The Space Between Words

by Michele Phoenix

  Then I sat down, unsettled and agitated. But I couldn’t wait for Lilly to return.

  Looking back later, I’d have little recollection of my departure from the hospital. I left my room and rode the elevator down to the main floor. I didn’t think of unpaid bills or discharge procedures, but focused instead on the sliding doors and the daylight beyond them. Somehow I found a taxi and gave the driver Patrick’s address. I must have paid the fare, but even that was just a blur.

  I climbed the stairs to my friend’s studio apartment slowly and let myself in when he didn’t answer my knock. I locked the door behind me, went to the couch, and lowered myself into its familiar softness.

  Patrick was home when I woke up—sitting by the window in his vintage chair, looking melancholy. Maybe wistful.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He looked at me and cocked an eyebrow, melancholy replaced by relief. “Did they let you go or did you break out?”

  I adjusted my position to prop my feet on the couch’s armrest. “I’m cleared to fly when I feel up to it.”

  “And do you feel up to it?”

  I closed my eyes to take inventory of the aches and pains that had steadily decreased since the night of the . . . “Better every day.”

  “So . . . are we booking tickets?” There was a plea in his voice. A reluctance.

  I knew he wanted me to stay. I knew he thought it would be better for me not to run from a place that was now defined by terror. Yet the thought of staying intensified the panic that hummed constantly, like static, in the recesses of my mind. “I think I’ll feel up to it in a couple of days,” I said, attempting a smile. “My parents are getting antsy, and it hurts a lot less to move, so—yes. I think we’re booking tickets.”

  The thought of leaving caused a brightening in my spirit. Putting distance between us felt like a welcome reprieve.

  Patrick sat in silence for a moment, his eyes on me. Again, there was no judgment there. Just that trace of the sadness I’d seen when I woke up. “We can wait until morning,” I said, hoping the delay would allow him to warm to the idea of leaving.

  He nodded. “So I’ve got—what?” He checked his watch. “Half a day to convince you to stay?”

  “You have half a day to get used to my leaving.”

  He didn’t like my answer. I could tell by the frown he tried valiantly to suppress. “But first we eat,” he said in typical Patrick style, diverting my mind from flight to food.

  “Got anything tastier than what I had in the hospital?”

  He hitched his chin toward the kitchen counter, where stacks of the groceries he’d bought a few days earlier, in anticipation of our trip, still lay. “I’m thinking I can rustle something up.”

  “Thank you, Patrick.” Tears blurred my vision. Perhaps it was the comfort—the homeness of his place. Or maybe the relief of being out of the hospital. Or maybe the reassurance and understanding of his friendship.

  He feigned confusion. “For making dinner or . . . ?”

  I smiled. He understood.

  It was the easy nature of our relationship that had confounded my parents when they first met Patrick. They’d come up to Denver for a weekend and demanded to meet my “roommate.” They said the word with underlying disapproval. They’d taught me better than that. A woman was not to live with a man. It didn’t matter to them that three of us shared the apartment. They were sure there was something sordid I was keeping from them.

  So Patrick had met us for dinner in a kitschy chain restaurant, the type of place he’d never have set foot in were it not for the attempt to ease my parents’ qualms. Though they’d come to our meeting expecting to dislike him, they’d been charmed nearly instantly by his authenticity and wit.

  As I drove them back to their hotel that night, my father said, “So, are you going to marry him?”

  “Henry!” Her husband’s penchant for bluntness had always made my mother squirm.

  “We’re not getting married, Dad.” I was grateful for the traffic that kept my attention focused forward.

  “You seem to get along well,” he said.

  “We do.”

  My mom’s intentions were subtler, but just as obvious when she said from the backseat, “It’s nice to see you so comfortable around a man.”

  “Mom . . .”

  I’d never really had a serious romantic relationship, so there was no comparison on which to base her assessment. The men of Lamar were not what I was looking for, and I’d been so busy since my arrival in Denver that I’d scarcely had the time to consider a romantic life.

  Granted, Patrick had done his best to improve my track record. He’d signed me up for an online dating site just weeks after I moved into his townhouse—completely without my knowledge—then spent a couple more weeks perfecting my bio and weeding through potential suitors, discarding the ones he didn’t like and communicating with others on my behalf.

  After my initial consternation, I’d agreed to a couple of handpicked dates, and Patrick had declared himself my stylist and my coach. But despite his best efforts, the encounters had been awkward and my matches either arrogant, disinterested, or dull.

  My father turned toward me. “You should bring him home for Thanksgiving. He looks like he could use some of your mother’s cooking, and we’d get to spend more time with him.”

  “He’s not coming for Thanksgiving.”

  My mom said, “We just had the guest bedroom recarpeted. He’d be the first to use it.”

  The conversation had gone on from there—my dad with his prying questions, my mom with her passive-aggressive enthusiasm, and me trying to explain, with words and exclamations, that Patrick and I were not “that kind” of friends.

  My parents hadn’t been the only ones to broach the topic. After yet another barely veiled comment by a mutual friend a few weeks later, Patrick finally brought the subject into the open.

  “You’ve seen Sleepless in Seattle, right?”

  I was a bit taken aback. We were sitting in our usual chairs in his apartment, catching up on the shows he’d saved to his DVR. “Uh, yes. A few years ago.”

  “So you know the meaning of MFEO.”

  I pushed pause. “What’s this about?”

  “Made for each other. MFEO.”

  “I know the meaning of MFEO.”

  He pursed his lips and looked at me, but I could tell his mind was on choosing the right words. “I’m just going to come out and say it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The suspense is killing me.”

  “People think we’re MFEO.”

  So this was the topic that had made him so fidgety all evening. “They do. And none more than my parents, despite my constant denials.”

  He stared for a moment again. “I just want to . . . I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. Because people keep trying to be cute about hinting at—things—and I . . . I just want to be clear.”

  I turned so I was facing him and tried for the most earnest expression I could muster. “Patrick.”

  He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Wait—are you going to say something awkward?”

  “We’re PMFEO.”

  He squinted at me. “Probably made for each other?”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes again. “Platonically made for each other!”

  “Oh.” He looked away, giving the term some consideration. “I like it,” he finally said. “Succinct and unequivocal.”

  I shrugged. “I’m a big fan of both.” We smiled at each other until it got weird. “Can I go back to my show now?”

  “We’re okay?”

  “Patrick.”

  “Just want to be sure!”

  “We’re okay.”

  “Good. Then you can press play.”

  The conversation had defused a tension I hadn’t acknowledged until that evening. There was a muddiness to mature adult friendships—the expectation that they would lead to something more. That they should. And after that night, with our relationship more clearly defi
ned, we’d moved forward more freely, autonomous and intertwined, an unusual duo bound by similar passions and complementary interests. Patrick and I knew that what connected us was rare. It didn’t matter anymore how others wanted to define it.

  When I woke up on my first morning after my release from the hospital, in Patrick’s tiny studio near the Rue de Rivoli, he was ready to launch a campaign of persuasion. He spent the better part of the morning calmly and fervently reiterating the reasons I should stay in France and go adventuring with him.

  “We can buy you a ticket home,” he kept interjecting, holding up his hands as if I were accusing him of derailing my plans. “But consider this . . .” And he’d go off on another impassioned plea for me to reconsider my decision.

  At the end of that first day, after I’d made tentative reservations for us with Air France for three days later, Patrick sat on the edge of my bed—his bed, which he’d graciously ceded to “the patient”—and tried one final approach.

  “This is the last I’ll say about this . . .”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He frowned. “This isn’t about me.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut in. “Yes, I’ve been planning this trip for months, but it doesn’t matter. Jess, believe me, it doesn’t matter anymore to me. You do. What’s best for you is what matters now.”

  He was as sincere as I’d ever seen him. “But?”

  He sighed. “If I were you—and I know I’m not—but if I were you, I think I’d want to stay. Not because I feel safe. I know you can’t feel safe anywhere right now. None of us can, but you—you’ve seen . . .” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back to me. “You’re a survivor. You’ve survived a nightmare, Jess. And the reason I keep hoping you’ll change your mind and stay here and drive that silly deudeuche around France with me is that I want to see you taking something back—making your next step a decision, not a—”

  “I was shot, Patrick.”

  He hung his head. “You were. And I can’t imagine how that feels.”

  “I just want to go home.”

  “I get that. I’m a jerk for suggesting anything else.”

  “You’re not a jerk . . .”

  “I guess I just want to give the bad guys the finger—to prove that they didn’t destroy you, no matter how hard they tried.”

  “They might have.” The words should have appalled me, but I felt numb to them.

  “They didn’t. You’re here. You’re breathing.” He paused and looked at me for a moment. “But I can’t use you to send them my message. It’s unfair and selfish.”

  “They’re dead,” I said. The nurses had joyfully told me they were all gone. “No messages to send.”

  “But their intentions aren’t. They wanted you to feel so scared that you’d never step foot outside again without looking over your shoulder and expecting more of the awful you’ve already been through.”

  “I am scared,” I whispered. “Every time I close my eyes or hear a loud noise or—”

  “I know.” He took my hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “I know. I know, Jess.” Then he sat back and blew out a loud breath. “I won’t mention it again.”

  This time I believed him. “You can.”

  “I won’t. This is your life. It’s your spared life. And you know what you need, so . . .” He smiled a little sadly. “You take your pain pill?”

  “I’m trying a night without any.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Then I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “Patrick, you’re sleeping right over there.” I pointed at the couch just feet from the bed I lay on.

  “Right, but . . . you need to sleep and I said I’d be quiet, so . . .”

  “I’m turning out the light now.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Right.”

  “Good night, Patrick.”

  “Good night, Jess.”

  FIVE

  THREE DAYS LATER, I WASN’T ON A PLANE BOUND FOR DENVER. I was in a small, loud, bare-bones car headed south. I wasn’t sure how I’d reached the decision to postpone my flight home, though everything in me craved an escape. Patrick had eased up on his persuasive pitches after that first day out of the hospital, discussing potential plans only after I brought up the subject.

  So I wondered, as we rumbled off the périphérique in our faded orange deudeuche and followed signs to Orléans, how my determination to leave France had morphed into agreement to give it one more chance.

  “You’re not just doing this to make me happy, right?” Patrick had asked after I told him I’d changed my mind. We hadn’t left the apartment since I’d returned, the thought of venturing out still causing tingles of panic in my mind. He hadn’t pushed me to step outside or take a shower or distract myself with TV or books. He’d cared for me by occupying my mind with his inimitable conversation, by feeding me from the stash of food we’d purchased for the trip—before the nightmare, before the carnage—by letting me go silent when memories tried to force their way past my mental barricades.

  “I’m not going for you, Patrick,” I assured him. “I’m going because . . .” My thoughts trailed off. As sure as I was that this trip was what I wanted, I couldn’t identify a cogent reason for my change of heart. Except an impulse—a quiet instinct that had whispered above the deafening fear fueling my flight from France. It had coaxed a reluctant relinquishing from me. I sensed, in some unexplainable way, that this was the right choice to make.

  The feeling had persisted as I gathered enough belongings for our southern adventure. It persisted as Patrick pulled out a map of France and showed me again the itinerary he’d planned, assuring me that it could be modified if I needed to take it slower. It persisted despite the anxiety that grew from a dull hum to a roar as we left his apartment, stowed our baggage in the backseat, and made our way slowly down familiar streets.

  I tried not to see the French flags hanging from windows, the flowers and candles and notes piled high on the Place de la Réunion. But there was no ignoring the alterations in this post-attack France. The buildings and shops and cafés hadn’t changed, but the air around them felt fragile—almost brittle—with the wounded disbelief of the Parisian spirit.

  “We’ll be out of the city soon,” Patrick said, sensing my anxiety, as we followed the Seine on the Quai du Point du Jour. “Once we hit the périphérique, we’ll be free and clear.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember the beauty that had lulled me into daydreams of moving more permanently to the city. The markets and their voluptuous aromas—flowers and baked goods and fresh fish and crêpes all intertwined and warm in the cold morning air. The grandeur of Notre Dame. The decadence of Quai des Orfèvres. The simple enchantment of the skyline at dusk.

  But they were all bloodstained now. Tainted with terror. Steeped in the stench of unexplainable hatred. So when we left the road that looped around the capital and set out toward Orléans, it was relief, not regret, that permeated my thoughts.

  We stopped for the night in Moulins at a little Airbnb I’d reserved for us online. It was an extra stop from our original itinerary, one that would shorten the hours we spent in the car on our first day.

  “You’re picking our lodging,” Patrick had said the morning before as he dropped a pair of white linen pants into his vintage leather suitcase.

  “Are we going treasure hunting or yachting?”

  He gave me his don’t-mess-with-me look and began folding the striped jacket he’d worn to the hospital. “I’ve packed plenty of common clothes,” he said, infusing the last two words with his usual disdain. “These are just in case our modest adventure intersects with someone else’s extravagant expedition.”

  “Your optimism is astounding.”

  He didn’t respond. I watched him folding more clothes and fitting them neatly into his organizational masterpiece and knew he was thinking of me. Of optimism. Of the fact that I’d been hopeful o
nce too. I knew he worried, as I did, that that part of my life had been amputated by fear.

  “So why am I the one planning our overnight stays?”

  “Because you’re the one with a bullet hole in your body.” His countenance softened. “I want you to be comfortable. You pick the beds, I pick the attics.”

  I hadn’t reserved traditional B&Bs, daunted by the prospect of conversations with strangers. So we were staying in a coach house that night, on the outskirts of Moulins. We’d found a note on the door with instructions to work the keypad. The space was small and comfortable, recently renovated, and far from the frantic pace of a city. There was some comfort in that. We ate what we’d bought at the local Auchan store, and I went to bed early.

  I wanted to be excited. I wanted to give Patrick the companion he’d invited on this trip. The energetic, intrepid friend he’d chosen to take along. Maybe tomorrow, I thought as I turned off the bedside lamp. Light from the living room shone under the door. I pictured Patrick on his foldout couch, reading a historical novel or scouring the map for the villages we’d visit when we got to the first stop of our picking pilgrimage. Not for the first time, I thanked God for this friend.

  Then I remembered the attack. And God seemed suddenly less worthy of my gratitude.

  It took us two more days to get to Balazuc, a small town perched on a rocky outcropping in the Ardèche region of southern France. I’d chosen the location because the online pictures were beautiful—a rugged village that still looked as it would have hundreds of years ago. And Patrick had approved of it because there were enough flea markets in the area to have him happily sifting through junk for the four days we’d be there.

  The tall stone bridge leading to Balazuc was just one lane wide, and the roads got narrower from there. They flowed like water through the little town, around centuries-old constructions unbound by draftsmen’s plans. We pulled up to the B&B in the late afternoon, weary from the drive but fascinated by the place we’d found. Like the rest of the village, the cottage was built of chiseled limestone. Single-storied and stoic, it stood in the shadow of an austere manor house.