‘I don't know. Your mother put it away.’
‘So it's still in the house?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Where else could it be?’
‘Maybe your mother took it to work with her, or gave it to a neighbour.’
Sylvie looked around. ‘Our neighbours? Why would they want it?’
Bad idea. I changed tack. ‘Why are you asking me about it?’
Sylvie looked down at the doll, pulled its hair, shrugged. ‘Don't know,’ she mumbled.
I waited for a minute. ‘Do you want to see it again?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won't scream or get upset?’
‘No, not if you are here.’
I got the bag from the closet and brought it outside. Sylvie was sitting with her knees pulled up under her chin, watching me nervously. I set the bag down. ‘Do you want me to – lay it out so you can see it, and you wait inside and I'll call you when it's ready?’
She nodded and jumped up. ‘I want a Coke. Can I have a Coke?’
‘Yes.’
She ran inside.
I took a deep breath and unzipped the bag. I hadn't actually looked in it yet.
When it was all ready I went and found Sylvie; she was sitting in the living room with a glass of Coke, watching television.
‘Come,’ I said, holding my hand out to her. Together we went to the back door. From there she could see something in the grass. She pressed into my side.
‘You don't have to look at it, you know. But it won't hurt you. It's not alive.’
‘What is it?’
‘A girl.’
‘A girl? A girl like me?’
‘Yes. Those are her bones and her hair. And a little bit of dress.’
We walked over to it. To my surprise Sylvie let go of my hand and squatted down next to the bones. She looked at them for a long time.
‘That's a pretty blue,’ she said at last. ‘What happened to the rest of her dress?’
‘It –’ Rotted – another word I didn't know. ‘It got old and was destroyed,’ I explained clumsily.
‘Her hair is the same colour as yours.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does she come from?’
‘Switzerland. She was buried in the ground, under a chimney hearth.’
‘Why?’
‘Why did she die?’
‘No, why was she buried under the hearth? Was it to keep her warm?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Marie.’
‘She should be buried again.’
‘Why?’ I was curious what she would say.
‘Because she needs a home. She can't stay here forever.’
‘That's true.’
Sylvie sat down in the grass, then stretched out alongside the bones. ‘I'm going to sleep,’ she announced.
I thought about stopping her, saying that it was inappropriate, that she might have nightmares, that Mathilde would find us and think I would make a terrible mother, letting her daughter sleep next to a skeleton. But I didn't say any of these things. Instead I lay down on the other side of the bones.
‘Tell me a story,’ Sylvie commanded.
‘I'm not very good at telling stories.’
Sylvie rolled onto her elbow. ‘All grown-ups can tell stories! Tell me one.’
‘OK. Once there was a little girl with blonde hair and a blue dress.’
‘Like me? Did she look like me?’
‘Yes.’
Sylvie lay down again with a satisfied smile and closed her eyes.
‘She was a brave little girl. She had two older brothers, and a mother and a father and a grandmother.’
‘Did they love her?’
‘Most of them, except for her grandmother.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don't know.’ I stopped. Sylvie opened her eyes. ‘She was an ugly old woman,’ I continued in a hurry. ‘She was small and wore black all the time. And she never spoke.’
‘How could the girl know the grandmother didn't like her if she never spoke to her?’
‘She – she had fierce eyes, and she'd glare at the little girl in a way she didn't at anyone else. So the girl knew she didn't like her. And it was worse when she wore her favourite blue dress.’
‘Because the grandmother wanted it for herself!’
‘Yes, the cloth was very beautiful but there was only enough to make a dress for a little girl. When she wore it she looked like the sky.’
‘Was it a magic dress?’
‘Of course. It protected her from the grandmother, and from other things too – fire and wolves and nasty boys. And drowning. In fact, one day the girl was playing by the river and fell in. She went under water, and she could see fish swimming below her and she thought she was going to drown. Then the dress puffed up with air and she floated to the surface and was safe. So whenever she wore the dress her mother knew she would be safe.’
I glanced over at Sylvie; she was asleep. My eyes lit on the fragments of blue between us.
‘Except for one time,’ I added. ‘And it only takes once.’
I dreamed I was standing in a house that was burning to the ground. There were pieces of wood falling and ashes blowing everywhere. Then a girl appeared. I could only see her out of the corner of my eye; if I looked at her directly she disappeared. A blue light hovered around her.
‘Remember me,’ she said. She turned into Jean-Paul; he hadn't shaved in days and looked rough, his hair grown out so it curled at the ends, his face and arms and shirt covered with soot. I reached out and touched his face, and when I took my hand away there was a scar from his nose to his chin.
‘How did you get this?’ I asked.
‘From life,’ he replied.
A shadow crossed my face and I woke up. Mathilde was standing over me, blocking the evening sun. She looked like she'd been there for a while, her arms crossed, studying us. I sat up. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, blinking. ‘I know this must look bizarre.’
Mathilde snorted. ‘Yes, but you know, I'm not surprised. I knew Sylvie would want to see those bones again. It looks like she's not scared of them anymore.’
‘No. She surprised me, she was so calm.’
Our voices woke her; Sylvie rolled over and sat up, cheeks flushed. She looked around, her eyes coming to rest on the bones.
‘Maman,’ she said, ‘we're going to bury her.’
‘What? Here in the yard?’
‘No. Her home.’
Mathilde looked at me.
‘I know just the place,’ I said.
* * *
Mathilde let me take her car into Mende. It was strange to think I'd been there only three weeks before; a lot had happened since then. But I had the same feeling now walking around the grim cathedral and the dark narrow streets of the old town. It wasn't a welcoming place. I was glad Mathilde lived further out, even in a treeless suburb.
The address turned out to be the same pizzeria I'd eaten in before. It was almost as empty as last time. I felt calm walking in, but when I saw Rick sitting alone with a glass of wine, frowning at the menu, my stomach turned over. I hadn't seen him in thirteen days; it had been a long thirteen days. When he looked up and saw me, he stood up, smiling nervously. He was wearing work clothes, a white button-down shirt, a navy cotton blazer and docksiders. He looked big and healthy and American in that dark cave of a place, like a Cadillac crawling through a narrow street.
We kissed awkwardly.
‘Jesus, Ella, what happened to your face?’
I touched the bruise on my forehead. ‘I fell,’ I said. ‘It's no big deal.’
We sat down. Rick poured me a glass of wine before I could say no. I politely touched it to my lips without swallowing. The smell of acid and vinegar almost made me gag; I set it down quickly.
We sat in silence. I realized I would have to start the conversation.
‘S
o Mathilde called you,’ I began feebly.
‘Yeah. God, she talks fast. I didn't really understand why you couldn't call me yourself.’
I shrugged. I could feel tension gathering in my stomach.
‘Listen, Ella, I want to say a couple things, all right?’
I nodded.
‘Now, I know this move to France has been hard for you. Harder for you than for me. Me, all I had to do was work in a different office. The people are different but the work is similar. But for you, you don't have a job or friends, you must feel isolated and bored. I can understand that you're unhappy. Maybe I haven't paid enough attention to you because I've been so busy with work. So you're bored and, well, I can see there'd be temptations, even in a little hick town like Lisle.’
He glanced at the psoriasis on my arms; it seemed to throw him momentarily.
‘So I've been thinking,’ he continued, getting back on track, ‘that we should try and start over.’
The waiter interrupted him to take our order. I was so nervous that I couldn't imagine eating anything, but for form's sake I ordered the plainest pizza possible. It was hot and close in the restaurant; sweat formed on my forehead and hands. I took a shaky sip of water.
‘So,’ Rick continued, ‘it turns out there's an easy way to do that. You know I was in Frankfurt at meetings over this housing project?’
I nodded.
‘They've asked me to oversee it, as a joint project between our company and theirs.’ He paused and looked at me expectantly.
‘Well, that's great, Rick. That's great for you.’
‘So you see? We'd move to Germany. Our chance to start over.’
‘Leave France?’
My tone surprised him. ‘Ella, you've done nothing but complain about this country since you arrived. That the people aren't friendly, that you can't make friends, that they treat you like a stranger, that they're too formal. Why would you want to stay?’
‘It's home,’ I said faintly.
‘Look, I'm trying to be reasonable. And I think actually I'm being pretty good about it. I'm willing to forgive and forget this whole thing with – you know. All I'm asking is that you move away from him. Is that unreasonable?’
‘No, I guess it's not.’
‘Good.’ He looked at me and his goodwill momentarily slipped. ‘So you're admitting something happened with him.’
The hard knot in my stomach moved and beads of sweat broke on my upper lip. I stood up. ‘I have to find a bathroom. I'll be back in a minute.’
I managed to walk away from the table calmly, but once I reached the bathroom and shut the door I let go and vomited, long gasping retches that shook my whole body. It felt like I'd been waiting to do it for a long time, that I was throwing up everything I'd eaten in France and Switzerland.
Finally I was completely empty. I sat back on my heels and leaned against the wall of the cubicle, the light set into the ceiling shining on me like a spotlight. The tension had been flushed away; though exhausted, I was able to think clearly for the first time in days. I began to chuckle.
‘Germany. Jesus Christ,’ I muttered.
When I got back to the table our pizzas had arrived. I picked mine up, set it on the empty table next to us and sat down.
‘You all right?’ Rick asked, frowning slightly.
‘Yup.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Rick, I have something to tell you.’
He looked at me apprehensively; he really didn't know what I might say.
‘I'm pregnant.’
He jumped. His face was like a television where the channels changed every few seconds as various thoughts passed through him.
‘But that's wonderful! Isn't it? That's what you wanted, wasn't it? Except –’ The doubt in his face was so painful that I almost reached across and took his hand. It occurred to me then that I could lie and that would solve everything. That was the open door I was looking for. But I was never good at lying.
‘It's yours,’ I said at last. ‘It must have happened just before we started using contraceptives again.’
Rick jumped up from his seat and came around the table to hug me. ‘Champagne!’ he cried. ‘We should order champagne!’
He looked around for the waiter.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Please. I'm not feeling well.’
‘Oh, right. Listen, let's get you home. We'll go now. Do you have your stuff with you?’ He glanced around.
‘No. Rick. Sit down. Please.’
He did, the uncertain look back in his face. I took a deep breath.
‘I'm not coming back with you.’
‘But – isn't that what this is all about?’
‘What's all about?’
‘This dinner. I thought you were coming back with me. I've got the car and everything.’
‘Is that what Mathilde told you?’
‘No, but I assumed –’
‘Well, you shouldn't have.’
‘But you're having my baby.’
‘Let's leave the baby out of this for a moment.’
‘We can't leave the baby out of it. It's there, isn't it?’
I sighed. ‘I guess so.’
Rick gulped the last of his wine and set his glass down.
It made a cracking noise against the table. ‘Look, Ella, you've got to explain something to me. You haven't said why you went to Switzerland. Did I do something wrong? Why are you being like this with me? You seem to be implying something's wrong with us. That's news to me. If anyone should be upset it's me. You're the one running around.’
I didn't know how to say it nicely. Rick seemed to sense this. ‘Just tell me,’ he said. ‘Be straight with me.’
‘It happened when we moved here. I feel different.’
‘How?’
‘It's hard to explain.’ I thought for a moment. ‘You know how you can buy an album and be obsessed with it for a while, play it all the time, know all the songs. And you think that you know it so well and it's special to you. Like for instance the first album you ever bought when you were a kid.’
‘The Beach Boys. Surf's Up.’
‘Right. Then one day you just stop playing it – not for any reason, it's not a conscious decision. You just suddenly don't need to listen to it anymore. It doesn't have the same power. You can hear it and know that they're still good songs, but they've lost their magic over you. Just like that.’
‘That's never happened with the Beach Boys. I still feel the same way when I listen to them.’
I brought my hand down hard on the table. ‘God dammit! Why do you do that?’
The few people in the restaurant looked up.
‘What?’ Rick hissed. ‘What did I do?’
‘You aren't listening to me. You take the metaphor and mangle it. You just won't listen to what I'm trying to say.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I don't think I love you anymore! That's what I'm trying to say, but you won't listen!’
‘Oh.’ He sat back. ‘Why didn't you just say it, then? Why did you have to drag the Beach Boys into it?’
‘I was trying to explain with a metaphor, to make it easier. But you insist on looking at it from your perspective.’
‘How else am I supposed to look at it?’
‘From my point of view! Mine!’ I rapped on my chest with my knuckles. ‘Can't you ever look at things from my point of view? You act so nice and easygoing with everyone, but you always get your way, you always make people see it from your point of view.’
‘Ella, do you want to know what I see from your point of view? I see a woman who's lost, directionless, doesn't know what she wants, so grabs at the idea of a baby as something to keep her busy. And she's bored with her husband so she fucks the first offer she gets.’
He stopped and looked away, embarrassed now, realizing he'd gone too far. I'd never heard him be so frank.
‘Rick,’ I said gently. ‘That's not my point of view, you see. That is most definitely your point of view.’ I began to c
ry, as much from relief as anything else.
The waiter came over and silently cleared away our untouched pizzas, then placed the bill on the table without being asked. Neither of us looked at it.
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