She ran her hands up and down my arms, giving me a look saying that was a silly question. “Of course I did. I know how important they are to you. I explicitly asked him to make sure they knew you had a bug—that it was nothing to worry about—and you would visit as soon as you could. He said it wasn’t a problem and they would make sure to move things around or bring someone over from another facility.”
Only the slightest bit relieved, I nodded and thanked her. None of the children did well with change and a new person would be frightening to them. Hopefully they’d been able to bring Selena in, I thought, staring absently at the amber strokes brushed along the hardwood floors.
Then it dawned on me.
“I’ll just go in now!” Instantly my mood shifted into that of someone cheered by renewed hope. Checking the clock on the microwave, I mentally began to make a list of what I would need to bring with me. Paints for sure, and possibly the foam sponges. Inside the small bedroom masquerading as a pantry, I plucked miscellaneous craft supplies from the bottom shelf.
“Foster . . .” my mom said from outside the pantry. “Honey, you can’t see the children today.”
Assuming her reasoning to be something along the lines of time, I replied, “I can make it by one fifteen—one thirty at the latest.” Just in case, I added, “And I’m feeling great.” My stomach rumbled, as if to dispute this claim, reminding me I had yet to feed it again. That problem was easily solved three shelves up. I tossed the Nature’s Valley granola bar in the same bin as the paints. “I think spending the day with them, outdoors and playing games is just what I need.” I nattered on, rummaging in a box for the small brushes and light blue butcher paper.
“It’s not that.” I turned to find her leaning in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other at her mouth gently worrying her lips. “Baby, I’m not sure you understand just how sick you were. You barely remained conscious longer than a few minutes at a time. You slept and threw up. That’s all you did for six days. If you were to pass that virus onto one of your kids . . .”
Until now, I had been gathering supplies as I listened. At this last sentence, I stopped moving like a toy whose batteries had suddenly died.
“But . . . that’s not possible, right? Not this long after being infected.” Anxiously, I looked around my mom to where my dad was standing beside the counter, listening. “Right, Dad? You said—” I broke off when he began shaking his head, the beginnings of defeat settling in.
“Unfortunately it is possible,” he said regretfully. “If you remember, what I said was that the chances of you infecting me—an adult with a healthy immune system—were incredibly unlikely, but children are a different matter entirely. Their immune systems are undeveloped and susceptible to everything not vaccinated. That’s why chicken pox usually manifests in the first six to ten years and it’s not uncommon for them to have colds four months out of the year. Their bodies are well-prepared for it, but really they are quite vulnerable. And with little awareness of where they put their hands—usually inside their mouths—it complicates things. They pick up and spread viruses much quicker than adults do. With enough hosts, feasibly . . . it’s possible that entire building could contract the flu in under as little as twelve hours. That is . . .” He paused, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, ruffling his curls. Abstracted, he spoke while staring at the floor. “Do you think it was one of the children who gave it to you? If so, it might already be too late.”
“No,” I said, quick to defend them. “I’m almost certain it was a girl at school; I carried her to the nurse’s office.”
He was nodding. “Mm-hm—and that was last Monday, right?”
“Yes.”
“Right.” Looking back at me, he added, “So the only way you would have shown signs as quickly as you did, was if you had direct contact with viral specimen. You must have accidentally touched your eyes or your mouth, before washing your hands.”
Neither of the scientists found this to be a particularly detestable approximation. I, however, was not so much scientist as I was horrified germ-a-phobe. A repulsive convulsion shuddered up my back, bending my neck forward. “Yes,” I whispered hoarsely, a fierce and sudden desire for another shower consuming me.
I knew that as much as I wanted to see my kids today, there was no way I would knowingly expose them—even if the risk was minimal. With a sigh, I let the paintbrush set I’d finally found—wedged beneath the wall and Rhoda’s dog food—slip out of my hand and into the bin. Instead of air, it felt as if oxygen had been replaced with rocks made of grief; heavy and numerous, they filled the width of my feet, stretched up my calves, and piled high to expand across my stomach and arms. I moved listlessly, bending down to snap all four corners of the large lid until it was secure, then stood up, meeting my mom’s watchful eyes.
“Oh, sweetie . . .” She pushed off the doorway and walked toward me, wrapping an arm around my waist. The pantry was large enough for Rhoda and my dad, too, should they want to join us. “I think it’s about time for that surprise now, don’t you?”
The surprise. I laughed, somewhat humorlessly. I had forgotten all about it, and truthfully I wasn’t all that in the mood for a surprise. She was so excited at the prospect of showing me, however, I couldn’t say no. I nodded, forcing a wan smile and let her lead me out of the pantry. My dad put a conciliatory hand on my back as we exited, but didn’t follow. I saw my backpack propped innocently on a chair and couldn’t stifle a sigh. For whatever reason, I was reminded of an assignment due tomorrow—a thirty-page paper, written in first person narrative as a member of the Continental Congress. I was to discuss the birth of the Declaration of Independence. Likely I would be given an extension, but at this point . . . I was going to need a clone.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t realize until we were standing before the double oak doors, twice my height and quintuple my width, that led to our banquet hall. I suppose her playing docent had been in my favor, seeing as how the extravagant room hadn’t been on my list of places to check for surprises. The chateaux, in its prime, was inarguably the most stunning property on the block consisting of eight houses—or so we were told by Monsieur Desmarais, the previous and only owner before us. Elderly as he was, though, at the time we met him, there beneath a mask of wrinkles and dim blue eyes was a man of stature, elegance, and an appreciation for lovely things—namely my mother, with his ardent gaze and lingering kisses to the hand. Led by curiosity soon after moving in, I decided to do a Google search on Monsieur Desmarais, unearthing several black and white photos of a dark haired regal man somewhere in his late twenties. I was both surprised and not at all surprised by what I learned about him.
Besides possessing a significant amount of wealth, he was also thought to be a direct relative of those belonging to French nobility. As I continued my research, there were names I recognized and some I did not, but a Viscount Châtillon-Blois was certainly one I was familiar with, having read a fair amount of 12th century liturgy in preparation for a History report. Driven to the states in an effort to expand a textile franchise, Desmarais had hired a horde of architects to build a suitable home for him. Months later, “The Chateaux” was completed and Desmarais made his mark on what had formerly been thought to be a relatively quiet part of town. Not long after his effusive arrival did an equally unrestrained reputation follow, causing quite a commotion and stir among nearby residents. Fond of entertaining, he had stressed to his architects the importance of a proper salle de bal to host lavish parties. Although he remained in Amiens, France—his birthplace—until construction was complete, dispatches denote his extensive involvement as overseer, demanding that every decision, large and minute, be discussed with him before proceeding. This request made for many delays, pushing back the speculated completion date by over six months. The outcome, however, was nothing short of glorious. While the text dictating the ballroom’s sumptuous construct and borderline garish French décor was numerous, I could only find one picture.
&nbs
p; Apparently, the article went on to say, Desmarais’s parties were highly exclusive, and to be invited to one was an honor indeed. He was rumored to be quixotic in nature with—no surprise—an affinity for beautiful, American women. Eventually, well into his fifties, Desmarais decided it was time to settle down and marry; his bride, a diminutive redhead with blue saucers for eyes. While the parties lessened in frequency, the couple still enjoyed entertaining together, and did so with flair, until his much younger bride passed away from a heart attack. Said to have truly adored his wife, Desmarais grieved the loss profoundly, spending the remainder of his life in isolation before it was suggested by his physician he hire an in-home nurse. Abhorred by the idea of sharing his home with another woman—even if only platonically—he opted instead to sell his beloved chateaux, leaving the memories of the American beauty he loved tucked inside it. This was told to us firsthand, the day we met a surprisingly spry man unconfined to a wheel chair. As we toured the grounds, it was my assumption his fine mind was still mostly there, though through the ravages of loss and inevitability of time, it had decayed some, senility making its first signs. This, in addition to his declining health, was likely further prompting behind the move to Quiet Pastures, an assisted living community. Watching him that day, I couldn’t help but wonder about his story . . . wanting so badly the details of the enigmatic noble, both roguish and romantic, who fell incredibly and irrevocably in love, only to have it tragically seized from him much too soon. He reminded me very much of Jane Austen’s men, sharp tongued and with eyes worthy of losing yourself in. Though I hardly considered myself a writer, one day it might be interesting to see if I might do justice to a story such as his. Maybe so.
My mother slipped her hand through the iron knockers, looking over her shoulder at me as she pushed. The chateaux—the ballroom in particular—spent many years in dark dereliction before creaky hinges remembered their function and light spilled through grimy windows. As much as possible, salvageable pieces were left untouched during renovations; the ornate oak door, gilded in gold leaves being one of them. The chandelier as well had been carefully removed and relocated to hang in our foyer.
A few feet into the room, she turned to face me with a smile attempting restraint. It was dark inside; sunlight from behind me barely illuminated the massive oak table she lightly rapped her nails against. I stared at the anniversary gift purchased by my grandparents, looking for signs of a surprise. It had been custom made to match the likeness of the door. It was ostentatious, to say the least, a little reminiscent of something out of my fairy-tale books, but seating seventy-five was no easy feat, and to do so required a certain amount of superfluity, I supposed. The table, in fact, was actually two tables pushed together. Likely it was impossible to transport and carry a thirty foot table made of solid oak. Beyond the profusion of carvings and lacquer, it served its purpose, providing ample room for the attendees of my parents’ environmentalists group: The Ecological Society of America. Held monthly, it made sense that they would need a space to accommodate everyone and hold benefit parties.
“You see . . . anything?” she inquired, arching an eyebrow above eyes that cornered to nowhere in particular.
My first reaction was to laugh—and I did. Even without light, I knew there was plenty to be seen inside that room. Most of which, you would not find replicated but in the most remote parts of the world. The table, in conjunction with its surroundings, was tame by comparison.
With a vision exceeding eccentric, decorating had been taken to an entirely new level with my parents playing designer. Peter Pan and his lost boys would feel right at home in here, I thought, examining the first round of blue prints. While plants in our home were about as common as doorknobs, this room could very well have emulated the backdrop of a rainforest.
There was hardly a spot where lush, verdant plants didn’t burst from the walls, where flowers of all kinds didn’t bloom from every pocket of space, perfuming the air with dewy, intoxicating aromas. The vegetation, both faux and organic, were nearly indistinguishable if you asked any of the guests, while the animals and birds were remotely less so in their incredibly lifelike limned depiction. It was possible, as I thought about it, that perhaps the painted mural, sprawled across all six walls might actually be my favorite. Crafted in cool colors—mostly teals, violets, and greens—it erupted nature, splattering and spilling it with vivid contrast and careful understanding. The woman who had spent the better portion of six months, on a ladder or harnessed to scaffolding, had likely spent much longer than that immersed inside an actual rainforest. It truly was as if she had hewn a chunk of the Amazon and pasted it here inside our home. As far as I was concerned, it was the best parts of the rainforest, with no need for mosquito repellent or hiking boots. I could enjoy everything, never fearing I might rub up against something poisonous or fall into a well concealed brush pit.
I made my way through the doorway, quickly closing the door behind me. It made a soft click as I rested my back against it. “You know what I mean,” my mother said, and laughed, realizing the ambiguity of what she’d asked. Standing in front of me, she cocked her head, still smiling, and said quietly, “Anything else—besides all of this.”
I looked up as she indicated “all of this” with a flourish of the arm. As I did, I took a deep breath, savoring the air thick with hydrangea and orchid. Above me, umbrageous trees mingled with bamboo shoots, birds of paradise sprang from the moss, and fuchsia Bromeliads dotted thick roping vines twisted together. A Spix’s macaw, the world’s rarest bird, and idoneous with its title of most beautiful of avian creatures swooped down on invisible wiring. I stared at the head and body of dark blue, lime green belly and yellow eyes, shivering not from a chill, but by how unbelievably real it looked. The urge to duck down was strong.
I heard her inhale through the nose before she spoke. “You’re not looking in the right direction.” There in her voice was excitement and determination, a desire for me to see, but a refusal to spoil the fun in finding it on my own. “Look . . . somewhere else,” she advised, eyes glittering.
And so I did.
However, the floor—which was no longer floor at all, but a wide snaking river—looked as it always did; though not any less spectacular because of this. Lethargic water flowed beneath my feet; a lazy current rippling, subtle, but perceptible. I listened in, hearing the distant sounds of thunderous whooshing. In the far right corner was the torrent of water surging out and over a cliff, to reach explosively into a roiling pool below. In actuality, it was painted onto the ground, but it gave the illusion of depth, as if I were standing on an even higher cliff, overlooking an almost panoramic view. Again, my mother inhaled, and I was certain it wasn’t the fragrances’ doing. I stepped forward, moving to my left and gently rubbed a satiny leaf between my fingers. The smell of damp loam intensified as I walked this way. Nestled in this corner was a white Bengal tiger, prowling and stalking, her belly low against the brush. Her prey, an Emperor Tamarin, a small brown and gray speckled monkey, with an orange tail and a snow white mustache that bowed around its chin. He sat discerning from a tree branch, a judicious eye on his much larger predator.
Walking the perimeter, plumes of fine mist rose up before me, billowing toward the obscured blue sky canopied with strips of green plant life. Sunlight filtered through, touching the green and turning it bronze. It was by way of inconspicuous dimmers and multiple lamps that this manufacturing was possible. Should night be the desired effect, it was with no more than the flip of four switches, buried but accessible to those who knew where to locate them, that daytime—with the help of fiber optics technology—transformed into a perfect balmy night. The shrouded yellow sun vanished, and in its place a full moon, chalky and pocked, casting pale blue light everywhere, dancing over the branches backbending into the river. In turn, the river would answer, reflecting the glowing orb in its glassy ripples. Gone were the blanketing trees overhead, and instead a sky giving homage to evening; thousands of twinkling stars dazzle
d the navy belt, actually coruscating the way real stars do. The sounds of chittering insects and warbling creatures provided sound-scape, rounding out the experience.
I made my way back toward my mom, who was now—with all the subtly of an avalanche—drumming her fingers loudly upon the table.
“Mom,” I said, and sighed apologetically at her anxious hands, rustling some papers. “I’m sorry . . . I think you’re going to—” And just like that, it was as if the switch that turned this room from dark to light, did something of the same inside my head. While processors went to work, explaining what I was staring at, my first thought was, how could I possibly not have seen this sooner? Milliseconds later, I remembered where I was standing and felt a little better. Still, it was hard to miss. Not quite believing what I was seeing, I rubbed my temples and shook my head from side to side. This went on for . . . I really don’t know how long, until my mom gently pulled my hands from my face. Trying to confirm its existence, I made to ask a question. Gibberish and incomplete sentences fell from my mouth one after another. Still, she beamed and nodded her head emphatically
“Yes,” she answered. Her brown eyes were both soft and sly. “I’m going to assume you agree this is a pretty incredible surprise.”
Surprise.
The definition of a surprise was something unexpected. Well, I had not expected this, so yes, it was a surprise. The word surprise, though . . . it didn’t begin to capture what I was feeling as I stared at my homework. Neatly stacked in—two, four, six, I counted off silently—sixteen piles was indisputably my homework. I continued to hear the words in my mind, yet couldn’t make them find purpose, settling into understanding and acceptance. I gave up and moved closer, hoping it might come naturally. White place cards had been put directly in front of each stack, and I saw that there was a pile for each class. On them read: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Below that were my classes: English, History, Biology, Trigonometry, Music. The stack for Music was only a few pages, since the Senior Piece was essentially our only focus for the rest of the year. I looked from pile to pile, still trying to make sense of what had been done. Then it hit me, all at once, one fact at a time.
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