The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  Toni knew that it was an addiction Serge suffered from—he could only hope that this time Serge would finally be able to control it and keep the promise he’d made.

  And then, Serge had looked at his little brother, his eyes pleading. “How did I die, Toni?” he’d said. “I can’t remember anything about it. How did it happen?”

  Toni froze. Then he looked at his brother and grabbed hold of him. He hugged him tightly. “Don’t think of the past,” he said. “There’s only the future. A new life. That’s all that matters.”

  Serge hadn’t asked about his death again.

  • • •

  Toni made Serge gather the pieces of the phone he’d destroyed. Then they went inside, Toni carrying a box of supplies.

  “So,” said Toni. “What have you been doing? Hunting?”

  “A little,” said Serge.

  “We could go together, if you want? Like old times.”

  “It’s getting late,” said Serge, oddly wary. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  Toni heard a noise from elsewhere in the house.

  “Is someone here?” He said it too quickly and with suspicion in his voice. He saw the frown on Serge’s face. Trust goes both ways, he told himself.

  “No,” said Serge, nervous.

  The sound came again, and Toni realized where it had come from: his mother’s bedroom. He felt a moment of hope. Please God, he thought, let it be her. He took a step toward the door, but Serge moved to block his way.

  “What are you doing?” said Toni.

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it her?” he said, almost pleading. “Has she come back?”

  Serge stayed where he was, silent and uneasy. Toni considered just trying to barge past—but if it was who he hoped, she wouldn’t want that. “Is it Mum?” he asked.

  Serge nodded.

  For a moment Toni was overjoyed. Then he despaired, as he realized why Serge was blocking the way. “She won’t see me?”

  Serge shook his head and Toni found it unbearable. His mother had come back, but only to punish him. Punish him even more than she already had. “Mum?” he called to her, distraught. “Please?”

  Silence from the bedroom. Silence from Serge.

  Toni turned and left the house, his tears flowing. He went to his truck, fearing that he would always be denied his mother’s forgiveness.

  Once he’d gone, Serge went to their mother’s room to see if the girl he’d found had woken yet.

  44

  Léna fought her way back up from the deepest sleep she’d ever known. She had moments of lucidity: at one point, she knew she could hear her phone ring somewhere distant, the familiar ringtone she’d set for her mother, then the ringing stopped abruptly with the sound of something being smashed. She went under again, resurfacing to the sound of raised voices nearby.

  This time she held on. Clawing her way to consciousness she managed to open her eyes. She didn’t know where she was. In sudden panic, she realized that the clothes she’d thrown on before leaving the hospital were gone, and she was only wearing the hospital gown.

  The panic made her sit up suddenly. The flare of agony from the wound on her back was enough for her to black out again briefly. The next thing she knew she was on bare wood.

  Léna opened her eyes as the man leaned over her. She was sprawled on the floor. Serge, she remembered. His eyes were clear blue, but she couldn’t read what lay behind them—anxiety perhaps, or curiosity.

  “It’s OK,” Serge whispered. He helped her onto the bed. She cried out as the pain flared again; Serge helped her onto her side and covered her gently with a blanket. She lay still, and the pain settled. She noticed the musty smell in the room and realized it was coming from the bed itself. Not used for a while, not changed for a while. The room was sparse, the walls papered in a drab green, a small table at the bedside looking like a battered antique.

  “Why am I here?” she asked.

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “You fainted, so I brought you back.”

  “I should be in the hospital,” she said. She felt exhausted and was still vague about what had happened the night before. “I left before I was ready.”

  “You just looked like you needed a good sleep.” He smiled at her. There was something broken about his smile, Léna thought. “Sleep more. I’ll bring you something.”

  When he left her, she remembered the confrontation with Camille, remembered stumbling out into the dark streets, leaving herself so vulnerable. Stupid, stupid, she thought, cursing her stubbornness.

  Her exhaustion was profound. The next thing she knew, she was waking again, knowing she’d slept for a significant time. It was still light outside, but it felt more like afternoon than morning now.

  She tested her back again, enough to convince herself that the earlier flare-up had been down to the speed she’d sat upright, tearing at healing tissue. That, and the fact that whatever drugs the hospital had given her had long worn off.

  Serge must have been listening for her to wake, and shortly afterward he came in carrying a tray with a glass of water and a small bowl.

  “Sit up,” he said, his voice gentle. “Slowly.”

  She did as he asked, wincing when she felt tender skin pull and the pain rise again.

  He nodded and produced a pill bottle from his pocket. “Just aspirin,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s all we have, but it’ll take the edge off.”

  She took two pills and swallowed them gratefully with a swig of the water.

  “Do you mind if I get a better look at your back?” said Serge.

  She gave him a wary glance but shook her head, desperate to know how the injury looked now. He went around to the other side of the bed and undid the straps on the back of the hospital gown, saying nothing. She could hear his breathing grow louder behind her.

  “How is it?” said Léna, trying to keep as still as possible. “They gave me antibiotics. It should have helped.”

  “It doesn’t look infected now,” he said. “But it does look painful. It looks like a…” He paused. “Like a fresh wound,” he said, his voice strangely uneven. He reached around her, holding the bowl in his hand, showing her the contents.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “My mother used to make this if I ever cut myself. It’s a nettle poultice. It’ll reduce the inflammation and seal the wound.”

  She looked warily at it. Dark green slop. Disgusting. “Nettles sting.”

  “Not when you boil them. Trust me.”

  Léna thought about it. If anything could help get this sorted, then she might as well try it—it wasn’t as if the doctors at the hospital had had the answers. “Go on then.”

  She could hear his breathing again behind her as he spread the cold poultice on the wound. She expected it to hurt, but it didn’t. Serge sounded more worried than she was. His breath grew ragged, and he kept pausing.

  Shy, Léna thought. Probably uncomfortable around girls at the best of times, let alone half-naked ones. She thought she’d distract him, try to put him at his ease. “So you’re Toni’s brother,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” he managed.

  “Are brothers as much of a pain as sisters?”

  Serge kept on applying the poultice, without answering. After a moment he stopped. “That’s it done,” he said. He came around to the side and grabbed a towel he’d left hanging on the doorknob, wiping the green gunk off his hands without meeting her eyes.

  “Well?” she said, seeing how ill at ease the guy looked. “I’ve a sister, and she’s always been annoying. I say that, even though I’d do anything for her, you know?”

  Serge looked at her, stared really, as if he’d not actually noticed her before. “I know,” he said. “You make them promises, and no matter how hard it is, you don’t want to let them down. Even if they always disagree. Even if they
never understand. And sometimes…” Serge clenched his fists. He looked torn. What she’d intended as a little small talk had turned out far more intense. She regretted saying anything. “Sometimes you make promises you might not be able to keep.”

  He was staring at her again, for long seconds. Long enough for her to feel uncomfortable, to recognize that she was alone, God knows where, with someone she knew next to nothing about. Then he sighed and looked down. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Léna nodded cautiously. “A little.”

  “Me too. I’ll get us some food.”

  45

  The hospital staff had sounded almost embarrassed when they’d first rung Claire to ask if she had any idea where her daughter was. The question had struck Claire as ludicrous, as if they’d somehow misplaced Léna or forgotten which room she was supposed to be in.

  The reality dawned quickly enough.

  She’d called around, without luck. Jérôme, of course, had wanted to come to the house, but she’d told him not to, that instead he should look for her in known haunts around town.

  When Camille came downstairs, Claire was calling the hospital back to tell them there was no sign of Léna anywhere.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Camille.

  Claire finished her call and sighed. “Léna snuck out of the hospital last night. Nobody knows where she is.”

  “Have you tried her cell phone?”

  Claire raised an eyebrow, careful to keep her temper under control. “Of course. No answer.”

  Camille shrugged carelessly. “She must be with friends then. Or Frédéric.”

  Claire looked at Camille, annoyed that she was treating this so casually. “I wish I could be so certain. She often goes places without telling anyone, but the hospital’s concerned. If her condition got any worse…”

  Camille rolled her eyes. “She’s not stupid, Mum. If she thought she was ready to leave, I’m sure she’s OK. And if she felt sick, she would call.”

  Claire nodded. Camille had a point, but it didn’t make her feel much better. Stubborn as Léna was, if she’d left the hospital, then she must have been feeling well enough. Sneaking out behind the backs of the staff was exactly Léna’s style; so too was switching off her phone and getting some time to herself.

  All very self-centered. All very Léna.

  “I know she was angry with me,” Claire said. “About the idea of moving away. Was there anything else, Camille? Anything she might have talked to you about?”

  Camille shook her head. “The move, that sounds about right.” After a few seconds of thinking, she added: “Do you think Léna’s sleeping with Frédéric?”

  Claire sighed. “What, did she say they were fighting again?”

  “No, I just…I just wondered.”

  Only natural, Claire thought. Both of her girls had liked Frédéric. And after Camille’s death, she knew he and Léna had grown close, but…

  It had always been complicated. “I don’t know, Camille,” she said. “We don’t talk about it. We don’t really talk about anything.”

  • • •

  When Claire rang Pierre to tell him about Léna, he soothed her fears in much the same way Camille had. Léna’s headstrong, but she’s a clever girl. Try not to worry. Claire knew that she’d been trying not to worry about her daughters since the day they were born. She’d always failed.

  Then Pierre suggested something that took her by surprise.

  She found herself a little anxious when he arrived at the door thirty minutes later in the company of a dead man.

  “Claire, this is Simon,” he said. “He’s the one I mentioned. You’re sure this is still OK?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It will be good for Camille to know she’s not the only one.” She invited them in, trying not to show how anxious she felt. She looked at Simon. He was an attractive young man—polite, yes, and there was a vulnerability to him, but she found herself feeling uneasy. His expression was guarded and he seemed a little agitated, but there was more to her disquiet than that. Looking at him, all she could think was: You’re dead. A dead man, standing in front of me.

  It was a strange thing, she thought, to feel such reservations given that Camille was exactly the same. But then, Camille was her own daughter; Claire had no idea who this man was. It was natural for her to be uneasy.

  She led them upstairs to Camille’s room and knocked.

  “This is Simon,” Claire explained when Camille opened the door. “He’s the man Léna met. The one who’s like you.”

  Claire watched her daughter’s face as she laid eyes on Simon, wondering if there would be some kind of connection, some kindred recognition. There was nothing but a slight sense of awkwardness around each other. She didn’t want to think too much about why that left her oddly relieved.

  Simon held out his hand. Camille shook it carefully and gestured for him to come in. Claire went to follow, but Pierre put his hand on her shoulder. “I think,” he said, “that we should leave these two alone to talk, yes?”

  Claire was reluctant to leave Camille alone in her room with a stranger, let alone a dead stranger, but she supposed Pierre was right. She turned to Camille. “I expect you’re hungry?” As always, there was an eager nod. “I’ll make you both some food.”

  • • •

  Camille sat on her bed, looking at Simon with intense curiosity. “So when did you die?” she asked.

  “Ten years ago.” Simon moved across to the window, looking outside.

  “I bet a lot’s changed.”

  He shrugged. “Everything.”

  “Do you remember what happened before you came back?”

  He turned around to her, his expression distant and sad. “No,” he said. “I can’t even remember dying.”

  “That’s good to know!” said Camille, smiling, then she caught herself and wiped the smile from her face. “Well, I mean…I can’t remember either. It’s good to know I’m not the only one.” She fidgeted in the silence that followed. “Do you know why we came back?”

  He looked at her. Both were eager to know the answer to that one. “I have no idea.”

  “You don’t say a lot,” she said. “My sister mentioned you weren’t talkative. Were you like that before you died?”

  He smiled.

  “Oh, come on,” said Camille, infuriated. “Tell me something. Did you have a girlfriend? At least tell me that.”

  Simon looked away and nodded.

  “Not easy, is it?” said Camille. “I had a boyfriend. They say love is stronger than death, but it’s not true.” More silence. Camille tried again to engage him. “And why am I so hungry? I mean, I’m already dead, so what would happen if I didn’t eat?”

  He smiled. “If you feel as hungry as me, I don’t think we’d have the willpower to find out.”

  She grinned at him. “Breakthrough! A whole sentence! So you can talk after all! I was starting to wonder why you wanted to meet me.”

  He came back from the window and sat next to her. “Actually, there is something you could help me with. If you want. A message you could deliver.”

  The dead girl nodded. “Ah,” she said. “It’s like that, is it? But I’m not allowed out of the house, and my mum’s keeping a close eye on me. I think she knows I’ve been sneaking out.”

  “I’ll tell her you’re sleeping. Surely you’d like to get out for a while?”

  She thought for a moment and smiled. “Tell me about it…” she said. “OK, it’s a deal. You cover for me, and I’ll deliver your message. I guess us zombies have to stick together.”

  • • •

  Claire was in the middle of making sandwiches when Jérôme rang, but he had no news to give her and she had none to give him. He would continue to look; Claire would continue to wait.

  He’d sounded apologetic, timid even. She could imag
ine his face flinch every time she spoke, the seething anger clear in every word.

  She found Simon’s presence in the house unnerving; she wished Pierre had stayed a little longer, but he’d insisted he had a tight schedule. What schedule, he wouldn’t say, but there’d been an excited glint in his eye that intrigued her.

  Just as she finished loading a tray with food Simon came down the stairs.

  “I was about to bring this up to you both,” she said, making the effort to smile.

  “Camille’s sleeping.”

  Claire was wide-eyed. She smiled with genuine relief. “That’s wonderful,” she said, suddenly far happier with Simon’s presence, especially if that was what had allowed Camille to relax enough to get some proper rest. “I don’t think she’s really slept since she came back. Did you talk?”

  “Yes,” he said. “There wasn’t much we could tell each other, but it helps to know I’m not the only one. I know Camille feels the same.” Simon reached out to the sandwiches. “May I?”

  “Of course. Are you always hungry too?”

  He smiled. “Yeah.” He took a bite.

  “Pierre told me you were considering leaving town.” She was thinking on her feet, but it might be an idea to let him stay for a day or so in case he and Camille could find more to talk about. “If you like, you can stay here while you decide?”

  Simon hurried to swallow. “Thanks,” he said. “But I don’t want to impose. Only one thing makes sense to me now. To start a new life somewhere else and take my wife and daughter with me. Tonight, if I can.”

  “You have a daughter?” said Claire. Simon nodded, smiling. She could see the pride in his eyes. Claire tried to smile back, but she couldn’t help thinking of what being a parent had cost her. Thinking of all the loss, all the fear. The pain of it. “It’s the most wonderful thing in the world,” she said.

  46

  While the dead man and the dead girl talked, across town Victor sat at a table in the fifties-styled diner with the lady who’d also been staying at the Helping Hand.

  Viviane, she called herself. Viviane Costa. She’d picked a table away from the window. “See, I told you it wasn’t so far to walk here,” she said. “But the food is better than the healthy slop they dish up at the Helping Hand. They mean well, but sometimes only junk food will do. Worth sneaking out for.” She’d told him about her husband, as they’d walked, told him how he’d not been able to deal with her coming back thirty years after her death. She’d talked a lot as they’d made their way, filling the silence because Victor had said nothing.