Interference

by Amélie Antoine

  “I’ll call you sometime this week, okay? And I’ll e-mail you my first photos if you want. Okay, bye, Mom. Love you.”

  My mother grumbles something, then hangs up. I know that she’ll go moan and complain to my father, who’ll reply, “Give the girl some space! She’s not fifteen anymore.”

  I add Edith to my list of contacts, which is quite short. I only include people I actually call: my mother, my father, and my brother, Nathan, of course. My maternal grandparents’ landline, even though I call them much less than I should. My hairdresser, though I’ll have to find a new one in Saint-Malo. Louis, an old college friend from Arles. Not really a friend anymore, more of a colleague. He also takes wedding pictures. The only difference is that it’s enough for him. We still sometimes call each other to share ideas or discuss equipment. My banker. I don’t call him, but having his number in my contacts means that I know when he’s calling, usually to talk about my overdrawn account. This way I can transfer enough money to keep him at bay without actually having to talk to him.

  I don’t have a best friend to tell all my secrets to or call at two o’clock in the morning if I feel sad or anxious. I don’t have a group of friends to call about pulling together a last-minute gathering either. In fact, I’m a loner. I’ve always been that way and I’ve never had a problem with it. I like to go to the movies alone, exercise alone, and daydream on my towel at the beach alone. And, of course, I like to be alone with my camera.

  When I was little, my worrywart of a mother couldn’t stand my preference for solitude and thought there had to be something wrong with me since I never had any friends over. She would occasionally decide it was a good idea to invite the neighbor girl or the son of one of her colleagues over so we could have fun together. Every time, she would find them wandering through the house alone, since I had gone off to have my own fun at the far end of the yard or in the attic. After I explained that I was quite happy to be alone and that I didn’t feel especially inclined to have people around, my mother finally gave in.

  I don’t have a steady boyfriend who will follow me anywhere either. I’m more the kind of girl who has a series of one-night stands and weeklong flings. The kind who leaves before the sleeping body next to her wakes up and who always hesitates to give out a real phone number. I don’t know how to get close to people. My mother is always saying it’s because I haven’t met the “right” man yet, but sometimes I wonder if I’m actually incapable of loving anyone. Maybe love is incompatible with my dreams of freedom, of getting away.

  I admit that right now I wish I had a best friend to share my doubts and fears with. She could reassure me, tell me that I’m making the right choice, that what’s important is living my dream of traveling abroad with my camera in a bag slung over my shoulder. I’m sure it would be more helpful than talking to my reflection in the mirror.

  I turn off my phone and place it in my bag with my lenses. I hate to be interrupted when I’m taking pictures.

  CHAPTER 5

  JUNE 2013

  CHLOÉ

  I’m starting to lose track of time; the days all run together. But I know I’ve been dead for over a month.

  I watch as Gabriel wanders aimlessly around our home.

  The first week, he didn’t even poke his head outside. He lazed around the house, near comatose, like a zombie. I felt like I was watching a scene from The Walking Dead. He hardly ate a thing, but drank a lot. He slept all day and spent his nights zoning out in front of the TV, the circles under his eyes darkening every day.

  The second week, he spent most of his time crying. He started up any time he came across one of my belongings—which of course translates to about half the objects in the house. Tears started rolling at the sight of my electric kettle and tea bags; he sobbed in front of my sandals at the foot of the stairs. He fell to pieces when he noticed the half-read novel on my nightstand and wiped his eyes when he received letters addressed to me. I sighed as I watched him smell my pillow night after night. It got old pretty quickly.

  The third week, he accidentally knocked over a gilded glass vase he had given me when we moved into the house in Saint-Malo. After studying the pieces strewn all over the white tile floor with a tormented look on his face, he suddenly fell into a terrible rage. He hurled anything and everything he could get his hands on at the walls: potted plants, dishes from the counter, and even books from the shelves. And he did it all without making a sound, not a single scream or groan. He only stopped after grabbing a framed photo of the two of us on vacation in Spain. Gabriel slid down the wall, out of breath, and put the frame down next to him, then rested his head in his hands and started crying—obviously.

  All that for a vase I didn’t even really like.

  I wish I could tell him he’s not allowed to just let himself drown in grief like that—the metaphor is just too easy. He has to get ahold of himself; he has no choice.

  A few days after this incomprehensible scene, he went back to work. I think that Geoffrey helped by constantly calling and knocking on the door. I sighed with relief. Gabriel went back to a normal schedule: he got up in the morning, went to work, and slept at night. I mean, he wasn’t exactly bursting with energy, and he ordered pizza every night, but at least he wasn’t letting himself waste away anymore. I thought he might even realize what a mess the house was before long . . .

  The fourth week, it was back to square one. Gabriel started listening to “Ain’t No Sunshine” on repeat—the song we’d chosen for our first dance. We’d savored it, locked in a tender embrace, as if we’d been the only people there. When Bill Withers belted, “This house just ain’t no home any time she goes away,” for the fifty-seventh time, I wanted to scream. Sure, Gabriel loves me. And sure, he misses me. But there’s no point in going overboard. Why wallow in it?

  It’s true that in some ways I’m flattered to see him in such a state. I don’t want him to forget me and move on. If he weren’t in pain, I would be. But I also need to see that he’s a fighter. A man. I’ve always been like that; I can’t stand weakness. If I could, I’d grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake. And I’d hand him a razor while I was at it—so he could get rid of the fuzzy beard that’s covering half his face, of course, not for anything else.

  I want him to be miserable without me, but a strong, masculine miserable.

  This week he’s started putting away my clothes. I think it’s a bit early, but maybe he read somewhere that he should do it, or maybe his mom told him that sorting through my closet would help him clear some things out of his head. She’s an expert when it comes to bogus bits of wisdom like that.

  First he took my yellow dress—the one I had planned to wear to dinner at his parents’ (which reminds me: at least I got out of that)—off the hanger. He carefully placed it in a big box he must have bought for the occasion. Then he put all my jeans in, pair by pair, sighing at regular intervals. My sweaters, button-up shirts, and dresses. My workout clothes, my bathing suits—except for the black one I was wearing the day of. My whole wardrobe. The only thing he kept was a large turquoise silk shawl, one of his favorites. He held it to his nose for a few moments, then tucked it away in the drawer of his nightstand. He closed the three boxes he had filled with brown packing tape, then placed them on the highest shelf in the closet. I admit I don’t understand what the point is. I thought he was going to donate my clothes, or maybe sell them, given the price tag for some of my dresses! Not just put them all back in the closet. But his mother often has strange ideas; that must be the explanation.

  He ran his fingers over the cover of the novel lying on my nightstand, but didn’t put it in the drawer.

  Next, he threw out everything of mine in the bathroom. My toothbrush, my makeup, my lotions and toners, my bubble bath, my razor, my hair ties. Even my perfume. He opened the little wooden box where I kept my jewelry, seemed to hesitate, then closed it and pushed it to the back of the cabinet.

  Finally, he tied up the big garbage bag and sat on the edge
of the bathtub. He stayed there for a few minutes, totally motionless. I have no idea what he was thinking. He didn’t seem all that sad, more wistful.

  It broke my heart to see him like that, even if he had just thrown out an almost new bottle of YSL Parisienne.

  GABRIEL

  Gabriel spends the morning at the morgue picking up Chloé’s wedding ring and bracelet. Once home, he puts the bracelet away in the bathroom and slides her ring onto the chain he wears around his neck. He slips it under his T-shirt, where it will be safe from the sympathetic glances he just can’t take any longer.

  The police also gave him back her car keys and her purse, both of which they’d found inside her car. Her Renault Clio was still sitting where she’d parked it before going swimming. Gabriel will have his father bring it to the house; he can’t bear to do it himself. He’ll ask Geoffrey to sell it online.

  He opens Chloé’s purse and takes out its hidden treasures one by one. A box of mint Tic Tacs. Her house keys. A tube of lip gloss. A pocket mirror. An old pen with a chewed-up cap. A wallet filled with dozens of rewards cards, a five-euro bill, and an old photo-booth portrait of Gabriel. Two hair ties and a black barrette.

  And her phone. Gabriel turns it on and enters her PIN: four zeros. Chloé never understood why it was important to have a secret password. The screen comes to life. Seven text messages and five voice messages. Gabriel erases them one by one after checking that they’re all from him.

  He opens Chloé’s contacts and scrolls directly to the letter S. A single entry: Simon. So she didn’t erase him. Or she re-entered his number. Gabriel keeps telling himself a phone number doesn’t mean anything, but he feels betrayed.

  He browses through old texts on the SIM card.

  Mom: “It would be nice if you’d call me every once in a while!”

  Oriane: “Sorry to ask this now, but do you think the kids could stay over at your place on Friday night? I’d come get them Saturday morning . . .”

  Mehdi: “Can we trade classes: your Wednesday Pilates for my Thursday morning step aerobics?”

  No messages from Simon—unless they’d been erased.

  Gabriel is not proud of how obsessed he’s become with the guy since he saw him at Chloé’s funeral, but he can’t get the doubt and suspicion out of his head. He needs to know if he was right to forgive his wife. He needs to know that she really loved him, now that she’s not here to tell him herself.

  He dumps everything back into her purse and puts it in the drawer of the coffee table. He also puts away the official version of the autopsy report, which they gave him this morning with Chloé’s jewelry. He hasn’t even opened the envelope. Why bother? Gabriel already knows what’s inside. The coroner called him three weeks ago to share his findings. He concluded, from the cerebral hemorrhage he’d found during the autopsy, that Chloé had had an aneurism and drowned as a result. The coroner’s explanation cleared up the one question Gabriel hadn’t been able to answer: how his wife, an experienced swimmer, had drowned in a calm sea.

  The rest isn’t important. Chloé is gone. Period.

  Gabriel notices the brochure a funeral home employee handed him the day Chloé was buried. Coping with Bereavement: You don’t have to do it alone. The man had slipped it into his hand before leaving the cemetery with the hearse.

  “I know this isn’t a good time, but this association really helped me when I lost my brother a few years ago. I had plenty of reservations about group therapy, but I met some really great people. People who understood me because they were going through the same thing . . .”

  To be polite, Gabriel had put the leaflet in his pocket instead of throwing it in the first trash can he could find. Spilling his guts to strangers wasn’t his thing. He hardly confided in his friends and family, much less people he didn’t even know.

  But now he has to admit that he’s drowning on his own. He feels different from everyone else, his suffering immeasurable and incomprehensible. He’s back at work, he sees friends, he has dinner with his parents, but he knows a part of him died with Chloé.

  Going through her things didn’t help, despite his mother’s suggestion that it would.

  He wants to scream all the time. He’s angry at everyone for no reason. He collapses in tears as soon as no one’s looking, and he isn’t interested in or excited about anything. He drags through every day, trying to keep up appearances behind a fake smile.

  He’s tired of pretending.

  He could always give it a try—if he doesn’t like it, he won’t go back.

  His train of thought is suddenly interrupted when someone knocks firmly on the front door. Gabriel trudges over and opens it to find Geoffrey with his fist still in the air.

  “I wasn’t sure you could hear me,” he offers awkwardly as an excuse.

  “It would be nice if you’d learn that nowadays people use doorbells. Your knuckles are going to leave a permanent mark on the door if you keep this up.”

  Gabriel opens the door all the way, then heads back to the living room without a second glance at his best friend. Geoffrey falls in behind him.

  “Not so fast, buddy! I have a present for you. I was thinking that since you don’t want to hang out with me right now, it would still do you some good to have someone to keep you company . . .”

  Gabriel turns around and notices a dog sitting quietly on the front stoop, waiting to be invited in.

  “What the hell is that?” he mutters as his eyebrows lower into a frown.

  “A dog!” replies Geoffrey, clearly thrilled with his surprise.

  “Yes, I can see it’s a dog, thank you. But what is he doing here exactly?”

  “I just told you. He’ll keep you company since you don’t want to see anyone. Think about it: you don’t even have to make small talk for him to like you! I know you’ve always wanted a dog, so don’t try to tell me otherwise. It’s the perfect time to adopt one.”

  “But Chloé . . .”

  Gabriel stops. Chloé would never have wanted a dog. But she’s gone now.

  Geoffrey is quiet. He doesn’t know what to say, can’t find the right words to comfort his friend.

  Gabriel contemplates the cream-colored golden retriever. The dog stares back without moving. It seems like he’s waiting for his potential new master to make up his mind.

  He almost got a dog once, nearly twenty years ago. A mutt, with black fur and ears almost as big as a fox’s. He happened upon him on his way home from middle school, on the deserted dirt path he always used as a shortcut. He can still see the way the dog sat with his head tilted to one side, as if he’d been waiting. He bent down to pet him, and when he started walking again, the stray fell in behind him without a second thought. Gabriel tried to shoo him away several times, but it was no use. When the pair reached home, he glanced at the dog and said, “Wait here.” He received a hushed bark in reply, interpreted as agreement.

  Gabriel’s mother refused to agree, however. There was no way they were going to adopt a dog, especially not some mutt he’d found in the street. “We don’t even know where he came from! And what about your brother?”

  His father mumbled that he didn’t care one way or the other, that Gabriel would have to work it out with his mother. So the boy put on the cutest smile he could manage and cajolingly begged her, “Pretty please, my wonderful, beautiful mommy, please, please, please say yes! Grégoire won’t mind. Just look at him, he’s such a good dog, and he’s so little too!” His mother finally gave in with a shrug, and Gabriel brought the dog into the house, promising to take him out for walks and that she wouldn’t have to take care of him at all.

  But his younger brother, Grégoire, screamed as soon as he came down from his room. He had been terrified of dogs since he was a baby, though no one knew why. Gabriel tried to reassure him: the dog barely reached his knees and hadn’t even growled! But there was no point. Grégoire ran back up to his room to hide, unwilling to discuss the subject. Their mother got upset, and then their father got involved. B
y the time Laurent, the oldest brother, got home from school, the house was like a war zone.

  “I told you bringing a dog home was a bad idea!”

  “No, I think it’s a great idea and a chance for your son to stop acting like such a wimp!” rallied their father, annoyed that he couldn’t read the newspaper in peace.

  Gabriel knew that any subject would do when it came to starting a fight between his parents. They loved arguing and especially loved making up afterward. They never thought twice about the consequences of imposing such a stressful environment on their children.

  Grégoire refused to come down to the kitchen that evening and instead ate dinner in his room. Gabriel and Laurent stared at their plates to avoid becoming collateral damage as their parents continued to scream at one another. The dog sat silently in the entryway without moving a muscle.

  The next morning, Gabriel left early with the dog, who eagerly followed him, happy to get out of the house. He walked for at least an hour through the Breton countryside, the dog on his heels and his hands in his pockets.

  When he finally stopped, he looked at the mutt and told him to go.

  The dog didn’t move.

  “I said go! I can’t keep you. You get that, don’t you?”

  The dog tilted his head to the side with a whine.

  “Get out of here, all right? You already messed everything up last night!”

  Suddenly unable to contain his anger, Gabriel picked up a handful of rocks and started pelting the dog, who finally got the message. When he got home, nobody mentioned the previous evening’s incident or asked what had happened to the dog. That day, Gabriel gave up on the idea of ever having a dog again.

  Now, Gabriel looks at Geoffrey and scratches his head, perplexed. “He doesn’t look like a young pup.”

  “I got him at the Humane Society. I thought it would be better not to bring you a puppy who still pees on the floor that you’d have to house-train. He’s six years old. The lady told me he’s very sociable, so I thought he’d make up for your shortcomings in that department.”