Until I Die

it, Kate. Believe me, I do. But I just want to put something out there for you to consider. When I died the first time, it was announced in the papers. Everyone knew. I didn’t even have a choice about going back to my community—to the people I loved. And I missed that. For years, I practically stalked Hélène’s father and sister, making sure they were okay. I couldn’t ever show myself, but I watched them.
“I left anonymous flowers when Hélène’s dad passed away. And after Brigitte, Hélène’s sister, died giving birth to a son, I watched him. He and his family live in the south of France now. I have seen them. His daughter looks like her grandmother. And however weird it sounds, knowing they exist grounds me. Having a link to my past grounds me.
“But I would have given anything to have been able to stay in touch with Brigitte and her father and the other people from my past—no matter how many painful memories that contact would have stirred up. I didn’t have that choice. But you do. It might be too early, but I hope you will change your mind someday. I can tell whenever you mention your friends that you still struggle with it. But … being in contact with them might actually make you happier.”
Pain had been blowing up like a bubble inside me, and at that, it finally exploded. “I am happy, Vincent,” I growled through clenched teeth. He looked at me, a skeptical eyebrow raised. Realizing how ridiculous that had sounded, I pursed my lips, and then burst out laughing. I leaned forward into his arms, loving him more in that moment than I ever had. He cared for me. Not just because he wanted me for himself. He wanted me to be happy … on my own.
The curtains came up, but we didn’t move. We spent the rest of the performance kissing and laughing and peeking out at the ballet and then kissing some more.
    That night when I got home, I slipped my laptop out of my desk drawer and turned it on. Using the email account I had set up to write to Charlotte, I sent a message to my three oldest friends. It’s me, Kate , I wrote. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I do love you all. But it still hurts too much to think about my past, and though you don’t mean to, you bring it back too clearly . I wiped a tear away as I typed in one last sentence and then pressed send.
Please wait for me .

THIRTEEN
     
    FOR THE NEXT WEEK, VINCENT WAS TOO BUSY with his project to be able to spend much time with me. Previously, on the rare day we didn’t see each other, we had called to catch up at night, and he would give me a complete rundown of his day. But recently he’d begun to carefully skip over bits.
Now that we had talked, I didn’t feel as bad about it. And knowing that he had asked for my blessing—in a roundabout way—I felt more supportive of him. But I still worried. Because whatever it was, it was taking a toll on him. His skin’s healthy olive tone had begun to look sallow, and dark circles were appearing under his eyes. He was so tired and preoccupied that even when he was next to me, it felt like he wasn’t completely there.
At the same time, I couldn’t complain about him being any less affectionate. Because he seemed even more so. As if he was trying to make up for everything.
“Vincent, you look awful,” I finally said one morning.
“It has to get worse before it gets better,” was all he would say.
After a week and a half of watching him rapidly weaken before my eyes, I was getting to the end of my rope. I didn’t want to force Vincent to give me more information … to put any more pressure on him. And Jules and Gaspard were obviously not going to spill the beans. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t ask Violette.
    Since her Hitchcockian introduction to the cinema, Violette and I had been to several films, each time on her initiative. A couple of days after our first movie date, I received a bouquet of blue and pink flowers and a copy of Pariscope with a note attached telling me to look on page thirty-seven. Page thirty-seven was a list of movies. I dug my flower dictionary out of my bag.
The blue flower was monkshood, which meant “danger,” and the tiny pinkish flowers were nutmeg geranium: “I expect a meeting.” Danger … meeting? I looked at the movie listings again and saw, in the middle of the page, Dangerous Liaisons. This has got to be the first time in history that The Language of Flowers was used to encode movie titles , I thought, laughing to myself as I dialed her