Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

THE NEXT MORNING MARLA and I board the train to Bristol. When we’re settled and the train pulls out of the station, I ask her where she was last night.

She promptly brushes me off.

I press the issue, giving her a taste of her own nosy, nudgy medicine. “Please tell me you didn’t hook up with Jesse.”

She pulls a face. “Oh, Hannah, of course not. I told you, it’s not like that with him.”

I don’t believe her, but, you know what—?

“Okay, Marla, fine. I don’t want to know.”

“I am not attracted to him, and even if I were, Tallulah and Cressida have a prior claim. He’s off-limits. I firmly live by the rule, sisters before misters.”

I almost snort the mocha I purchased before we boarded the train. “Tallu and Cressida are not your sisters.”

I want to add, they could be your daughters, and for that matter, if you’re so honorable, why was it not daughters before rotters back in the day? Because you threw me over for some gems, Mom.

But she waves me off, leans her head against the train window, and sleeps the rest of the way to Bristol.

After we arrive, we find no trace of Tom and Ivy’s marriage record in the city hall. Though we do find death certificates for Angus and Constance Braithwaite, Ivy’s parents. They passed away within three months of each other. Angus passed first, on July 27, 1928. Constance followed in October.

“Are you sure Ivy and Tom were married in Bristol?” Brie, the desk clerk, asks.

“I thought so,” I say. “That’s what my great-grandmother always said. This was Ivy’s hometown.”

“Have you tried searching the GRO records online?” Brie suggests.

She must read our confusion. “GRO is the General Register Office. It’s a database where all civil registration of births, adoptions, marriages, deaths, and such are recorded.”

Brie scribbles something on a small scrap of white paper and passes it to me across the desk. It’s a website.

“It’s quite easy to use and very complete. It contains all the records dating back to 1837. If your granny’s information exists, it should be there.”

Marla and I thank Brie and make our way out of the municipal building.

“Well, that’s great,” I say as I tuck the slip of paper into my purse. “We could’ve simply done an internet search rather than make the trip.”

“Maybe. If you knew where to look,” said Marla. “Sometimes the internet can feel like the ultimate wild goose chase. While we’re here, we might as well have a look around.”

But first we go to a pub and look up the web address that Brie provided. With the names and the year—1940—we discover that Ivy Braithwaite and Thomas Norton were married May 22, 1940. It was a Wednesday.

They were married in London, not in Bristol, but that’s not the first thing on our minds.

“Gram was born on December 4, 1940,” I say.

Marla counts on her fingers. “That means she was probably conceived in March 1940.”

Marla and I look at each other. “In the first entry in her 1940 diary—the one I found on the floor by the bed—Ivy talked about spending a quiet New Year’s Eve with Andres, and she didn’t leave Paris for the UK until mid-April.”

“Yep,” Marla says. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Tom Norton was not Gram’s father. I’m thinking that Ivy was pregnant with Andres’s baby before she married Tom.”

WE’RE MOSTLY SILENT OVER the fish and chips we order for lunch. I could really use a pint or two right about now, but I don’t want to drink in front of Marla. Instead we order bottles of J2O. Orange and passion fruit for her. Apple and mango for me.

Sometime later, as we finish our meal, Marla says, “I noticed that the address on the death record for Granny Ivy’s parents was Whitchurch Road.” She drains her glass. “Why don’t we go see where they lived? It might not give us any clues about her marriage, but it would be good to put things in context.”

It’s a great idea—I’d hate to write this trip off as a total waste.

We hire a cab and soon enough, we’re standing in front of the two-story white-stone home where Ivy was raised. It appears to have been split into two apartments. The houses in the surrounding neighborhood seem to be more modern, but if I squint my eyes, I can imagine how it must’ve looked when my great-grandmother lived there.

I went to university in Bristol and I can’t believe I never thought to visit Ivy’s childhood home. It never crossed my mind.

“I wonder what happened to the place after Angus and Constance passed,” Marla muses.

I watch my mother standing there gazing at the home with reverence. I remember the way the paintings of Ivy distressed her. It’s humbling, really. In her own quirky way, she is more affected by the past than I am. Or maybe it’s that she is the one who slows down long enough to connect to the heartbeat of our ancestors.

I think about how my mother was shut out as a teen. Gram never forgave her the one mistake—or circumstances prevented them from forgiving each other and moving on. Now, it seems pretty clear that Ivy was living with her own secret pain, too.

Marla reaches out and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “This is our past, Hannah. And I think there’s more for us to discover back in France.”

I want so badly to trust my mother and start anew—to give her the second chance she never got from her own mother. I’m not quite there yet, but I can feel the ice around my heart thawing.

January 1930

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

My parents’ death nearly broke me.

Andres insists I should cling to the good memories. I wish it were that easy. The trouble is there aren’t that many good memories. My parents and I weren’t terribly close. I always thought someday we would find our way to each other, after they realized my need to get away from Bristol wasn’t