The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
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Название: The Resistance Girl

Автор: Jina Bacarr

Издательство: Ingram

Жанр: Контркультура

Серия:

isbn: 9781838893781

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ over a hundred years of film in its vaults, a gig he’s worked long and hard to get. I respect that.

      That doesn’t help this bout of loneliness I can’t shake.

      If only I had family here… someone who knew Maman. Someone who’d laugh with me about how she’d let her glasses slide down her nose when she was happily surprised, or how she insisted on having a box of chocolate nonpareils on her birthday every year since the sweets reminded her of idyllic days growing up in a French convent outside Paris.

      I’ve never been to France, always had a job since high school, including working as a tour guide at a major movie studio. I was born in California, but grew up speaking both English and French. I’m thirty-six and I know zilch about my Gallic roots.

      I never thought about it till now.

      Which brings me to the matter of Maman’s possessions.

      My study is like most parlor rooms in these 1930s-style Spanish bungalows on the West side. Built in a time when hanging multi-colored beads separated it from the main house, it’s become a convenient storage room since I work on my laptop on the veranda on sunny days, or sit on the love seat under the bay window, steadying the old artist’s wooden board I’ve had since college on bent knees.

      My work habits make it easy for me to avoid this room. And what’s in it: anything and everything that belonged to Maman, sealed up like holiday presents with perfectly aligned tape and shipped over from my mother’s apartment in Santa Clara. Boxes that have sat here untouched, which saddens me.

      When she first came to live with me, we talked about going through her things, but I could see she didn’t want to, as if by opening these boxes she’d have to come face to face with the reality she was no longer that person. Worse yet, she may not have any memory of what she saw, and she’d feel empty inside. Even if memories are rose-colored, we cling to them because they give us pleasure as well as the courage to go forward in hard times.

      If she couldn’t remember, she’d have neither.

      So I abided by her wishes to wait for the day when she felt strong enough to accept whatever she found. Waited for a day that never came.

      I didn’t have the heart to go through the boxes without her. I kept avoiding it, telling myself I was too busy with the day-in, day-out routine taking care of Maman with a strong mind but a lonely heart. As if by going through her things, I’d have to relive watching her fade away all over again. I know what her last wishes were regarding her personal things and I admit I’ve been remiss in carrying them out – something Ridge and I talked about yesterday over lattes at the gym not far from the studio.

      ‘I worry about you since your mom died, Juliana,’ Ridge said when I found him throwing quick jabs at a heavy punching bag. Tall, dark, gorgeous, engaging his entire body as he hit the bag like he was hellbent on turning it into a pile of sawdust. Yet he was a man who sang lonesome cowboy songs off key, could lift twice his bodyweight, but also had a tender place for me in his heart I sometimes took for granted.

      I felt guilty bugging him, but I needed to talk.

      ‘I’m good, Ridge… sort of.’ I straddled the black leather bench and put down the steaming mocha lattes I’d picked up while checking out the amazing abs on this man who works out every day at 6 a.m. like clockwork. ‘I’m… well, confused.’

      ‘Join the club. You’re going through a big transition. Like me.’ He punched the bag and the sweat rolled down his face and made his bare chest shine bronze and gold under the hot lights. I’m not immune to his appeal. I just don’t go there in my mind. I don’t want to be another groupie.

      Ridge is a legend in the world of stunt work and the recipient of numerous awards for his contributions to the industry and high-risk stunts. He doesn’t talk about himself, but it pains me to see how he’s struggling to accept the fact that at forty, time is catching up with him. I’ve watched him perform on the set and the man is a warrior-god in action. When it’s time to go to work, his head is in the game and he never gives up.

      Last year he cut back on his stunt work to focus on his future (he’s been in the business since he was sixteen). He’s quick to admit you can only get set on fire or die by the sword so many times.

      I couldn’t believe it when he told me he had a new gig as a film archivist. It’s been his dream for a long time to ensure the films highlighting the greatest stunts from the early silents to the present aren’t lost, but preserved for the next generation of stunt performers.

      I’ve been so wrapped up in my problems with Maman, I didn’t realize I’d gone into a strange shell of my own.

      Which was why I’d showed up this morning. I needed a pep talk.

      ‘For years, I ignored my fears,’ Ridge continued, ‘let the adrenaline override everything else. Pushed forward and got the job done.’ He punched the bag so hard the sweat on his face spurted into the air. ‘Then I got hurt and reality hit me like a steel drum. It took me a while to come to terms with my vulnerabilities.

      ‘I’m not afraid to jump out of a plane or leap onto a moving train. I am afraid of letting down my team… and that means you, Juliana. You’re always there for me when I do something stupid, or how you make me talk about something that happened on a shoot I don’t want to talk about.

      ‘I won’t let you down now. You talked about how you’ve been avoiding letting go of the past, moving on. Don’t run from your past, embrace it. The hardest part about doing a stunt is that moment before you make the jump. If you think too much about it, you’ll make a mistake. If you get nervous, that’s when you get hurt. Just do it… make your decision and go with it.’

      My talk with Ridge about finding the courage to move on has fueled my energy in a new direction. I’ve put this off too long. So why not start on a rainy afternoon? I’m working on the designs for a show that takes place around the time Maman was a teenager. Maybe I’ll get some inspiration from her for the uniform for my friendly skies attendant. I smile. I like that idea. As if she’s helping me move on.

      I push down the deep ache in my chest, heave out a big, cleansing breath. Then I put down my coffee cup and get to work.

      It’s time, Maman.

      My mother, Madelaine Chastain, was just a baby when Paris was liberated in 1944, but the demure Frenchwoman always put off talking about her family when I asked her, waving her hand about like she was signaling someone unseen to go away lest they spill the beans. A ghost, perhaps. To my knowledge, Maman’s family were all killed in the war. That didn’t excuse her lack of une famille in my eyes. When I asked the faculty staff who came down for the funeral if she ever mentioned any relatives in France, they shook their heads. I admit I was too distraught over her death and exhausted from the toll caregiving took on me to go searching any further. I wonder if I should have. She must have someone I can write to, talk with about my mother’s last few years, her downward spiral into a deep depression that made her believe she was a burden to me. She once said something I tucked away in my mind.

      That I’d have enough to bear if I ever found out about ‘her’.

      Who she was talking about, I never figured out.

      Maman СКАЧАТЬ