Mignon nods. Pushes her glasses up. Crosses her legs. Those gray Hush Puppies are dreadful.

"Going to yoga class and meditation. The morning walks."

"What about group?"

"I mean, the impact letters are pretty powerful, but I'm not sure what they prove."

"Why don't you see how you feel after you share yours next week. Then tell me if it mattered. How's that sound?"

"It sounds good."

"I'd like to share something with you, Bernadine."

"Sure."

"Please keep this between us-it's not meant to be shared with the other counselors, during discussion after the lectures or with any other people in the program."

"Okay."

"One of the things you said in your written statement was how the horrible way your marriage ended made you feel like a victim."

"That's true."

"That you still feel a great deal of anger and resentment toward your ex-husband."

"That's putting it mildly."

"What if I told you these emotions and thoughts were totally justified?"

"It's what I've been trying to get my friends and everybody to understand for years!"

"What if I also told you it doesn't make a bit of difference if they're justified or not?"

"I thought you just said you got got it?" it?"

"I do. But so what? Tell me what holding on to all of this anger and resentment has helped you do."

"Pop pills."

"What else?"

"Be unhappy."

"So, would it be safe to say that you've been letting the pain from your past turn the present into the enemy?"

"That's one way to look at it."

"Tell me in your own words what you hoped to accomplish by coming to A New Day."

"I wanted to stop taking pills and learn how to live a healthy life again."

"That means you're pretty damn tired of living like a victim, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I'm going to ask you to try something."

"Look, Mignon. I don't want you to think I think I'm better than any of the people in this program. Or that I don't have a problem. Watching what drugs and alcohol have done to some of these people is exhausting, not to mention depressing as hell. I'm just trying to figure out how to get to happy."

"This is precisely why the steps are so important for so many people."

Bernadine shook her head. She was thinking about what Belinda had said. She was also wondering where she was and how she might be doing. "I have a problem with the idea that if God could remove all of our defects and shortcomings, then we'd all be perfect."

"I totally agree. This is one reason why I'm going to ask you to take what you need from the program during the next two weeks."

"I'm glad you understand."

"There's something I'd like you to try after you leave my office."

Bernadine looked a bit apprehensive. "Like what?"

"If you can, try to pretend that your life is a one-thousand-page book. You're how old?"

"Fifty-one."

"At fifty-one you've already lived, say, six hundred of those pages."

"Okay."

"You've got four hundred more to go. Today, you're starting on page six hundred and one. You can live these next four hundred pages without clinging to what appeared on pages one to six hundred. Keep in mind that no one's asking you to forget what's on those other six hundred. For now, leave them just where they are. At least until you're ready to accept whatever it was that was painful. The idea is to live the next four hundred pages the way you wish to. How's that sound?"

"This is the kind of stuff they need to suggest in those lectures. Instead of scaring the hell out of you."

"I know, Bernadine. But a lot of what some people hear doesn't scare them enough."

"Thank you," Bernadine said.

"You're welcome. See you in group?"

Bonjour

The day after my surprisingly pleasant date, my doctor left me a message saying she wanted to see me right away but there was no need to be alarmed. I could drop by at my convenience. This freaked me out. I'm probably dying. They never want to give you bad news over the phone. I bet it's some kind of cancer. Or my liver or kidneys. Something that can't be fixed. I'll have to cancel my trip because I'll probably be getting prepped for chemo. Fuck.

I should never have done drugs in college and after graduate school. I should never have smoked those stupid cigarettes! I should've stopped with the French fries and double cheeseburgers and large Cokes once I hit twenty-three. Just said no to those second and third helpings of peach cobbler and sweet potato pie and fried chicken and macaroni and cheese and that extra dollop of sour cream on my baked potato, knowing I'm lactose intolerant. But no. I have always said yes to Savannah, and now look at the price I'm going to have to pay for being so self-indulgent.

Is this what happens after fifty? Your body starts turning against you? Years ago, it seemed as if every time I called Mama she was either on her way to, or just coming back from, the doctor. Or going to pick up a prescription. Now my friends and I are doing the exact same thing. There's always some mandatory test we have to take. Some new ailment or complaint. We're always getting repaired.

I was sitting on the exam table, waiting for the doctor to walk in and give me the bad news. My heart was beating like crazy. I looked at all the disease pamphlets on the wall to see which one I might be lucky enough to get. As soon as Dr. Mizrahi walked in, she gave me a reassuring pat on the knee. "So. You're producing too much glucose, which is the same as sugar, which means you've got diabetes two."

My chest sank. "I know what diabetes is. But what does this mean for me?"

"That your glucose levels are much higher than they should be. Your mother was diabetic, right?" she asked, flipping the pages of my chart.

"Is. She's still alive." She's still alive."

"What about your father?"

"Never met him."

She gave me a prescription. At least it wasn't cancer.

I got lucky. I had enough miles to upgrade to business class. I sat upstairs. It was very cool up there. The seats reclined to a horizontal position. I pulled out six books from my carry-on. I knew I wouldn't be able to read all of them in two weeks, but I liked having options: Krik? Krak!, All Over but the Shoutin', Breaking Her Fall, Giovanni's Room, One Hundred Years of Solitude Krik? Krak!, All Over but the Shoutin', Breaking Her Fall, Giovanni's Room, One Hundred Years of Solitude (my third time), (my third time), Avalanche, Avalanche, and and White Teeth White Teeth. I don't count the book of French phrases, which was in my purse. I also broke down and bought one of those little translator gismos.

"Warm nuts, mademoiselle?" the flight attendant asked.

I wanted to say, "Yes, but not that kind." Instead I just smiled, shook my head and said, "No, thank you." I'm afraid of nuts. I don't know which ones are good for me. I'm already thinking about what I put in my mouth before I put it in my mouth. Nothing like a little diabetes diagnosis to act as a wake-up call.

It was pouring when we landed in Paris. The taxi driver drove past a cemetery that looked like the kind you saw in old horror movies. Three short blocks from there, he stopped in front of a drab building from the early twentieth century. I thought Thora said it was hip. Which to me meant modern. I pulled my big suitcase into the dark hallway and a dim light came on. This was already too creepy. I was looking for the elevator. No such luck. I had to drag my heavy suitcase up two flights of thinly carpeted stairs. It smelled like mildew. When I heard trash bags falling down an air shaft, I almost lost it.

As soon as I walked inside the apartment, I thought I could have been standing in the foyer. I was trying to get my bearings. I took a few steps past the stairs, saw the kitchen on my right, and realized I was in the living room. Nothing looked the way it did on those fucking pictures Thora had posted on the bulletin board. She must have used a special lens to make everything look bigger. Now that I was at the other end of the living room, I needed to sit down. There was no sofa because there was no room for one. Just two ugly over-stuffed chairs: one was olive green and the other some kind of tweed. The kitchen appliances were probably from the '80s. They were baby doodoo yellow. The glass coffee pot was brown from not being fully cleaned after sitting too long on the burner. There was only half a refrigerator. The wooden cabinets looked sticky. I didn't dare touch anything.

I flipped on a few more lights so I could find my way upstairs. The circuit breaker tripped. I had to duck going up the steps. It was hot as hell up there. I didn't want to concern myself with the thought of air-conditioning. The bed was on the floor. The duvet-or whatever it used to be-was thin and grayish blue. Who would choose such an ugly color? I couldn't help from turning it back. The sheets looked as if they'd been slept on. I got a lump in my throat. This was also when I hit my head on the damn ceiling. Which sloped. This meant I had to stay close to the wall because it was the only place I could stand upright. Thora had the nerve to call this place a duplex?

Someone obviously loved watching Friends Friends in French, because there were stacks of DVDs sitting on an outdated television set. The bathroom was the only modern thing in here. It was all white. Except only one person could stand in it at a time. The tub was deep and had a hand-held shower. The sink was so small that when I bent over to rinse my face, water splashed all over the floor. I didn't trust the towels so I used my sleeve. The "second bedroom" was adjacent to this one. There was no door. A twin-size bed was pushed against the wall. An empty desk on the other side. French novels from yesteryear sat on a shelf. A dwarf wouldn't be comfortable in there. in French, because there were stacks of DVDs sitting on an outdated television set. The bathroom was the only modern thing in here. It was all white. Except only one person could stand in it at a time. The tub was deep and had a hand-held shower. The sink was so small that when I bent over to rinse my face, water splashed all over the floor. I didn't trust the towels so I used my sleeve. The "second bedroom" was adjacent to this one. There was no door. A twin-size bed was pushed against the wall. An empty desk on the other side. French novels from yesteryear sat on a shelf. A dwarf wouldn't be comfortable in there.

I ran downstairs and collapsed in one of those chairs. There was no fucking way I was spending a single night in there. The thought of sleeping in that bed was enough to make me itch. Where was I going to find a nice hotel at this time of night? I looked inside a cabinet and found a phonebook, which of course I couldn't fucking read. Thank God hotel was spelled the same. I was trying to remember the name of the one I stayed at before. Couldn't. That's when I remembered I had one of those guides in my purse. I went by the pictures of the rooms. Found one. Didn't care how many Euros. Yes I did. I could afford it. They answered in French. "Bonjour," "Bonjour," I said. I said. "Un hotel reservation?" "Un hotel reservation?"

"Votre nom, s'il vous plait?"

"American," I said, trying to find my translation book or that little contraption.

"You are American. Do you wish to reserve a room?"

"Yes, ma'am. If you have anything available tonight, I would really appreciate it."

"We do indeed, madam."

I pushed my luggage down the stairs using my feet, pulled it out to the street and trudged my way to the corner. I was happy when a taxi stopped in less than a minute. I sat in that backseat and pressed my forehead against the glass. I looked up as we passed lighted apartments. Beautiful apartments. When it started raining again, I didn't care. The hotel was modern, hip and gorgeous. Right across the street from Radio France, close to the Statue of Liberty. A few blocks from the Eiffel Tower. And a half block from the Seine. All they had available was a junior suite, which was somewhat expensive, but I was worth it. When the bellman opened the door to my room, I felt like hugging him. It was not only twice the size of Thora's flat, it looked like a page from Elle Decor. Elle Decor. The furniture was Italian, dark and smooth. Everything else was the color of straw: the duvet, the carpet, the shades. There was a flat-screen TV that I would not turn on once. The furniture was Italian, dark and smooth. Everything else was the color of straw: the duvet, the carpet, the shades. There was a flat-screen TV that I would not turn on once.

The sun streaming into the room woke me up. I looked around to make sure I was really in Paris. The honking horns outside the window and the smell of coffee and fresh-baked pastry downstairs confirmed it. I was on the second floor. I ordered breakfast: poached eggs, whole wheat toast, a few slices of melon and two shots of espresso. I checked my glucose before I ate anything. anything. Took my medication after I swallowed the last bite. Took my medication after I swallowed the last bite.

I dreaded calling Thora, but figured I should get it over with. I rehearsed my upbeat tone in the shower. Thank God she wasn't there. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Thora. Everything is fine here except I was allergic to something in your lovely flat so I've had to check into a hotel. It's all good. I'll speak to you as soon as I get back. Thanks much."

With my map in tow, I crossed over the main avenue and started walking along the Seine. I had to stop just to take this in. I am in Paris, I thought. I wanted to give myself a few minutes to appreciate how I got here. I sat on the grass. Watched the tugboats. The floating restaurants. The charters. I inhaled the scent of river water and fresh air. The cars behind me went silent. I was awestruck looking up at the Eiffel Tower. To my right: the Statue of Liberty. Directly across this river was the Left Bank. It felt surreal, looking at so much history.

I had a history, too. I was raised in a Pittsburgh ghetto. Thanks to my mama, I never felt deprived or disadvantaged. In fact, she had me believing that when I grew up my life was going to be remarkable. Exciting. Possibly even thrilling. She was right. I graduated from a well-respected college, have a great job and love what I do. I married a good man, but one who made me feel as if I was disintegrating inside. I opted out because I was too smart to settle for mediocrity. I don't care what Sheila thinks. My life didn't end just because my marriage did. I've got plenty of reasons to live, and much to look forward to.

Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. I didn't come to Paris to run from myself. I came here to run back to myself. As soon as I stepped off that plane, I already felt like Cinder-fucking-rella except I didn't have to wait for a prince to find my other slipper. I brought quite a few pairs with me. In my twenties, I used to think people in their fifties were old. Too old to have any fun. I felt sorry for them because their best years were behind them. It was all downhill from there. I beg to differ. I like my life. I'm free. I can do anything I want to. Go anywhere I want and don't have to depend on anybody to orchestrate it. I'm my own conductor.

I got up, stretched and kept walking. I felt lighter. I must have been smiling because people smiled back. "Bonjour," "Bonjour," they said. they said. "Bonjour, a vous aussi," "Bonjour, a vous aussi," I said. Originally, I'd thought about trekking back up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Why repeat myself? I passed over the tunnel where Princess Diana was killed. There were wreaths of plastic flowers everywhere. I couldn't help thinking how quickly tragedy can strike. This one impacted the world. By the time I made it to the Place de la Concorde, I moved in slow motion in order to appreciate the cascade of those fountains. I headed on down the Champs-Elysees, past all the shops to the avenue of trees. For someone just diagnosed with a life-changing disease, I had energy to spare. As if diabetes was a wake-up call to finally get healthy. I said. Originally, I'd thought about trekking back up to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Why repeat myself? I passed over the tunnel where Princess Diana was killed. There were wreaths of plastic flowers everywhere. I couldn't help thinking how quickly tragedy can strike. This one impacted the world. By the time I made it to the Place de la Concorde, I moved in slow motion in order to appreciate the cascade of those fountains. I headed on down the Champs-Elysees, past all the shops to the avenue of trees. For someone just diagnosed with a life-changing disease, I had energy to spare. As if diabetes was a wake-up call to finally get healthy.

I still took a cab back to the hotel.

I'd been there three days when I decided to call Mama so she would know where I was. "Did you get my e-mail text message?" she asked.

"No. I haven't checked either one in a couple of days."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't felt like it."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm in Paris."

"What in the world are you doing in Paris?"

"Having fun," I said, knowing this was the wrong answer.

"Did you go with somebody?"

"Nope. Came all by myself."

"You ain't been divorced but fifteen minutes and you had to run all the way to Paris, France, by yourself to prove what?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything, Mama. I just needed to get away."

"Then why didn't you come to Pittsburgh."

"It just wouldn't have worked right now."

"What's wrong with Pittsburgh?"

"Nothing, Mama. I needed to go someplace far away. Someplace beautiful and foreign."

"Hell, Pittsburgh is foreign to you. It ain't exactly no postcard but you ain't been here in years."

"I would like to come home for Christmas if that's all right with you."