 

Mom winced, turned white, and reached out to touch me. Her body said she wanted to hug me tight and cry on my neck. Dad just sat there stiff, though his eyes had checked out the area to see if anyone was paying us any attention.

 

After a tiny pause, Mom asked how I felt.

 

“You mean after killing those guys, or my cancer?” I asked.

 

She didn’t respond, just studied my face. Finally, she asked if I was ready to go home.

 

“Would you like breakfast, some coffee?” Dad asked.

 

“Not now.”

 

I guess my outburst spoiled her appetite.

 

“We need to go somewhere to talk,” Mom said. “And I have meds for Ohmie.”

 

Dad guided us to a taxi. Back in our room, Mom got to hug me. She smelled great. I could tell that Dad wanted in on the act, but he kept stoic.

 

“Ohmie has missed two treatments,” Mom said as she dumped a pile of meds on the bed. She looked from me to Dad. “The doctor said… Tears didn’t stream, they flowed down Mom’s face. She got up from the room’s only chair to grab a towel. With her face covered, she sobbed once and then sucked in a balloon-full of air. Her intake had a little reverberating quiver, but once in, she removed the towel and spoke directly to me.

 

“Dr. Harriman said that the treatments seemed to have no effect. He said that after missing these two.…” She chugged another lungful of air. I guess though, it was really lungs full. “But some of these, maybe not all, will help with symptoms.”

 

“Good,” I said. “I already decided that I wasn’t going back. Two or three months, or five or six months. What’s the difference? Besides, this way I don’t feel as sick-sick. Are you really a spy, too?”

 

Mom startled again, glancing at Dad. She ignored my question and told Dad that they needed to talk.

 

“You can talk in front of me. Who am I gonna tell?”

 

Dad told Mom to go ahead.

 

"The man you did in Belarus was ours. And your jump drive, the one you gave the Company, was phony.”

 

Dad’s jaw dropped a little, just enough to qualify him as a momentary mouth-breather.