Three Places

The care home was called Les Jardins de la Seine and looked out on nothing at all.

It was a four-storey building in Vitry, between a school and a garage, with an overheated lobby, green vinyl armchairs and a smell of soup at every hour of the day. Camille had been coming every other Sunday for four years, and every other Sunday for four years she told herself, pushing the door open, that she ought to come more often.

Her mother was in her room, sitting by the window, a cardigan over her shoulders and the television on with the sound off.

— Ah, said Simone. There you are.