Remembering Henri

(Newark International Airport, 1990...)

Lingering over bad coffee at Joe’s was going to cost him. Henri had found many things to like about the United States during his gap year, except for the coffee. He’d given it one last shot that morning at Joe’s Diner, at first lured by the giant neon coffee cup that had blinked invitingly in the window, and then by the chatty, red-headed waitress who’d called him “sweetie pie” and “honey bun.” Alas, it had been just another sad cup, and now … Henri glanced at his wristwatch. Already nine o’clock! His mental fog lifted as he realized he had mistakenly jumped off the airport bus at Arrivals and was now in danger of missing his flight back to France.

Anxiously threading his way through Newark International, Henri was unaware of the numerous appreciative glances he received. At twenty, he was tall and lanky, with graceful limbs, dark blue eyes and a firm jaw. He had a bookish air about him, complete with professorial glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. His slightly academic look was balanced by longish dark hair, snug-fitting European clothes, and a quick, sexy smile. His strong Parisian accent was icing on the cake for a few American girls who would have gladly gotten up early that morning to drink bad coffee at Joe’s.

Looking for a Departures board, Henri distractedly merged with a large family waiting at the San Juan, Puerto Rico gate. They clutched flowers and welcome signs and cheered as a tiny old woman dressed head-to-toe in black stepped tentatively through the gateway. An excited little girl of six or seven shrieked when she saw her grandma and ran forward blindly, dark curly hair streaming behind her, until she accidentally collided with Henri.

“Sorry, mister,” she said breathlessly through two missing front teeth. “I didn’t see you.”

Henri smiled down at her. “My fault, mademoiselle, excusez-moi.” He playfully tousled the top of her head as he began to extract himself from the crowd that was the girl’s family. He was surprised when she caught his hand and scrutinized his face, looking thoughtful.

“That’s OK. It’s good to see you!”

Henri blinked. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” said the little girl. “Don’t you remember me?”

Henri blinked again. “Remember you, cherie?”

“Yeah!” she laughed. “I’ve missed you! You wanna say hi to my `lita? She’s right over there.” The little girl pointed to her tiny smiling grandma, giving hugs all around.

Intrigued, Henri squatted down, temporarily forgetting his haste. “She looks like a wonderful `lita.”

The little girl giggled. “You say ‘lita’ funny.”

Henri laughed. “You hear my accent, no? I am from France. And I must hurry, I need to catch my plane back to Paris.”

He started to get up, but in an odd, intimate gesture, the little girl cupped his face with her small hands. “Must you go?”

Caught off-guard, Henri gave an honest answer. “I must, cherie. I have my studies and my friends back in France.”

Understanding dawned in the little girl’s round hazel eyes as she removed her hands from his face. “That’s right,” she nodded. “You’re from France and you need to study. I don’t study yet, I’m only six.”

Henri smiled again. “Well, don’t grow up too fast, cherie. Enjoy being six.” As he stood, the little girl adopted a more cheerful, sing-song tone. “I’ll be seven soon! Then eight! Then nine!”

Just then, the little girl’s mother noticed her young daughter talking to Henri. “Camila Perez!” she called sternly, “Get over here right now, young lady.”

“Yes, Mama!” Camila looked sad as she turned back to Henri. “See you later, alligator.”

“See you!” Henri watched as the little girl skipped into her Abuelita’s open arms. Then, noticing Mama Perez’s glare, he waved awkwardly and hurried away to catch his flight.

Camila’s mother spoke firmly to her daughter amid the hubbub. “Who was that young man, Camila? You know you shouldn’t talk to strangers!”

“Oh, Mama.” Camila’s face shadowed. “Pick me up?” Dorothea reached down to Camila’s small, outstretched arms. Once aloft, Camila scanned the airport to see if she could find any trace of the young Frenchman, but he had disappeared into the crowd. “He wasn’t a stranger, Mama!” Her bottom lip trembled. “But he didn’t remember me at all. And now he’s gone.”

***

Dorothea Perez knew her mother was an early riser, so despite her head cold she slipped out of bed to put on a pot of coffee. She’d make it extra strong, just as Mama liked. Maybe they’d have a few minutes to themselves before the rest of the household erupted into its usual chaos.

As predicted, Mama Morales sat contemplatively at the kitchen table in her flowered polyester housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers. Dorothea walked over and gave her a big hug. “Morning, Mama. Let me make you some coffee.”

“Already brewing, couldn’t you smell it?” Mama smiled and gestured at the percolator. “Get us two cups and maybe we can talk a little before everyone else gets up.”

“Ah, you read my mind – as usual.” Dorothea sniffled as she plunked three sugars and a healthy dose of creamer into her mother’s steaming mug. “Here you go. How are you feeling this morning?”

It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Rosita Morales had not been feeling like herself lately, and at her grown children’s urging had agreed to fly to the mainland to see some fancy New Jersey doctors. At the airport, Dorothea had tried to hide her dismay at her mother’s thin frame and wan complexion.

Mama patted her daughter’s hand. “I’m well enough. I made it here, didn’t I?”

Dorothea frowned. “Yes, well, I’m going to fatten you up while you’re here. Tonight, you are eating roasted chicken and Arroz con Habichuelas, and dessert – maybe two desserts!”

Mama nodded amiably. “I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me,” she said, “but maybe give me smaller portions; I don’t eat too much anymore.” As she registered Dorothea’s worried look, her expression softened. “Tell me about you, honey. How are you, and how is your family? Your little Camila – she’s a real pistol! I can’t believe how much she’s grown in just four months.”

“Ah, that one!” Dorothea’s laugh turned into a grimace. “She’s such a challenge, Mama, I won’t lie to you. Miguel and I are talking about taking her to see a child psychologist.”

“Oh?” Mama raised her eyebrows. “Sounds serious.”

“Yes, well, initially I chalked it up to an active childhood imagination. You know, invisible friends and all that. It started maybe a year and half ago, with nightmares. Camila would come into our room in the middle of the night, crying her eyes out, saying, ‘He’s gone, he’s gone, where is he? Why am I here all alone?’ And Miguel and I would look at each other like, what on earth is this five-year-old crying about?”

Dorothea absently took a sip of her coffee, remembering. “And I would walk Camila back to bed and rub her back to calm her down, and eventually she would go back to sleep. But the thing is, Mama, she often talks about these dreams, and she reminisces about this person, whoever he is.”

“Interesting!” said Mama. “What does she say about him?”

“Well, she talks about him as though she knows him well, and she misses him, like they’re old friends or something.” Dorothea swiped her nose with a tissue and widened her eyes. “It’s kinda spooky, you know? None of our other kids did this. We don’t know what to make of it.”

Dorothea sighed. “Well, they say that some young children can remember past lives. They talk about their past, but then as they grow older, they remember less and less.”

“Oh, Mama, you know I don’t go for that woo-woo stuff.” Dorothea patted her mother’s hand. “But weirdly enough,” she added, “it does fit what happened yesterday at the airport.”

“Oh? What did I miss?”

As Dorothea relayed the story of Camila running into a young man at the gate, Mama looked nonplussed. “I wouldn’t worry too much about her,” she commented. “I’m no child psychologist, but I think our girl will grow out of whatever this is. Or, grow into it,” she added. “You want me to talk to her?”

“Of course!” Dorothea smiled at her mother. “I’d be glad to be making too much of this.”

Rosita softly patted her daughter’s cheek. “Ah, Dorothea, you’re a good mama.”

Stirrings from upstairs meant that their alone time was about to end, so each woman savored her coffee and the last few precious moments of peace.

***

Due to her own diminutive and rapidly dwindling size, Rosita Morales sat comfortably at her granddaughter’s pint-size craft table. Camila had picked a Red Riding Hood jigsaw puzzle for them to put together, and they shared a comfortable silence as they worked out the edges. Camila glanced questioningly at her grandmother.

“Abuela, are you going to get better soon?”

Rosita snapped another edge piece into the border. “Why do you ask, chica?”

“Well, you look different from the last time I saw you.”

“Well, you look different too! You’re taller and even prettier. Are you taking pretty pills?”

Camila laughed. “Just Flintstones vitamins!”

Rosita chuckled. “That’s probably it.”

“Mama is worried about you being sick,” Camila confided. “I heard her talking to Papa.”

“Ah, chica, don’t you worry! Soon I will be rid of this old body, and I’ll be like new again.”

Camila considered this. “Where will your old body go, Abuela?”

Rosita responded lightly, “Probably buried in the ground, chica, but who cares? I won’t need that used-up old thing!”

“Because you’ll be in Heaven, Abuela?”

“That’s right.” Rosita snapped in another puzzle piece. “I think I will probably rest there for a while. But I will be watching over you, always, Camila. You will never be without your Abuela.”

“That’s good.” Camila accepted this information matter-of-factly. “Will I see you?”

“Maybe you will.” Rosita planted a kiss on her granddaughter’s cheek. “But even if you don’t, I’ll still be with you in spirit.”

Rosita was amused to see her youngest granddaughter simply nod at this, and then zero in on her puzzle. She attacked it, thought Rosita, with a concentration unusual for a six-year-old. The puzzle was almost complete before Camila spoke again.

“Abuela, I think I can remember being in Heaven.”

“Well, I want to hear about this!” exclaimed Rosita. “What do you remember?”

“I remember…” Camila’s smooth brow furrowed. “I remember someone I love very much. And I remember being really upset when I had to go.”

“Why did you leave, chica?”

Camila’s frown deepened. “There are things here I need to learn.”

“Mm-hmm.” Rosita handed Camila one of the remaining puzzle pieces. “What things?”

“Grown-up things.” Camila’s serious eyes grew round. “But then yesterday, I saw him at the airport.”

“How wonderful for you!”

“Yes,” Camila conceded, smiling. “But we only talked for a few minutes. He’s so old now.”

Rosita’s mouth quirked, and she spread her hands. “What is old, chica?”

Camila silently counted on her fingers. “Probably, like, twenty or something!”

“Oh, well, he’s got a few years on you,” acknowledged Rosita. “I wouldn’t worry about it, though. The Universe has a plan for me, and it has a plan for you, too.”

Camila nodded sagely. “Mama doesn’t think so, but I know I’ll see him again.” Then she hopped off her chair and began crawling around on the floor, looking for the missing pieces to her puzzle.