The End

The heavy door closed behind her as she stepped into a little world all its own—a world always in the dark. Taking a breath, she relished the stale sadness, the comforting dark, the glory of high ceilings reaching up to a deity who does not answer. The echo of awe ran through her, but it was only an echo.

This was her favorite place in Paris. She loved the cathedral, loved it wrongly, for the wrong reasons. The shade and quiet reassured her, while she had no use for the glimmering golden altar. It didn’t impress her in the way it should. Instead, the cathedral was like an old friend. She felt she was too casual with it, like being on first-name terms with a king.

He had almost been brought to his knees, this king, by the fire-god while the world watched. Many chests, including hers, had tightened in shock when his spire crumbled. It should have been impossible; monuments like this were supposed to outlive us, or last forever, which was the same thing.

She allowed her feet to sweep her into the flow of tourists wandering vaguely in a circle. Around and around they went, past paintings of saints and glowing chandeliers. The meditative motion helped with her nerves. After a couple of orbits, she drifted over to the rows of candles lit by supplicants. She usually ignored them, but an urge seized her and she waited her turn, then lit one, then another, then a third. Could she light enough to burn away the darkness inside her?

“Are you going to leave any for other people?” A voice behind her asked. She whirled, almost knocking the candles over—which could have been tragic, considering.

“Hi,” she said. The mirth faded from his eyes when he saw her worried face.

“What’s all this about?” he asked. She had texted him in the middle of the workday and asked him to meet her here. She had planned ahead. But now, seeing him in the flesh, in his worn leather coat, she wanted to say “Nothing, forget it,” and take his arm and lead him out into the light, to walk along the bank of the Seine. But it wasn’t nothing. And she wasn’t leaving until she told him. She’d promised herself.

“Let’s sit,” she said, taking his hand, relishing his touch, trying reflexively to push away the darkness inside her. But no, that wasn’t right. She couldn’t do that anymore. She was about to drag it out into the light.

They walked down the center aisle together, not too far, and slid into a pew near the back. He looked increasingly concerned. She could feel her own heart beating. It wasn’t too late to turn back, even now. She thought about it as she looked around the cathedral, her eyes catching on the altar.

They weren’t married in a church. They were married outside in the light, with dancing and wood nymphs watching, with delicate guitar notes carried by the wind. Their parents made speeches. The bride and groom clasped hands and looked at each other lovingly, and made promises.

She didn’t know then how long life was. Didn’t know how sturdy and insistent doubt was, how it could creep into her fingers and wait for a chance to invade her heart like a disease. She almost didn’t notice when her gestures became empty. She was still saying the right words, still kissing the right places. But their love had withered away like smoke.

The cruelest and strangest part was that James didn’t seem to know. Even now, as he squeezed her hand and his eyes asked her to tell him, his conscious mind had no idea. She would plant a seed there in a moment, and it would grow roots, and he would clutch at it for years and never fully extricate it.

Then she did it. She didn’t start with their love, but with what she had done. She told him about the doctor’s visit, about the test, the cold clinic a week later, her sister driving her home, that day when she’d been so tired.

His first thought was of the child that could have been, that could have floated in the dark of her belly and come out into the light and been theirs.

“What have you done?” he said, releasing her hand. Then, “Is this some kind of sick joke, telling me in a church?”

His voice was just above a whisper, when she knew he wanted to shout. That wasn’t why she’d brought him here, to keep him quiet. She couldn’t tell him in their apartment—she’d tried. There she was surrounded by mementos of their life together, framed photographs of their wedding, trinkets picked up on their travels. She couldn’t there. But why here, in Notre Dame, of all places? She didn’t know.

The simple answer came: because it was dark. She’d sought the comfort of this hall, which was never loud or bright. But when James posed the question, she wondered if there was more to her choice. Had she subconsciously wanted God to judge her? Had she been seeking absolution?

“It’s not a joke,” she whispered miserably.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?” But it occurred to him just as the words came out, and she could see the change in his face. “You don’t love me.” A statement, a realization, a resolution.

“Let’s go outside,” she said. But he shook his head.

“I need time to think. I’ll see you at home.”

Now she caught his wrist as he rose and cracked the last bit of anything remaining between them.

“I’m not going home,” she said. She had some clothes stuffed in her purse and her sister was waiting.

His face fell one final time, though it had already fallen. It was like the second collapse of a bombed building. Then he backed away from her, nearly tripping as he hit the pew, turned and walked unsteadily back up the aisle.

She watched him as he passed the candles, then opened the door and let the sunlight in.