The Pilot's Watch (Historical Fiction)

[Cynthia Anderson]

Opening Chapter - Introduce protagonists in present timeline and inciting incident

 1 

Gina 

October 2015, Colorado Springs, Colorado 

On the sixth-month anniversary of Mom’s death, I make more crème caramel than Mamie and I can eat. She and I sit side by side in her kitchen, three ramekins filled to the brim on the Formica table. A whiff of vanilla lingers on my fingers from slicing the sticky bean lengthwise and scraping the seeds out to add to the milk and cream, like Mom taught me. 

Mamie’s white hair is wispy and pinned up in a loose chignon. “I’ll start.” She says, and slips a spoon into the pale, yellow custard. A warm, syrupy odor wafts in the air. “Delicious.” 

Perfect texture. Bravo, ma chérie. 

My fingers tighten around the spoon. Mamie’s shoulders curl forward as she rakes the custard from the white porcelain. 

“There’s more in the refrigerator,” I say. 

She glances at the untouched one. 

I know what she’s thinking: time to move on. All the books say normal grief goes away. Six months post loss, I’m meant to emerge with a new identity; a survivor, resilient and strong. The truth is I continue to feel unmoored since Mom died, drifting like a boat in a storm, trying to find an anchor in the things that mattered to her, like crème caramel. Maybe that is normal but Mom’s voice whipping like the wind inside my head can’t be. 

“I miss her too.” Mamie reaches across the table for my hand. 

I gently squeeze her bruised, paper thin skin, then wipe away a speck of custard on her mouth. 

“I’ve decided to take a trip,” she says softly. 

“Where to?” 

“Switzerland.” 

Clang. My spoon hits the floor. This isn’t a day trip organized by the Spring Village Assisted Living Center, where she lives. She’s talking about going home. “After all these years, you want to go back?” 

“Why not? You and your mother always wanted to go.” 

My memory flashes back to the year I graduated from high school and Mom tried to talk Mamie into a girl’s trip to Switzerland. Just the three of us. Mom wanted to see the house where Mamie was born. The forest nearby that she often talked about—Europe’s largest, half in Switzerland, half in France. And the town near a lake where she went to university. But Mamie refused, said there was nothing left for her there. We went to Santa Fe instead. That was two years ago. A lot has happened since then. 

The chair creaks as I reach down and pick up the spoon. 

“I want you to come with me.” 

The loose wedding band on her ring finger signals she’s losing weight again. “I’m not sure I can get time off work.” I don’t have the heart to state the obvious. I slide Mom’s ramekin over to her. “You better eat this one too.” 

She digs in, then gives me a baffled look that I recognize as her brain shifting into retrieval mode. Mamie’s short-term memory is like a weak internet connection that either pulls up information or stalls. But she recently passed a cognitive test; the doctor says her mind remains sharp. “The name of restaurant where you work?” 

“Le Chat Noir.” It was Mom’s favorite French restaurant. 

Ask for a week off, Mom whispers. 

I can’t, I nearly say out loud. My hand shakes. No, I’m not talking to Mom’s ghost. The bereavement guide says it’s just my cerebral cortex trying to fill in the gaps because the synapses have yet to reshape to the reality that she’s no longer here. “Shall I make tea?” 

Mamie shakes her head. “Don’t dismiss the idea until you hear me out.” 

“I haven’t dismissed anything,” I say, throat tight. 

The doctor will never clear her to fly. She has glaucoma. In one eye, she’s lost all sight; in the other, the lower lid turns out like a pomegranate pith. An operation can correct it. But Mamie’s ninety and the doctor worries the risk from surgery is too high. I attempt to change the subject. 

“Why don’t I read you an article from Paris Match? Tell me which year and I’ll get it.” 

After Mom died, Mamie moved here to this one bedroom apartment. We both wanted to keep the back issues of Paris Match and Point de Vue—the French language weeklies she’s collected for decades. Mom’s work as a freelance food critic required travel, so Mamie often took care of me. After school, she would correct my French while I read aloud articles about the weddings, births, and deaths of kings and queens. She said that being born in Switzerland—a poor country of dairy farmers—made her curious about how European royalty lived. It was a great way to learn French. I never imagined that one day, Mamie would lose the ability to read or that I’d be the one looking after her. 

“Not Paris Match. But you could get me something from my bedroom. There’s a box in the bottom drawer of the nightstand.” 

“Of course.” 

She’s finished the last of the crème caramel. I gather all three ramekins, put them in the sink, and make my way down the hall. 

On the nightstand sits the silver-framed-black-and-white photo of my grandfather. He died before I was born. I smile at him, like I always do, wishing there was some way to break through the invisible barrier that blocks me from knowing him. I’ve never been in love, but I can tell Mamie’s still in love with Grandfather because even after all this time her voice rises like a musical note when she says his name. I bend down and open the drawer. There’s a faded green leather box inside. It’s heavy and old, the leather on the corners ragged and torn. I’ve never seen it before, which is odd since I packed all of Mamie’s things to move here. Did she slip it in her handbag so I wouldn’t see it? 

I bring the box to the kitchen and place it on the table. 

“I was your age when I left. Just after the war in Europe ended.” A shadow from the window above the sink crosses her face. “There’s someone there I want to go back and find, someone important to me.” 

All I know about those two decades in Switzerland before Mamie came to America was that she met my grandfather, an American Army pilot there, fell in love, and followed him to the United States. Growing up, I never thought about why she wasn’t interested in returning. I figured it was because me and Mom were all that mattered. But now that it’s only me and her, maybe this desire to return is part of her grieving process. I do a quick calculation. It’s been seventy years since she was there. 

“How do you know if this person is still alive?” 

“I don’t. But I want to find out.” She looks at the box. “What’s inside belongs to her. I’m the only one who can give it to her.” 

“Her?” 

“Open it,” she whispers. 

I lift the lid. It’s a watch. Mamie motions that I should take it out. Scratches scar the glass cover. The dial is black with big phosphorous numerals, the patina glossy like a gorgeous night sky. Beyond the hour markers, numerical scales rim the dial’s edge, which only the long second hand can reach. 

“It was your grandfather’s watch.” 

My eyes are drawn to the black leather strap. At the last adjustment hole, the leather is ashen and cracked. I run my finger over it and feel a little spark on my skin. I wonder if he’s left some charge behind, waiting all these years to come to life. 

You’ve always had a vivid imagination, says Mom. 

I turn the watch over. On the leather underside, there are deep burgundy stains near the lug that secures it to the case. My fingers twitch as I feel the tremor of a long ago moment. 

“How come you never showed it to me before?” 

Mamie doesn’t answer. 

“Did you show Mom?” 

No, Mom says. 

“On the dial…” Mamie whispers, “Rolex Oyster Chronograph and Fab Suisse.” 

“Where’s the Fab—” 

“Below the six.” 

I find the tiny letters poking up like coral on the bottom rim. “What does it mean?” 

“Fab is short for fabriquer. Made in Switzerland.” 

I return the watch to the box. “Tell me if I’ve got this right. You want to go to Switzerland to give Grandfather’s Rolex to a woman you once knew.” 

She nods. 

“Why don’t I try to find her on the internet? Then you can speak to her over the phone, get her address and send the watch by post. I just need her name.” 

Mamie blinks. “I don’t have a name.” 

“You don’t know who to give it to?” I ask, stunned. 

“I know who, but we must go to Switzerland to find her name.” 

An uneasy feeling rises along my spine. Could she be cheating the cognitive tests? Maybe the residents in Spring Village share the questions so they can prepare their answers in advance. I turn to the window. The wind knocks the branches of the old oak against the glass. It’s midday but the sky is dark. Mamie shivers. Perhaps she realizes her hold on reality is slipping and it frightens her. “Can I get you a sweater?” 

“Have you ever done something wrong?” Her voice hardens. “Truly wrong that you regret it in your bones, and wish you could re-do it, and thinking about it hurts, and you hate yourself every time you look in the mirror?” 

Perhaps with dementia there’s a sliding scale between clarity and confusion. Hate myself on some days. Yes. Done something truly wrong that I wish I could re-do. Yes. Can’t stand to look in the mirror. Yes. 

“I need to go back. Not just for me,” her voice rises, “but for Samuel. It’s taken me a lifetime to figure this out. Now, I might have only months left.” 

“Don’t talk like that. The doctor says you’re fine.” 

“He said I could fly.” 

My eyebrows lift in surprise. 

“He told me what precautions to take. I’ll need your help with the drops for my eyes.” 

I try to imagine Mamie in the Denver airport going through security. Can she manage the bathroom on the plane? What if something happens to her mid-flight? Everything about this screams wrong. 

“I’d love to go with you...” I feel the watch calling out to me and force myself to look away. “You know how Dad is…he’s pushing me to apply for engineering school. I’ve got a month to get the application in.” 

Mamie presses her lips together. “I don’t have a right to pressure you. I should have asked your mother.” 

Why didn’t you? 

Mamie sucks in a breath. “It’s different between us. I feel…you’ll understand.” She leans across the table and cups her hands on either side of my face. “This year has been tough on both of us. It will be good for you to get away, see a different part of the world. Who knows what’s out there waiting for you.” She smiles. “That was one of your grandfather’s favorite sayings.” She looks down at the Rolex. “Did I mention that my hometown, Le Brassus, has been a watchmaking center for centuries?” 

“No.” I’m beginning to realize there are many things Mamie hasn’t told me. 

Can you see the glimmer in her eyes? Mom asks. 

Yes. Maybe this trip is what Mamie needs to emerge as someone new—a survivor. But it all sounds too crazy to be true. What if she’s making up a story? And yet the watch is real. “Can you tell me more about the woman?” 

“Not until we’re back there.” She reaches for the tissue box, lifts it and reveals a blue passport. She slides it towards me and opens it to her picture page. A red credit card slips out. “Take these and buy the airline tickets on that computer you have at home.” 

Mamie’s square color photo flashes at me, her name on the right: REARDON, HEDY. 

“You handle all the money. Is there enough in my account for a week in a hotel too?” 

I nod but don’t tell her that there won’t be anything left from her balance of five thousand dollars after paying for international airfares and hotels. It’s the last money from Mom’s estate, meant to be Mamie’s emergency money. 

“Good. There’s only one place to stay in town. Hotel de la Lande,” her mouth tightens, “near the church.” 

At the back of my mind a warning light blinks. “I’ve got to talk to Dad first. I need a little time.” 

Mamie glances at the watch. “The one thing I no longer have.”