Life Is A Foreign Language

by Rayne E. Golay

  Michael stood on the side of the pool. Without her glasses she couldn’t see him clearly, but waved. “Hey, the water feels great. Jump in.”

  He dived, head first.

  She raced him and lost.

  “It’s because of your bad ankle. I’m sure you’ll beat me once it’s healed. We’ll go to the beach and really swim, okay?”

  “I’d like that.” I can’t believe he’s for real—he’s won a silly race, and makes excuses for beating me.

  They splashed and frolicked and laughed like careless teenagers. He dunked her, and she came up sputtering and laughing, carefree and—yes happy. Michael behaved with such natural ease and composure that she let down her guard, filled with the pleasure and fun of the moment. But she was very much aware of him, his strong arms as they cleaved the water, the play of muscles under the tanned skin of his back, his eyes as they glanced at her from time to time.

  Breathless and laughing, she made a few laps in a brisk crawl before she decided it was time to get out. Used to the rapid mood swings of late, she wanted to quit before something happened to throw a damper on her joy.

  Wading in the shallow end of the pool she said, “I think I can manage to get out by myself.”

  “Give it a try. I’m here if you need help.”

  She turned her back to the side of the pool, placed her hands flat on the rim and jumped to land sitting on the edge. “Ha. Easier than I thought.”

  With a towel draped over her shoulder she headed for the bathroom. “There are towels on the rack here,” she said, pointing before the door closed behind her.

  Out of breath from exertion and laughter, she glanced in the mirror; her eyes were shining, cheeks rosy. I look well. Maybe this is the way I’ll look when I’m healed.

  Michael. What a kind man! So generous with himself and his time.

  Dressed, she returned to the lanai, stopping in the kitchen to start the decaf, she hoped he didn’t mind that it wasn’t “real” coffee..

  They sat by the table, the sun a large crimson globe on the horizon. In another few minutes it would start its decent, soon to be lost from sight. Nina never tired of watching the sunset, no matter that she saw it nearly every day.

  Beside her Michael stirred. When she glanced at him, he smiled. “Have you seen the sunset from a boat?”

  “No, only from the beach.”

  “Why don’t we plan on going out in my yacht so you’ll have an unhampered view? It’s quite spectacular.”

  She choked on her coffee, coughed as she swallowed the wrong way. “You are full of surprises. Do you really have a yacht?”

  “Yes, I really have one.”

  “I love boats.”

  “Then it’s a date.” He pointed at her foot on a stool. “Sometime soon. I moor my yacht in Everglade City, which means an early start.” He plucked a cigarette from the pack on the table, rolled it between his fingers, and replaced it.

  “Will you have the time? I mean, isn’t your wife arriving soon?”

  He glanced at her. “Yes, end of this week. I’ll be busy because my vacation’s over in a couple of days. Obviously, I’ll take time to be with Cindy and the kids. We don’t often get the chance of being together as a family, but that doesn’t mean you and I can’t spend a few hours on the yacht.”

  She nodded. Her sadness was heavy; Michael had his family close by, while she had chosen to be a huge distance from her loved ones. Cindy’s arrival to take her rightful place at the heart of her own family emphasized Nina’s solitude. This is tougher than I’d thought. I hadn’t expected to feel so lonely here. No place seems right. I can’t go back to France and I don’t seem to fit in here.

  Michael’s voice gave her a jolt. “You know, your pool deck needs painting?”

  Waiting for the emotions to calm, she took time answering. “I know. It’s on my to-do list, as soon as I can.”

  He chortled. “Nina?”

  The grin on his face hinted at what he was thinking—her mishap when changing the light bulb. “What is it?”

  “Please don’t do it yourself. Please. I have a few days before I need to go back to work. Let me do it.”

  Leaning cheek on hand, she stared at him, incredulous. “I can’t let you do that. It’s a big job.” Their eyes locked, her stomach doing flip-flops from the way he looked at her. “It’s too much,” she murmured. She closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve painted a deck before.”

  “Let’s talk about it another time.”

  “Another time I’ll be back at work. Now’s the time.”

  Because she was flustered, couldn’t think straight with his eyes on her, she agreed. “I accept. Thank you.” Then she sat thinking, searching for the right words to say what was on her mind.

  He took her hands, playing with the fingers. “Something still bothering you?”

  “I feel embarrassed to bring this up. I must … I mean, I want to pay you.”

  “You’ll pay for the paint, okay?”

  “For sure. But also for the work. I can’t let you do it for free.”

  “I don’t charge friends. Here’s what I suggest; you make a donation to the Foundation, if it’s going to make you feel better.”

  “It will. That’s a good idea.” She went into her office and wrote out a check. On the lanai again she sat. “I left ‘to the order of’ blank. What is it?”

  He told her and she filled in the empty space and handed him the check.

  He glanced at it, then at her. “That’s generous, and I haven’t even started the job yet. Thank you very much.”

  She smiled. “I think you’re a safe risk.” She hesitated. “Are you always this kind and helpful?”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “No, only with special ladies from France.” In the gathering twilight, he started piling the dishes.

  Thinking that he was preparing to leave, she stood.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Ready for what?”

  “Sorry, my mind’s racing. I thought we’d buy the paint now. That way I can start tomorrow as soon as the dew has dried.”

  She laughed. “I give up, you go too fast for me. All right, let’s go get that paint.”

  “And then we’ll have dinner?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He placed both hands on her shoulders and cocked his head to one side. “Please say yes.”

  The heat from his hands radiated through her shoulders into her arms, up her neck and face. Gazing at him, she smiled.

  “Yes, Michael.”

  Chapter 12

  Michael drove north on Country Club Boulevard to Home Depot on the outskirts of the city. Although the roads were familiar to Nina, she hardly recognized any landmarks in the dark. He left the car in a parking lot near the vast barn-like structure that was the treasure trove of items for home improvement and gardening. Nina stared at the staggering variety of paints and color samples.

  “Wow! What a selection. I’d be lost without you to pick out what we need. In Annecy, André used to do these jobs, but now I must learn.” It was about time she got out of her comfort zone to become more self-sufficient in areas that weren’t familiar.

  When it came to choosing the color, she followed Michael’s advice, agreeing to a shade that was darker than the peach she preferred.

  “You won’t be disappointed. Humidity and the sun fade colors fast,” he said. “By fall this will be the exact tone you want.”

  They made the purchase, and Michael loaded everything into the trunk.

  In the car, he draped his arm over the back of her seat. “I know this eating place not far from here. It would be an exaggeration to call it a restaurant, but the food is good. Their specialty is fish. What do you say?”

>   “Sounds fine. I’m sure you know where to get a good meal.”

  Michael drove on dark country roads and across a bridge. She saw a sign reflected in the headlights: “Welcome to Bokeelia.”

  He dimmed the lights for an oncoming car. “It’s a lovely island. We should come here during the day. The foot trails, flowers, and view over the Gulf are worth the trip.”

  “I’d like to come back. Sophie mentioned the nurseries and a craft center.”

  “Then I’ll make sure we return.”

  Michael parked, and they walked to a building at the end of the pier. On the outside, the restaurant looked like a wooden shack, paint peeling, red and violet impatiens growing in window boxes. Inside, they were met with a blast of loud country music and cold air that gave Nina goose bumps.

  Michael had been right, the place was nothing much—a few tables, ceiling fans swirling the frigid air, wooden planks for flooring, but it was clean. They were shown to a corner table with windows on both sides, no curtains, flimsy paper mats, the cutlery rolled tight in paper napkins. The server filled tall plastic tumblers with ice water, handed them the menus and rattled off the day’s specials so fast Nina didn’t grasp a word. After the server left, Nina studied the menu.

  “What’s your preference?” Michael asked. “I know you like shrimp, but what else?”

  “The char broiled grouper sounds good. With a side salad.”

  “Uh huh. Care to share a scampi with me for starters?”

  “Love to.”

  “What about a beer? Or some wine?”

  “Not really. I’d rather have ice tea. Unsweetened.”

  He ordered the drinks. The server left. Michael gave Nina a measured look. “Don’t you drink at all? Booze, I mean?”

  “Occasionally, but I try to go easy on the stuff.”

  The scampi, when it came was a bit cold, but the fish was flaky and tasty.

  “How’s your dinner?” Michael asked. He was having the fish as well, but with a huge baked potato.

  “Delicious.” She laughed deep in her throat. “I’m glad you suggested dinner. Lunch today was a treat, I was getting tired of salads and fruit.”

  The server removed their plates and left the dessert menu on the table.

  He handed her the card. “Care for some?”

  “Of course! I love desserts.” She studied the selection. “I’ll have mud pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And a decaf along with it.”

  When the server set the dessert in front of her, Nina stared in disbelief. “I won’t be able to finish this huge portion.”

  His smile was mischievous. “Want a doggy bag?”

  She shook her head, sipped the piping hot decaf and ate half of her dessert.

  Michael took her hand in his. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  She glanced at him. “You have? What about me?”

  “I don’t know very much about you. From what you told me, your father was American, but that’s all. Did you have a happy childhood?”

  The question was like a kick in the chest. “Is it important?”

  “Yes, it is to me. I had a wonderful childhood—my parents were hardworking farmers, who loved God, the land and us five children. It made me who I am. I’ve wondered about your growing-up years.”

  Briefly, she closed her eyes. His question was so unexpected; it touched off memories she lacked the will to delve into. Involuntarily, she gripped his hand. She’d resisted looking back, had seldom talked about this part of her life, other than a mere mention to Barry during her studies in Baltimore. She knew she needed to deal with her past in preparation for the future. Maybe it was right at this point to tell Michael.

  Nina struggled to keep the tension out of her voice. “I loved my mother very much. She was artistic, a poet at heart, and a fine nurturer. Because I was an only child and had a very small extended family, I was lonely. Loneliness is one of the elements that best describes my childhood.

  “My father suffered a back injury in the war. He lost partial use of one leg, was in considerable pain most of the time. When my parents met and fell in love, I think they planned on returning to the States when the war was over. But then

  Dad was injured, and they decided to stay in France. In my family you never questioned anything, so I don’t know why they made this choice. But I know this decision, together with his handicap and pain, turned my father into a bitter, cruel man. The other element in my childhood is fear.” Nina’s voice trailed off. She sat with her eyes closed against the hurt inside.

  Images and voices from the past emerged from the deep hidden corners of her mind where she thought she’d buried them. Her mouth was so dry, the inside of her cheeks stuck to her teeth. She drank deeply from the tumbler. Having told him this much, she needed to say it all.

  Michael held her hand between both his. “I’m sorry I asked—I didn’t expect this to be so painful.”

  “It is, but I’ll tell you everything.”

  “You don’t have to, sweetheart.”

  She glanced at him. The ‘sweetheart’ wasn’t lost on her. A wave of heat flared to her face.

  “Yes, I do. But not here.” She took a deep breath. “Please, could we leave? I’d like to go home. Then I’ll tell you the rest.”

  “Sure.” Catching the server’s attention, Michael made writing signs in the air for the check. He paid and they strolled along the pier, arms touching now and then. The evening was balmy, and a light breeze kept the mosquitoes away.

  Nina stopped and leaned against the railing, eyes lost in the vibrant reflection of the almost full moon on the water.

  “It is a lovely place—so peaceful. I’m glad we came.”

  “We’ll come back in daytime, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it even more.”

  Michael cruised along the coastline on the way home. Nina leaned her head against the neck-rest, eyes half closed. Although anxiety sat like a lump in her midriff, she appreciated his silent presence.

  In her driveway, he got out of the car and opened her door. “Do you want to share the rest of your story tonight, or shall we put it off for another time?”

  “Now, Michael. Unless you’re too tired?

  Briefly, he squeezed her hand. “Not in the least.”

  “Good, because later I may not have the courage to talk about this.”

  She unlocked the front door and preceded him inside, the lamp she’d left on shedding a welcoming light.

  Chapter 13

  In the den Nina turned on the table lamp. Its warm glow created a cozy haven,leaving the rest of the room in half-light. Michael settled on the sofa, leaning against the back, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed. She placed a bowl of chocolates on the table and sat in the corner of the love seat, legs tucked under her, a mug of hot tea within reach.

  “Are you ready for the rest of the story?” she asked.

  “I am, if it’s not too difficult.”

  “It is difficult, but as they say, ‘No pain, no gain’.” It was a tired cliché, but as she intended, it made them both smile.

  Nina closed her eyes and let the images come. “My father loved Mama very much. When I was born I think he saw me as an intruder. From an early age I sensed he resented me and considered me competition for Mama’s love.

  “He was cruel to me, but hid it well—he’d beat me, taking care not to leave marks. In Mama’s presence he behaved as if I didn’t exist. He left the room when I entered, insisted I take my meals in the kitchen. I once asked him why he didn’t love me. He looked right through me, saying, ‘What’s there to love? You’re less than nothing to me’.”

  Michael gasped, but she went on.

  “I thought something must be wrong with me, that I was flawed, because my own father didn’t love me. With time I came to unde
rstand that he was addicted to painkillers. The addiction didn’t justify his behavior, but it certainly explained it.

  “He kept me constantly off balance—I never knew what to expect. Sometimes he was fun, laughing and joking. Then suddenly, without warning he’d change, start brooding and isolate from everybody. In this mood the slightest provocation, real or imagined, triggered his anger.”

  Looking at Michael, Nina pulled away from the memories for a moment. She didn’t want to overburden him with this, but compassion showed in his eyes. She continued.

  “Dad made sure I had a good education—outward appearances mattered to him. I attended the best private schools, took piano and ballet lessons. When I was old enough, he sent me to a very exclusive boarding school. Mama was desolate, I was her only child and she wanted me home. But she wasn’t able to stand up to him. This was one of the rare times I heard them fight, but Dad was determined to send me away. I like to think he tried to compensate for his lack of emotion by giving me every material comfort.

  “As a foreigner he felt inferior and demanded that I be ‘more’ than the average French girl. He made great efforts to fit into society, to be accepted and respected. If I didn’t quite measure up, he thought it reflected negatively on him, that it gave him a bad name. Evidently, it wasn’t true—it was all in his head, his imagination. Drugs warped his perception, making him suspicious and paranoid.” She sighed. “Poor Dad, he was really very sick.”

  Michael kept his warm eyes trained on her, deep furrows in his brow. “But your father was a hero, an American who’d fought to liberate France. Didn’t people appreciate him for that?”

  “You’re right. When I was a teenager I discovered that people did respect us and held him in high regard, but Dad was unable to see it because of the heavy medication.”

  “Obviously. That kind of medication totally distorts perception.” He leaned closer to touch her hand, a gentle caress. “Sorry I interrupted.”

  Closing her eyes again, she resumed. “I remember one time when I was eleven or so, I brought home grades he found inferior. He looked at my school card and flew into a rage; he grabbed me and threw me against the wall, breaking my arm. That was the only time his violence left a mark on my body. After that he was more careful—he hit me, but not hard enough to break the skin or fracture a bone.”