Oh, Zander. You don’t know how much I owe you. And how I’ll always be grateful for what you helped me do. Don’t hate me when I disappear from your life.
That vacation isn’t going to happen, by the way.
Hey, Ro!
Your Mom is psycho! Yesterday she freaked and said she was getting on a plane to Arizona! Zander talked her out of it. He was like, “you have to cut the strings,” or something. Or was it leash? I LOLed so hard. They would both freak if they knew what’s going on. Thanks for your pictures. I love the pole guys!
Huggies,
Jada
So how much would you freak, Jada, if I called you right now and told you the entire story? Would you still be LOLing?
I bite my lip. I have to tell Jada some time, but I can’t right now, in the middle of dinner while we sit at some café and people-watch. I shove my phone into my pocket and try to breathe slower. If Zan is planning a Paris getaway in August, I’d better get busy and work on the “I need you, Sylvie and Émile, to be my new family” angle, and fast.
People stroll by in the soft summer twilight, clearly out to see and be seen, chatting, laughing, eating ice cream, breathing in the sea air and the perfume of flowers and citrus trees. We’re having a “special dinner to celebrate.” Sylvie was thrilled by what I did, though I’m not totally sure why, since I didn’t catch everything she said in her enthusiastic, bubbly-fast French. So now we perch on tiny metal chairs that surround a cloth covered table, sharing bread, goat cheese coated with herbs, and a salad of chopped vegetables with lots of olives.
“Your portrait, Rosie,” Sylvie begins, once the eating slows down. She places her napkin onto the table and puts her chin in her hands.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad,” I blurt. I wince. Why can’t I talk normally like everyone else?
“Ah, no, Rosie!” Émile says. He puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You do not need to apologize to us,” Sylvie tells me. Her eyes are so sad. “I wanted to say how sorry I am for making you feel so, so . . .”
Warm relief floods me inside. I’m glad that Sylvie wasn’t too upset by my painting. She was only worried about me, which is what I wanted in the first place.
“Sylvie!” a woman calls. “Émile!”
We all turn as a woman with curly auburn hair weaves her way through the tables toward us. She’s an exclamation point of a person, nothing but long, long legs, like she follows a diet of celery sticks and air. Heads swivel, whispers start and eyes follow her as she hurries right up to our table.
“Nicole!” my French parents both call out. They rise to greet her with warm hugs.
My pulse quickens. I know her! Her face is on magazine covers and billboards. But can she be the very same Nicole I learned about on Sylvie’s blog? Based on Sylvie’s tears and the expression of joy that broke out on Émile’s face, she must be. Ten years ago, before Ansel died, Nicole had nowhere to go. Sylvie and Émile took her in. She was fifteen, like I am now. Her story, her very existence gave me the courage to try something crazy.
This is too perfect.
I am introduced. I mumble an awkward greeting but am soon at ease with Nicole, with her gleaming hazel eyes and ready smile. She gives me a hug when she learns I’m staying with her former family.
Émile orders dessert. While I sip Orangina, I sit back and listen. Nicole speaks in rapid French I can barely follow. She was passing through Nice, had stopped by and was disappointed not to find her dear friends at home, but voilà! Here they are!
Her joyful mood is infectious. People around us turn to stare and pull out their phones to take quick photos when they think Nicole isn’t looking. She pays it no mind. Warmth spreads through me. Nicole was just what I needed. She is my shot of courage. There’s no way I’m giving up on my plan, because it will work.
Over a tray of pastries, we laugh at nothing and everything. I even manage to answer a couple of questions, speaking softly. Sylvie beams, Émile’s indigo eyes gleam. Nicole doesn’t bat an eye when I screw up my words and sound weird.
Ansel’s name is mentioned. The mood grows darker in an instant.
Sylvie wipes her eyes. Émile touches her face once, gently.
“I miss my baby,” Sylvie whispers down to her plate. Nicole hugs her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, at a loss for words, this time not out of fear that I won’t be understood, but because I know there are no words in any language that would ease Sylvie’s pain. My pulse quickens, then, at the thought that I need to take advantage of this moment, when Sylvie and Émile are reminded so sharply of their own loss. I need to let them know that I can fill the void in their lives. Like Nicole, I can be a daughter to them. Then, guilt sweeps through me that I could be so unfeeling and selfish at such a moment.
But Émile and Sylvie’s loss was one of the biggest reasons I chose them as my host family. I think of Sylvie’s blog. All her posts about Ansel. How he would endlessly draw and paint, get in trouble at school for doodling instead of listening. How he once cut his own hair. That’s it!
“Sylvie,” I say, clearing my throat. I try to ignore the guilt that rises from my stomach. “Tell me about Ansel. You said once that he, um, cut his hair?” I’m not sure of the French words I’m using, so I make gestures with my fingers, pretending they’re scissors, snipping at my shortened curls. “You were angry?” My words aren’t too clear, but I’m growing used to speaking in front of my French family, especially now that they know about my speech problems. And Nicole is so kind.
I’m rewarded by a chuckle from Émile and a watery smile from Sylvie. Nicole beams at me while Sylvie reaches out to touch my own newly shorn head, and tells me in a wavering voice of the time Ansel, only thirteen, used his father’s razor to shave himself bald. Then, horrified at the result, he’d begged his mother to buy him a wig. We all laugh together. I shove my guilt down to some place where I can hardly feel it.
Nicole takes her leave. She embraces Sylvie, Émile, even me. Then she asks for my cell phone and types in her phone number and email while I stare in shock. She tells me that she wants to correspond. She lives in London, now. She even says something about how I should come to visit her.
I stare at her as she walks away, along with everyone else who happens to be in the vicinity. Did I just make a friend? On my own? I curl my fingers around the cell phone in my pocket. For the first time in my life, I have more than three people on my contacts list.
We join the throng of tourists and locals on the Promenade des Anglais, walking along the shore. The summer twilight has a mellow quality, making everything glow softly as if lit from within. I’m on this weird high, thrilled by the promise of friendship with Nicole. I don’t care that she’s super-famous or celery-stick thin. Nicole, one of Sylvie and Émile’s “strays,” like me, treated me like I was normal. I will never forget that.
As we walk, I try to keep Sylvie and Émile talking about Ansel. Once, when I say how much I would like to have known him, a strange expression glimmers in Émile’s eyes, but then it’s gone, and he tells me how much he thinks Ansel would like me. Sylvie beams at this and nods. She hugs me to her, whispering, “I would love to have a daughter like you.” I hug her back and inside I’m flying. It’s working!
We buy apricot sorbets and continue to stroll, each now silent, wrapped in our own thoughts. I’m dizzy with the hope that rises inside me. I taste my tart sorbet, listen to the musical shuffling and murmuring of people passing by, and breathe the smells of a city by the sea: vehicle exhaust, green growing things, and fishy ocean air. My short hair tickles the back of my neck, and I shake my head, loving the feel of weightlessness. A burden lifted.
Up ahead, neon pink, blue, green, and yellow lights glow high above, bright dots that float in the darkening air as we stroll toward the square. I point at them and am relieved when I don’t have to ask what they are, because Émile, wonderful É
mile, understands my unspoken question.
“The statues on poles near the tram stop. I am certain you have seen them, yes?”
I nod. So the kneeling pole guys light up at night? Weird. A laugh bubbles up and I giggle out loud. The thought of the funny statues glowing in the dark like giant night-lights for grownups cracks me up. Émile opens his mouth like he’s about to say more, but then he closes his lips and simply grins and pats my shoulder. I smile at people I don’t know. As we head away from the shore and onto the gently sloping hills of the city, passing through the narrow streets that wind between low stucco buildings, I already feel at home. It’s a sense of familiarity and of belonging. A sense of safety. Not the kind of safety behind locked doors, but the kind that’s open and free.
Then, a tall man pushes his way past us, ignoring Émile’s startled exclamations, and I gasp and almost choke. The shoving man turns back for a brief moment, giving me enough time to see who it is. Thomas! Instinctively, I shrink behind Émile and Sylvie, who both glare at the man’s fading form.
“Rude,” Émile murmurs. He and Sylvie continue on their way, and I follow on shaky legs. My thoughts whirl as we head up the stairs to the apartment. The safety of my new home is a precarious, fragile one. When I went inside that empty apartment, I put everything, my new life, my new family, and my freedom, at risk. But now it’s too late to undo what I did. How do I move forward from here and make my position in this family secure, when Big Scary Guy and Evil Old Lady are right upstairs, watching my every move?
Back at home, I find myself confiding in Fat Cat. He listens, snorts on occasion, purrs, but mostly stares with that unnerving, unwavering gaze that cats have.
Stay out of their way, he seems to say as he peers into my face. That’s all you have to do.
But is that possible? I look up at Ansel’s painted ceiling, even though it’s dark and I can’t see anything. I’m too worried to sleep. Maybe Jada will finally help me. It’s morning for her. I’ll send her another message. I want her to see my new look anyway. With tired fingers I type,
Check this out.
I upload a photo of my new look, find Jada’s name on my list and hit send. When Jada answers, I’ll tell her again about Mrs. Thackeray and her son, and ask her what to do. My phone rings immediately.
“Hey,” I say, hearing the smile in my voice.
“Rosemary, your hair! Your beautiful hair,” Mom’s voice sobs in my ear.
Oh, crap. I chose the wrong name on my contacts list! There are only four names to choose from. How could I be so brain dead I picked the wrong one? Air leaves my lungs and I can’t fill them again.
“Hi, Mom,” I croak.
Her voice booms in my ear, loud, insistent, and furious. It’s 2:30 a.m. when she finally ends the call. I’m camped out on the floor with Fat Cat. He’s out, breathing evenly. I’m wide awake and wired, like I’ve downed a case of forbidden Coke.
Don’t forget!
I mean it. Send me something tomorrow.
It is tomorrow, Mom.
I consider typing that, but I don’t.
Got it.
The air inside my room is stale and warm, and smells like my dirty socks. I stretch out on the paint-splattered carpet. Faint light that comes through the blinds makes stripes on the wall. I count them about a million times, but I can’t stop shaking.
My plan was to trash this phone and get a new one, but only after I convinced my French parents to keep me. I’ve been so busy faking artistic talent and breaking and entering that I haven’t worked on this part as much as I should have. I felt great at dinner, like it was all coming together, but I haven’t yet told Sylvie and Émile that I want to stay forever.
Sylvie said she’d love to have me for a daughter. But when summer ends and I ask to stay forever, what will she say at that moment?
I pick up my phone. Photographed faces beam out at me from the screen. Jada and me. The two of us are together, smiling, our arms around each other. Mom, with her smothering love written all over her face. Zander, with his “old guy trying to look young” eyebrow ring. And no one else. Zander’s the key. I wasn’t sure I’d actually go through with it, but now I know that I will.
Lie Number Six: Zander is an evil man. He’s doing something terrible to me.
Truth: Zander is the good guy everyone thinks he is. But they don’t need to know that.
Curling up into a ball, I hug my legs and put my forehead down on my knees. I’m sorry, Zan. But it can’t hurt you. You’ll never even know.
Sylvie and Émile won’t let me stay with them simply because I “don’t get along well” with my Mom. Nicole had nowhere to go, but I do. I have a home to return to. But they might let me stay if, well, there’s something going on between me and my Mom’s boyfriend. Something very, very bad.
Sylvie and Émile are the perfect new family for me. They lost a child and have room in their lives for someone new. They take in strays, like Nicole, so it’s not like they haven’t done something like this before. But there’s one more thing that makes this work so well. Sylvie used to lead a support group for girls, all victims of abuse. She was molested as a child. She writes about this in her blog, sharing her story with the hope that she can help others.
Sylvie will let me stay if she thinks I’m afraid of Zander.
Bring it, Rosemary. I take a deep breath. First, I’ll throw Mom off my trail and do what she asks so my plan has time to work.
She wants a painting. Proof that this “art camp” thing was worth it. So, I’ll send my mother a painting from “Arizona,” and not just any painting. I need something fantastic, something that will convince her that I’m a real artist. I don’t need her to become any more suspicious than she already is.
All is quiet next door. I creep inside, hardly daring to breathe. I find a small still life that reminds me of the dressing table in Marguerite’s bedroom. There are irises in a glass vase and a jumble of containers and bottles on a table. All the objects are reflected in a mirror behind them. It was painted with lots of blues and purples and makes me think of twilight and cool air on skin. There’s no artist’s signature on the painting. Now it’s mine.
A Rosemary original.
If they even miss it, my upstairs neighbors might suspect that I took it, but they’ll have no proof.
Besides, I’m only taking one painting, from hundreds. Who’s going to miss it?
Sixteen
“Here you are,” Émile says as I enter the shop, yawning after my long night. Minutes ago, I successfully mailed a package to Benita, aka the “Art Camp Director,” in Arizona. Helpful that Zander has a cousin who lives in Sedona. From her, the painting will get to Mom.
It was great that the guy behind the glass who helped me at the post office didn’t even look at me. He just took the package, weighed it, and told me how much.
It’s such a relief when I don’t have to talk to anyone.
Émile smiles at me. “One of our neighbors asked me for help, and I told her you would be happy to do it,” he says, gesturing toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”
Blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim light inside, I follow, smiling to myself, humming something tuneless, wordless, nothing more than happy notes that slide freely from my mouth. We climb, I hum. Émile leads me to the floor above ours. He knocks on the very first door and opens it without waiting for a response. I stop humming. It’s the old lady’s apartment.
What if Thomas is there?
Inside, the drapes are closed. A thick blackness hides everything from my eyes. Night time in Sylvie’s apartment is somehow different. It’s shades lighter than the suffocating daytime shadows that surround me here. Sylvie and Émile’s home holds a feather-light darkness, waiting to be brushed aside. Mrs. Thackeray’s place feels like it’s full of secrets.
Someone coughs, and I hear movement. A single table lamp clicks on and I finall
y spy the crumpled up form of Mrs. Thackeray on the sofa. What was she doing, sitting there in the dark? Did she think that was some kind of dramatic entrance?
She points around the room. The dim yellow glow reveals a place almost as cluttered as the so-called empty apartment downstairs. Piles of books, boxes, clothing, and other objects crowd every available surface and spill out onto the floor.
“I am so grateful, dear Émile,” Mrs. Thackeray says. Her voice surprises me. It’s full of sweetness. “You can see how many things a silly old woman can accumulate during a lifetime. But, of course,” she adds with a wheezy, rattling chuckle, “one must not hold on to the past forever. It’s very kind of these young people to help.”
Before I can wonder what she means by “these young people,” Émile speaks.
“Ah, here he is. When he stopped by this morning I asked him to join us. Merci, Gavin.”
Gavin walks in with his hands shoved into his pockets and his head down low. His face is wary, his eyes watchful. “Hey, Rosemary,” he says.
I don’t answer. Awkwardness ensues, as it always does when I’m around.
“Take as long as you need to,” Émile says. The door clicks shut behind him.
Mrs. Thackeray speaks again. This time her voice is imperious and commanding. All the sugar has melted away.
“You may begin. These boxes must be taken downstairs to the truck parked on the street,” she says. I get the feeling she’s used to having people practically salute when she speaks.
“Sure,” Gavin says. Then he turns to me. “I like your hair. It looks good.” Is he being sarcastic? I feel my face flush and am grateful that the lighting in the room is barely adequate.
I could bail, but I don’t. What would I tell Émile and Sylvie? What would Mrs. Thackeray say to them? My biggest fear is Thomas. What if he makes an appearance?
The French Impressionist Page 10