The Returned

by Seth Patrick

  He was hungry.

  “If we keep getting lost,” said Toni, “we’ll never get out of the forest.”

  Serge looked at him, petulant. “What do you suggest?”

  “We go downhill from now on, find a stream—it should take us to the lake. Then we follow the shore, away from the dam.”

  Serge gave it some thought, then nodded. “I’ll see if I can find another path. Wait here until I get back.”

  Toni waited. He was thirsty, and the thought of a stream made him eager to get moving. He stood, hoping Serge wouldn’t be much longer. Then he heard the snap of a branch some distance away.

  He looked. Someone was there, perhaps fifty yards from him, through the trees. He couldn’t see the figure clearly, but…

  It’s her, he thought. “Mum?” he called. “Mum?” He turned his head to look for Serge, then turned back to where the figure had been. It was gone.

  69

  Léna was trying to scrub it all off.

  She’d reached home in darkness the night before to find the house empty, her mother and Camille gone. The power in the whole town was out, and for a moment she wondered if they’d gone ahead with the plan to move and left.

  Left without her.

  She almost wouldn’t blame them if they had. Exhaustion took her as she had sobbed on her bed in the darkness, alone and filled with regret.

  When she’d woken at dawn, she’d found herself in borrowed clothes. She’d thought of Serge, of everything that had happened and the lust that had taken her by surprise. Now she found herself wearing his mother’s dress, a gift from him—her savior, a man capable of who knew what atrocities. She just wanted to forget he even existed.

  She stripped and sought the shower, scrubbing at her skin under the flow of tepid water until it was red and raw, staying there even as the water grew cold, then icy.

  The same thoughts came to her again and again: the mindless hunger she and Serge had experienced for each other, the revelation of his true nature. And one question foremost: Why her? Why her? She curled up on the shower floor, shivering and unable to move.

  Then she heard a door closing downstairs. She turned off the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and tried to stay quiet.

  The only image in her mind was of the people she’d seen in the forest. When they’d turned to her, the look in their eyes had been enough for her to think that if she were caught, she wouldn’t survive the encounter. She had run and not looked back, certain they were always just feet behind her. Lost, she stumbled onto a dirt track, suddenly able to put on some speed even in the dark.

  Soon she was sure she wasn’t being followed. She’d kept running all the same, until her lungs had felt as though they were on fire.

  She wondered what the hell they were. She wondered if they’d found her now…

  The bathroom door handle turned. She tensed, only now thinking to look for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

  “Léna, is that you?”

  Her father.

  The relief she felt was overwhelming. Suddenly she was a little child again, her father the only thing standing between her and the nightmares. She opened the door and hugged him, the tears released once more at the relief that she hadn’t been left behind. “Dad, I thought you’d abandoned me.”

  He wrapped his arms around her; she felt him stroke her hair gently. “I would never abandon you,” he said. “You know that. Never.”

  • • •

  Jérôme drove toward the Helping Hand. He could see the stunned expression on Léna’s face, driving through a town that looked so deserted in daylight. Everything seemed shut; trash blew across the streets.

  “I’d realized the power was out,” she said, “but I had no idea it was this bad.”

  “It’s not just the power,” said Jérôme. “There was a rumor about the dam and about looters roaming around. It looks like most of the people who could leave have and the rest are cowering in their homes.”

  He’d spent the night driving around the dead town looking for Léna. Then after dawn, when he’d returned to the house to grab some food, there she was. She hadn’t seen the note he’d left for her on the kitchen table; the state she’d been in when he found her made him feel horribly guilty at being out when she’d come back.

  He didn’t reprimand her for leaving the hospital—she didn’t look as if she could handle it at the moment. But she was safe now. That was all that mattered. That was enough.

  The power had been out for so long, communication was starting to be a problem. Landlines were down, and the cell phone towers would all be running out of backup power soon. Although he had a weak signal on his own phone, he’d been unable to raise Claire overnight to give her the regular updates she’d asked for, or to tell her Léna was OK this morning.

  He’d gone to the police station in the night, in case they’d had any news, but he’d left quickly enough. They had nothing for him and every face he saw there seemed exhausted, stretched beyond breaking point. Their communications were so far unaffected, and they were swamped with calls. Stories of looting were surfacing, and it didn’t look to Jérôme as though they had any capacity left to deal with serious disorder.

  He’d also driven to Frédéric’s house to find that his parents didn’t know where he was either. They were just as worried. Unlike Léna he wasn’t prone to just disappearing without contact, but they all took some hope from the possibility that Frédéric and Léna were in the same place, safer together than they would be apart. He’d told Frédéric’s parents about the group at the Helping Hand, that if need be they would be welcome there. At least it was warm.

  “You didn’t see Frédéric then?” he asked Léna now. She shook her head. “So where did you go?”

  The look on her face made him pull the car over—she was overwhelmed, sobbing again. He held her, his heart breaking, wondering what she could have been through, knowing that if anyone had hurt her, he wouldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

  At last, she pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her face and trying to stifle her sobs.

  He looked at her, cautious about pushing too hard. “You want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head and looked down.

  “That’s OK,” said Jérôme. “You’re safe now.”

  But as he looked out at the desolate streets beyond the car, he wondered if any of them were safe.

  • • •

  When they reached the Helping Hand, the tears broke out on all sides. Jérôme and Claire brought Léna into the dormitory, where Camille was reading. Camille jumped up and ran to her sister and they hugged, the happiest they’d been to see one another since Camille’s return. Claire led Jérôme away, leaving the girls to themselves.

  Claire was holding Jérôme’s hand, he realized, and smiling at him. It was time, he thought, to try to fix some of the damage.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to her. “My attitude to you. My hostility to Pierre. I wanted you back. I wanted to make amends. And instead I was just driving you further away.”

  She squeezed his hand. “You brought Léna home, Jérôme. You know how much that means.”

  He shrugged, unwilling to take the credit. “She found her own way home.”

  “Did she say…?”

  “Not yet. In her own time.” He hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you, Claire. About Léna’s injury.” He felt her hand slip out of his. “I was drunk. I pushed her. She fell and hurt her back.”

  “You told me that,” she said.

  “But that wasn’t why she stopped talking to me, or why we never told you about it.”

  Her expression became cold, tense. “Why then?”

  “Just before I pushed her away, I said…I said that I wished she’d been on the bus, not Camille.” He watched her face and saw her absorb the confession.
Claire closed her eyes. He didn’t want forgiveness, not that. This was all there would ever be. An explanation, bare and raw. Something said in anger, something he hadn’t really meant.

  But words like that could never be taken back. They had driven a wedge between him and his daughter that he didn’t think would ever be repaired, not fully.

  She opened her eyes again. “There’s something I need to tell you too, Jérôme,” said Claire, and she told him about the Koretzkys.

  Jérôme shook his head. “Accusing her of causing it… It’s obscene.” Claire nodded, but Jérôme bit his tongue. He would say no more than that, not to Claire. He wouldn’t criticize the church to her, the church whose primary message was exactly what Camille had repeated: you would meet your loved ones again, after death. It was, he reflected, precisely why suicide was regarded as such a terrible sin. For otherwise, if anyone truly believed, why would they hesitate?

  • • •

  Léna lay snuggled with Camille on the dorm bed. Just being close to her sister—and that was how she thought of her, there was no doubt in her mind now—made Léna feel safer.

  “Where did you go?” said Camille. Her voice was tender, the way it used to be when they spoke.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Léna. “I was angry. Part of it was seeing you and Frédéric together, laughing. Part of it was the thought that he didn’t see you for who you were.”

  “He knows now.”

  “What made him accept it?”

  “He came to my room, and we kissed. Then he looked at me. He was crying, but…”

  Léna knew what she was about to say. For the first time since Camille had come back, she felt they were really connected again. “…but he must already have known,” Léna said. “Maybe since the first time he saw you. The only thing that made him deny it was that it was impossible.”

  “I kissed him to hurt you,” said Camille, sitting up. “Because you rejected me.”

  “It’s OK,” said Léna, sitting up too. “I understand.”

  Camille locked her gaze with her sister’s. “Léna?” she said. “I’m frightened. I don’t sleep anymore, and it scares me. Maybe I’m different now. Some of the other people here look at me—not just Sandrine, there are others too—they look at me like they don’t think they can trust me. And I don’t know if I trust myself. Maybe I’m not safe to be around.”

  Léna thought of the people she’d seen in the forest. Whoever they’d been, they were the ones who weren’t safe to be around, not Camille. Her dad had mentioned looters roaming the area; that was the obvious answer, but there was another possibility in Léna’s head now, something she pushed from her thoughts at once.

  “You’re my sister,” whispered Léna. “And we won’t let anyone say different, OK?” Then she saw something on Camille’s face: a blemish. She frowned.

  “What?” said her sister.

  “You have something here,” said Léna, reaching out to touch it, a small patch of cracked skin on Camille’s cheek. Camille put her hand up and felt it too, her eyes growing more scared as she explored the area. The fear was reflected in Léna’s face.

  “What is it?” said Camille. “What does it look like?”

  It looked…

  It looked exactly the way the wound on Léna’s back had looked at first.

  Like infection.

  Like decay.

  70

  Laure woke to her alarm and started to get herself ready for work as she always did—quickly, no thinking required. Until she got some coffee in her each morning, thinking wasn’t something she felt up to. Half dressed, she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. On her way out she saw Julie, still curled up on the sofa bed. The boy wasn’t with her. She could hear him downstairs in the kitchen, the regular crunch of cereal being eaten. It was something she’d learned pretty quickly the night before, how much of an appetite he had.

  Laure turned to go back to her bedroom and get her uniform on.

  “Laure?” said Julie.

  Laure stopped and looked at her, smiling. “Good morning,” she said.

  “Come here,” said Julie, hand outstretched.

  Laure approached and took Julie’s hand in hers. Julie pulled her in, closer, closer. Then she kissed her. Tentative, soft. Laure was cautious, but she was swamped with the desire to hold Julie and pour kisses over every part of her.

  Julie kissed harder, pulled Laure onto the bed, tugged at what little clothing she was wearing, eager. Laure felt something loosen within her, that aching desire held back for so long. She started to unbutton the shirt Julie was wearing, but a hand stopped her.

  “Wait,” said Julie, anxiety in her eyes.

  Laure put one finger on Julie’s lips. “Don’t worry,” she said and pulled the shirt open.

  There it was. All these years, and Laure hadn’t once seen the scars Julie’s attacker had left behind, her stomach a patchwork of skin. She put her hand on them and looked up.

  “I don’t want you to see them,” Julie whispered. “They’re not what I am, do you understand? They’re not what I am.”

  “Then I don’t see them,” said Laure, and she kissed her. She was trying to hold the tears back, but they were coming all the same. So much time, she thought. So much wasted time.

  Julie pulled away, her eyes locked on something over Laure’s shoulder. Laure turned. Victor was watching them. “For Christ’s sake,” she snapped, irritation at the spoiled moment getting the better of her. “Get lost. Don’t you understand privacy?”

  The boy looked deflated. He turned and went back downstairs.

  Laure sensed it, sensed the chill in the air. She turned to Julie and realized she’d overstepped the mark. “Sorry,” she said, but the damage was done. Julie sat up, pushed herself out of bed, and started to get dressed, stony faced.

  Laure sighed and went to her bedroom to put on her uniform. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable around the boy after what Julie had told her about him and Viviane Costa. As she headed for the stairs, she said to Julie: “He shouldn’t stay with you. What if he’s dangerous?”

  “Dangerous?” said Julie, defiant. “He’s a child.”

  Laure hung her head. There was nothing she could say, nothing that would make Julie see the truth without making her the enemy. “Of course he is.”

  “Laure…” said Julie, suddenly anxious. “Don’t go. Don’t go to work. Stay here with me.”

  “I have to,” Laure said, hoping Julie could see the regret in her eyes. “We’re short on staff and things are critical. We’ve no idea if the power will come back any time soon. We need everyone.” She saw the fearful look on Julie’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  For a moment Julie seemed to struggle to say it, her eyes not meeting Laure’s. Then: “I think that I’m one too.”

  “One what?”

  “I think that I’ve come back.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Julie looked at her solemnly. “After I was attacked, Laure…I was clinically dead. They told me that I was a miracle.”

  “Julie, things like that happen more than you realize. But them?” She looked downstairs, meaning Victor and his ilk. “They’ve been dead for years. They were buried. You’re not like them. I know you’re not.”

  Julie was shaking her head, desolate. “You don’t understand, Laure. You have no idea. I’m not scared to be like them. It’s the opposite. Since the attack, I’ve felt incapable of living. I’ve felt like I didn’t belong. What if it’s because I’ve been dead all these years?”

  • • •

  By the time Laure had set off for work, Julie had her emotions under control again. What had happened with Laure had taken them both by surprise and she didn’t know how she felt about it. Victor had to be her first priority, though—Laure would have to understand that if she wan
ted any part in Julie’s life.

  She cooked some eggs for her and Victor on the camping stove she’d brought with her. Then she lit the fire in the fireplace and sat by it, glad of the heat, while Victor brought his pens and paper over and drew nearby.

  She dozed for a while. Then she woke, suddenly aware that Victor had gone.

  She called for him. As she approached the window, she could see a trampoline in the garden of the house next door—the police captain’s house, she recalled, the house where Adèle Werther now lived. There were two small figures on the trampoline, and one of them was Victor.

  “Shit,” she said. She’d wanted to keep him out of sight, hidden and protected. Parading him to the outside world would invite too many questions. She put on some shoes and a warm sweater and headed outside. She stood by the waist-high split-rail fence that separated the two gardens, waving to try to get Victor’s attention, but he didn’t see her. She sighed and climbed over, then walked to the trampoline where Victor and a girl were bouncing.

  “Hello,” she said to the girl. “I’m Julie.”

  “I’m Chloé,” said the girl, waving at her.

  “Good to meet you, Chloé,” she said and scowled at Victor before heading to the neighbor’s back door and knocking.

  It was Adèle who answered. “Hello, Julie,” she said, her smile broad. She stepped out through the door. “It’s been so long.”

  “Hello,” said Julie, flustered. Beyond the professional relationships she had with her patients, social interaction had become almost alien; her people skills were rusty, to say the least. “Sorry, do you mind if he plays on the trampoline with Chloé?”

  Adèle looked at the two children and smiled. “No, of course not. Come on in. I’m making some coffee.” She went inside again.

  Julie turned to the trampoline. “Play nicely, Victor,” she said, and Victor smiled back.

  • • •

  Adèle sat Julie down at the table in the kitchen and went to get the coffee. As she put everything on a tray, she suddenly looked a little faint. She knocked a cup from the side; it broke on the floor and she looked at it in a daze.