The Sea of Lost Things

by Kelly St-Laurent

  Jonah, for his part, seems nonplussed at his father’s concerns. He has all the air of being carefree and confident, which I can’t help assuming is a side effect of growing up with a face like his.

  I’m not sure what it is that grates me about him. Aside from our brief introduction, he barely speaks to me again. Steve tries to include me in the conversation, but Jonah, it seems, is more interested in talking about himself than getting to know a stranger.

  He is painfully aware of his own charms. I find myself gritting my teeth as he tells his father about how well the business is doing, how good his life in London is. I get the feeling he’s one sentence away from bragging about all the women he’s sleeping with.

  Thankfully, Jane arrives, saving me from ever having to find out. When she sees her son, her eyes alight with joy, and she rushes in and throws her arms around him.

  “I thought you said you were coming tomorrow,” she says as she releases her hold on him. “Did I get the dates wrong?”

  “He decided to come earlier,” Steve tells her.

  Jane gives her son a warm smile. “It’s so good to have you back.”

  “Thanks mum, it’s good to be back.”

  “And he’s right on time for lunch,” Steve teases.

  We finish preparing the sandwiches and set the table outside. Francois, the other guest, comes down and we are properly introduced. He speaks English and explains that he has been coming to the B&B since its opening five years ago. He used to be a veterinarian but is now retired and splits his time between Bayeux and Lyon.

  It only takes me a few moments getting to know Francois to realize that I like him a lot more than Jonah. I keep that to myself, of course. Jane and Steve have been nothing but kind and welcoming to me.

  During lunch, the conversation floats between English and French. I spend most of it listening, fascinated by the different people around the table. It turns out Francois has family in Québec. He’s traveled to Oregon before, and we talk a little about the places he visited.

  At some point in the conversation, I feel Jonah’s eyes on me. I try to ignore it and focus on Jane and Francois. Then I hear someone mention the word Omaha and realize that I’d completely forgot about the bus schedule.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  Steve looks at his watch. “Almost two.”

  “Shit,” I say. “Sorry, I was meant to catch the last bus out to Omaha. I’m going to miss it.”

  “Why don’t you take one of the cars?” Jane offers. “Can you drive a manual?”

  I shake my head, regretful. “I never learned stick shift. I tried once and got so frustrated I didn’t attempt it again.”

  There’s a short laugh across the table, and I don’t need to look up to see who it is.

  “We can’t have you missing out,” Jane says, her brows knit together in thought. Her expression shifts suddenly as an idea comes to her. “Why don’t you take her, Jonah?”

  He stares at his mother, unblinking.

  “That’s a great idea.” Steve smiles. “You can take my car.”

  “No,” I say quickly, horrified at the thought. “Really, it’s alright, I can go tomorrow.”

  “Nonsense,” Jane says flippantly. “You didn’t have anything planned did you, Jonah?”

  Jonah looks at his mother, his face carefully neutral, though I can see he hates the idea as much as I do. “I guess not,” he says, tension in his jaw.

  Jane smiles at her success. “Excellent. You can go after lunch.”

  Jonah meets my gaze, a flicker of anger crossing his features.

  Oh, good. Finally, something we have in common.

  7

  There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach as I get into the passenger seat of the Audi. As much as I want to visit Omaha, I’d rather go alone, but it’s turned into one of those awkward social situations. I couldn’t exactly say no to Jane’s suggestion, and even though it was evident that Jonah wanted to get out of it too, it seems he couldn’t say no either.

  Thus, I’m trapped in a car with him.

  I barely have time to put on my seatbelt before he pulls out of the drive and onto the street. As he shifts gears, the engine hums and I feel the vibration of it through my feet. The music blares over the speakers, and he doesn’t say anything to me as we turn out of Rue Saint-Loup.

  After a couple of minutes of awkward silence, I say thank you, my voice barely carrying over the Arctic Monkeys.

  He turns the music down. “What?”

  “I said thank you. I’m sure this isn’t what you wanted to do with your afternoon, but I appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t really have much of a choice.” And then to show he’s done talking, he turns up the music again.

  Frustrated, I stare out my window at the French countryside. For the next twenty minutes, neither of us speak. The music thankfully drowns out the discomfort of the silence. If there’s one good thing I can say about him, it’s that he doesn’t have bad taste in music. My fingers tap along to Baba O’Riley as I watch in wonder at the world blurring by.

  Suddenly the music stops, and I instantly worry that he’s going to attempt a conversation. Instead, he hits a button on the steering wheel, connecting a call.

  “Hey,” he says casually.

  “Am I on speaker?” an Irish female voice asks.

  “I’m in the car. I got roped into driving one of the guests to Omaha.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes.

  “Okay, I’ll keep it short. You’re still coming to Paris, right?”

  Jonah checks the road and makes a turn. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “Thank god. Have I told you how much I love you? Seriously, I’d even consider doing that thing we did that one time back in college.”

  “You’re on speaker, Catriona,” he reminds her.

  “Right.” The line goes quiet for a second. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your trip. See you on Wednesday.”

  “Bye.” Jonah hits the button and ends the call.

  I stare out the window, pretending I didn’t hear a thing, all the while wondering who Catriona is, and what it was they did in college. The music comes back on, but Jonah turns down the volume.

  “Where exactly is it you wanted to go?” he asks.

  “Your mom mentioned a museum, so I’d like to check that out first. And then I thought I’d go down and visit the beach.”

  We turn a corner, and Jonah pulls into a parking lot. “This is the museum.”

  There’s a tank on display and a few cars parked around it. I look through the windshield and see the entrance, beneath a sign declaring it Musée Memorial d’Omaha Beach.

  “You know there are other beaches, right?” He looks at me with what I can only presume is judgment. “You Americans always want to go to Omaha and Utah, but you do realize you weren’t the only ones who liberated France?”

  I don’t reply, partially because he’s being an asshole, and also because I’m not aware of the other beaches but don’t want to admit it.

  “So how long?” he asks.

  “How long?”

  “How much time do you need?” There’s a boredom in his voice, bordering on anger.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  He sighs. “Well, give me a time to pick you up.”

  Feeling put on the spot, I look at the clock and see that it’s nearly three and then say five-thirty, though it comes out more like a question.

  “Fine.”

  He looks at me, waiting. Grabbing my bag, I get out of the car, and only have time to clear my toes from the wheels’ trajectory before he drives off. I can’t lie, I feel instant relief. I have no idea what his problem is, but I make a mental note to avoid him as much as I can after today.

  Crossing the parking lot, I go into the museum, through the gift shop, and purchase a ticket from the cashier. I find it easy to lose time inside, looking at all the different artifacts. There’s so much history in each item, from the clothing, to the weapons
, even down to the everyday objects the soldiers used. I don’t expect the emotion that comes over me as I read the different plaques describing the events of the invasion, the lives that were lost. To know that it was here, where I stand, that so many men fought and died.

  While inside, I learn about the other landing beaches Jonah mentioned. There are five in total, and each were given a codename. The westernmost is Utah, where my grandpa’s battalion and thousands of other paratroopers landed. Here at Omaha, U.S troops came in by amphibious tanks. It was the deadliest of the D-Day beaches. Almost two and half thousand men were either killed, wounded, or went missing. The British soldiers arrived at Gold Beach and Sword Beach by warships, the Canadians by allied landing craft at Juno Beach.

  It was an incredible joint effort that resulted in so much loss of life. But by the end of June 6th, 1944, the allies had successfully pushed inland, on their way to their objective of liberating the area from Nazi control.

  By the time I leave over an hour later, the clouds have turned, the color of them ominous on the horizon. There’s a quiet beauty to it, and as I walk down to the beach, I feel a sense of tranquility. Allied flags line up across the boulevard. A strong wind blows through them, pointing them in the direction of the sea.

  There’s a stunning sculpture in the sand, tall metallic wings reaching up to the sky. I step down and walk over to the plaque to read the inscription. The piece is called Les Braves, and there’s a note from the sculptor, Anilore Banon.

  I created this sculpture to honor the courage of these men: sons, husbands and fathers, who endangered and often sacrificed their lives in the hope of freeing the French people.

  A chill runs through the air, causing goosebumps to rise across my skin. It’s all so surreal to be standing where they once were. There’s a break in the clouds, a slither of sun hitting the wings of the sculpture, making them shine. I say a silent prayer of gratitude.

  One of the French people liberated was my grandmother. A woman I never knew, whose life is entwined with my own.

  I take a seat on the steps and watch as the water darkens with the overhead clouds. I’m not sure how long I sit there thinking about everything this beach has seen. What it would have been like that day. To land there, not knowing if you were going to survive, but knowing that you were needed. I wonder if I could ever possess courage like that.

  When I pull out my phone to take some photos, I realize that it’s a quarter after five. I spend a few minutes capturing images of the beach and the sculpture, and then head back down the road to the museum.

  Rain begins to fall when I get there, so I dash into the gift shop and decide to wait inside. Not wanting to seem rude, I pick a few small pieces to buy. Some fridge magnets, a book on the landings, and a bottle of water. After I pay, I wait a few more minutes, looking out for the black Audi.

  Ten minutes turns into twenty, and then forty. I’d continue waiting inside, if I could, but the cashier starts closing up, so I head out into the rain. There’s no shelter to stand beneath, and it only takes a few minutes until I’m drenched to the bone.

  Where the hell is he?

  I swear I said 5:30, but it’s now 6:25. As reluctant as I am to do so, I know I’m going to have to call the B&B. I don’t have Jonah’s number, and I realize he doesn’t have mine either. Pulling out my phone for the hundredth time, my heart sinks when I see how low my battery is. I beg it to stay alive long enough to Google the number.

  Using my cardigan to shield my phone from the rain, I go to make the call when my screen goes black.

  “No, no, no, no, no. Please don’t do this to me.”

  I try to turn it back on but nothing happens.

  “Fuck.”

  I run back to the entrance of the museum and try the door. It’s locked and the lights are off inside.

  “Don’t panic,” I say out loud, trying to convince myself and failing. Glancing around, I look for another place I can use a phone. There’s a general store across the street, but I saw them close about fifteen minutes ago.

  Think, Charlotte. Think.

  I remember seeing a restaurant down the road. Maybe I’ll have some luck there. Throwing my phone and soaked cardigan back into my bag, I cross the street, but when I reach the place, it’s not open. A sign outside says it’s closed on Mondays.

  Fuck.

  My heart races, anxiety threatening to take over, and I make myself breathe deeply. I think we passed a hotel or some sort of accommodation on the way. Half walking, half running, I head in the opposite direction. A few minutes later, I see the sign and quicken my pace. Drenched and out of breath, I reach the property and let out an angry moan. There’s a for sale sign out front, and the place is empty.

  I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. My desperation reaches new heights as the rain shows no signs of stopping. Even though the sunset isn’t for another few hours, the clouds have swallowed most of the natural light.

  I’m going to have to knock on someone’s door, even though it fills me with dread to do so. The area of the street I’m on doesn’t have any houses close by, and if I remember correctly, the last one I saw was back by the museum.

  As my anger wars with my worry, I head back in the direction I came from. The chill sits heavy in my bones as I dream of shelter and dry clothes. I was an idiot for agreeing to let Jonah take me. He obviously didn’t want to drive me and has made his point fucking clear.

  I turn the corner and wonder if the museum has gotten further away. The journey back feels a hell of a lot longer. My thoughts are distracted by headlights beaming behind me. The car slows as it nears, which only makes me panic more. For a split second I wonder if I should get off the road and run into the bushes to hide.

  The car pulls up beside me, and I realize that it’s an Audi. Winding down the passenger window, Jonah yells at me to get in. My relief is rapidly overshadowed by my anger, and there’s a moment where I contemplate just walking away. A shiver runs through me though, and I quickly reconsider.

  Getting into the passenger seat, I glare at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I shout.

  He at least has the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. Shit, Charlotte, I’m really sorry.”

  My teeth chatter, but I manage to form the words. “Where ... were ... you?”

  He puts the car in park and pulls off the dark blue hoodie he’s wearing. “Here, put this on.”

  I don’t move a muscle.

  “I didn’t mean to leave you. I went for a drive, and the tire blew out, and I had to get towed to a station. I didn’t have your number and couldn’t call.”

  His excuse cracks a resolve in my anger. He seems to notice and hands me the sweater. “Take it. You’re freezing.”

  Reluctantly, I pull it over my head. Slowly, my shivering subsides.

  “Look, I know we don’t know each other very well, but I would never do that, leave a woman waiting alone like that.” There’s an unexpected sincerity in his voice.

  I wrap my arms around my midriff to try to retain what little warmth my body is managing to achieve.

  Jonah turns on the heater. “I’m really sorry, Charlotte.”

  I nod, acknowledging his apology, but don’t reply. Looking out the window, I watch the rain fall, thankful to no longer be out in it. Jonah takes the car out of park and makes a U-turn. As we drive back to Bayeux, we don’t speak again. He turns the music on, the volume lower this time, the silence between us heavy.

  When we get back to the B&B, I head straight upstairs, not wanting to talk to anyone. Within the refuge of my room, I peel off the damp clothing and get into a hot shower. Standing beneath the water, I welcome the warmth to my bones, my anger gradually ebbing away.

  I don’t go downstairs afterwards, choosing instead to spend the evening in my room. As hungry as I am, I can’t face Jane or Steve, and especially not Jonah. There’s a TV in the corner, and I turn it on, searching through the channels for something I recognize. A French dubbed version of Sabrina
is playing, and I leave it on in the background for company. I toy with the idea of calling Zoe or Fiona, but I don’t feel much like talking.

  A while later, there’s a knock at my door. I hesitate, expecting it to be Jane, or Steve. I don’t want to tell them what happened, but I can’t ignore them either. Reluctantly, I go and open it, but no one is there. I glance down the hall but see no trace of anyone. I’m about to close the door when I notice a tray at my doorstep. I pick it up to see a plate of food and a glass of wine. Taking it over to the bed, I find a piece of paper next to the wine glass. There’s only one word written on it.

  Sorry.

  It’s from Jonah. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but my stomach rumbles in response. There’s bread, cheese, charcuterie, and salad. I’m so hungry, I put aside my mixed feelings and eat a piece of brie.

  French Humphrey Bogart says something to French Audrey Hepburn, and I sit on the bed, taking a sip of the wine. The tension in my muscles instantly begins to diminish, and I tear the bread in half, making myself a sandwich. I take a bite and groan in delight.

  Damn you, Jonah.

  How the hell am I going to stay mad at you now?

  8

  As it so happens, staying mad at Jonah turns out to be the easiest thing in the world. When I make my way downstairs the next morning, I find him in the kitchen, drinking water. Shirtless.

  He watches me as I walk in and put the tray down on the counter, but he doesn’t say anything.

  He wipes the sweat from his brow, and my eyes go treacherously to his chest before I can stop them. It’s evident he likes to keep himself fit. His frame is sculptured, lean but muscular.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  I drop my gaze, mortified and instantly annoyed. Moving past him, I attempt an air of nonchalance as I make myself a coffee.

  “You got my peace offering, then,” he says, nodding toward the tray.

  I can’t help but laugh. “If you think that’s going to make up for leaving me in the rain for almost two hours, you have another thing coming.” I force myself to look at him and am somewhat unnerved to find him smiling.