Ties That Bind

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  André shook his head, the worry about his nephew coming to the forefront of his thoughts. “They don’t know yet. They have a few more tests to run, but basically, he’s stable. We have to wait to see if he’ll wake up, and if he does, how much damage there is.”

  “He’s a strong boy,” Philippe replied, “and he has a lot of support. That should help.”

  They walked together in silence. As they approached the waiting room Philippe spoke, “Look, if it’s going to be a long wait, do you think you could make a visit with me?”

  André didn’t hide his surprise. “A visit?”

  “Yes, to a young boy in your ward.” Philippe hesitated. “I really don’t want to explain right now, but I could use your company. I think you’ll find it worth your while.”

  “Okay.” André was curious about Philippe’s request. Though they had shared an amicable relationship since the day Philippe had helped Raoul raise the money to become a partner in the engineering firm, neither had made any social overtures toward the other. The nearly two and a half decades between them, not to mention their differences in faith, had made a deep friendship improbable. “But I have to pick up the girls at school soon,” André added. “Will that be a problem?”

  “No. It won’t take long. The young man in question should be just finishing school himself. That is if the missionaries are keeping up their vigil.”

  André wondered what the missionaries had to do with Philippe, but he had learned in business that sometimes his best recourse was to wait and listen. Philippe would explain when he was ready.

  Philippe greeted everyone and then drew his wife aside for a private conversation. André noticed that his parents appeared more gray than usual, but when he approached they smiled. Ariana looked deeply in his eyes. “Where’s Rebekka?”

  Her name hit into him with a painful slap. “She went to find Marc,” he said with only a little hesitation. “They belong together, and I told her so.”

  Her hand rested on his arm, comfortingly. “You did a good thing. You can be proud of that.” But André knew that true sacrifice held no pride, only a sense of right that couldn’t be faked. His father clapped him on the shoulder. “I know it wasn’t easy, and I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You ready, André?” Philippe asked from across the room.

  André nodded. “I’m going to get the girls,” he told his parents. “Call if you need me.”

  They took André’s car because it had the seatbelts adjusted to accommodate the girls. “I know it may not seem like it,” he told Philippe, “but these metal clasps are a lot more difficult than they look.”

  Philippe smiled. “Believe it or not, I do remember. As a child, Rebekka was forever complaining about the shoulder belt.”

  This time the mention of Rebekka didn’t slap but instead penetrated his body and evaporated. It was gone. Gone. Not like the pain of losing Claire that had seemed to burrow permanently into his soul.

  I miss you, Claire!

  “Do you mind if we stop first at the boy’s place?” Philippe asked. “If we have time, it might be better to go there without the girls. It’s not an exceptionally rough area, but I can’t vouch for what this boy might say or do.”

  André glanced at his watch. “As long as it’s not too far.”

  “He lives near the high school. Just go there and I’ll direct you from there.”

  “Let me ring the day care first, just to make sure. They watch Marée for part of the day, and if I’m late, they’ll keep both girls for a while.”

  Philippe waited while he made the call. André returned the phone to his suit coat pocket and then asked, “I take it you’ve been to this boy’s house before?”

  “I drove by it on the way over.”

  André glanced at him and then back at the road. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

  Philippe gave a laugh. “I guess I owe you that. Does the name Basil Lorrain ring any bells?”

  André nodded slowly. “Claire had a brother by that name.”

  “She did?” Philippe’s surprise told André he hadn’t expected that answer. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “As far as we know, he left France when Claire was a little girl. Presumably to find work. She has a few pictures of him, but—” He broke off, realizing that he was speaking of his wife in the present tense. “She wanted me to find him. It was one of the things she asked me that last day.”

  An odd look came across Philippe’s face. “This just gets stranger and stranger. Maybe God really does care.”

  “Of course He does.” André spoke quietly but with conviction.

  “You can say that after all the tragedy your family has suffered?” Philippe’s voice wasn’t mocking or vicious, only curious.

  “God tests those He loves.”

  Philippe laughed. “Must not love me very much, then.”

  “No?” André raised his eyebrows, thinking of the stories Rebekka had told him about her father’s upbringing. “You haven’t endured difficulty?”

  Philippe looked thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “So, what about Basil?” André asked. “He’s not in trouble at your bank, is he?” Though if he was, at least Philippe had saved André the effort of looking for Claire’s long-lost brother.

  “No, nothing like that. Truthfully, I’m not sure exactly where he fits in with this child we’re going to see, but I feel almost driven to find out. The boy is living in an apartment with a Basil Lorrain. I had no idea before today that he might have any connection to Claire, but when my wife came by my office before lunch this morning with some old wedding announcements—apparently she’s planning to have new ones made up for Rebekka and Marc if they ever settle on a date—and one of the announcements was yours. I saw your wife’s maiden name and finally it clicked where I’d seen the name Lorrain. So then I started wondering if you were somehow related to the boy, or to the man he lived with.” Philippe pursed his lips. “I never thought he would be so closely related, if in fact this Basil turns out to be Claire’s brother, but I thought maybe with the way you keep genealogy that we could research some family connections for the boy. It was a long shot from the beginning, but as Danielle always tells me, the Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  What André thought mysterious was Philippe’s sudden preoccupation with how the Lord worked. From what he had seen, Philippe had never depended one iota on anyone for anything other than himself. Not even his wife.

  “That’s all very interesting, but you still haven’t told me what your connection is with the boy.” André stopped at a light and studied the other man.

  Philippe’s brow furrowed before relaxing suddenly. “Just an inspiration. That’s something you should understand, being a member of your church. Isn’t it?”

  André sighed and pushed on the gas as the light changed, wondering if Philippe would ever admit the real reason for his involvement.

  He followed Philippe’s directions, and soon they arrived at their destination, where a double row of tall apartment buildings flanked both sides of the street. The buildings were old, though most were in passable repair; the sidewalks were worse, gaping with large missing patches of cobblestone.

  Approaching the outer door of the apartment building, Philippe checked the time on his gold wristwatch. “Could be home already. Hope not. He might not open the door.”

  As he spoke, André spied one of the sets of full-time missionaries that covered their area. Both American, one was tall and stocky with brown hair, the other of average height with lighter hair and a wiry frame. Between them was a boy with dark brown hair, standing about the same height as the shorter missionary. André recognized him immediately from the ward house and even remembered talking briefly to the teen. What was his name? Thierry, wasn’t it? Ordinarily, he would never have noticed the boy, since he usually spent Sundays speaking in other wards in connection with his high council calling, but since Claire’s dea
th he’d been given time off his usual speaking schedule and had greater opportunity to interact with those attending his own ward. He distinctly remembered seeing this boy sitting with the missionaries for several Sundays, perhaps more. He recalled that his attention had kept returning to the boy for some unknown reason, but each time he had dismissed the incident.

  The three youths were laughing openly and lightheartedly. For a moment, André recalled his own childhood laughter. How many times had he, Marc, and their sisters, and even Rebekka walked the streets together, talking and laughing? Those were days he would never forget. And while he wouldn’t trade his current life and experience for those days, he felt a bittersweet melancholy and a longing for simpler times. Innocence was its own kind of bliss.

  In that moment of longing, the teen looked up and saw Philippe. He stiffened and abruptly halted. The missionaries looked at him, confused, and then toward the door to the apartment building where the two men waited. Thierry continued to stare at Philippe, seemingly glued to the spot. With voices too far away to hear, the missionaries talked at length to Thierry, who looked about to flee.

  Why is he so afraid of Philippe? André couldn’t put the pieces together, but a glance at Philippe told him the boy’s reaction wasn’t a total surprise—at least not to Philippe. In less than a breath, André grew angry. He didn’t know what game this new Philippe was playing, but he wouldn’t allow him to harm this boy. He strode forward and Thierry’s glance shifted to him, relaxing slightly. Under the missionaries’ urging, he took a few cautious steps.

  “Hello, Elders, Thierry.” André held out his hand, all the time studying Thierry’s face. The boy had dark hair and brown eyes, nice-looking, but nothing out of the ordinary. The teen smiled and suddenly André recognized what it was that had drawn his attention to the boy at church—he had Claire’s smile. He was so stunned that for a moment he could hardly breathe, but then it was gone, so quickly that it might not have happened at all. If Philippe hadn’t discovered the boy’s real last name, André would never have given the occurrence another thought; in all the billions of people in the world, it was logical that a few might resemble Claire. But the coincidence of him living with a father whose name was the same as Claire’s own brother could only mean one thing. At least to him.

  Thierry must have seen something in his eyes because he immediately tensed again. “Hi,” he muttered, sounding sullen next to the hearty welcome of the missionaries.

  André glanced at Philippe, but the older man shrugged and inclined his head, inviting André to continue.

  This is your party, André wanted to say. Yet he knew that if this child really was related to Claire, it was his responsibility to find out.

  “I just dropped by to talk to you and your father,” André told Thierry.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Is he at work?”

  Thierry shrugged.

  “Look, Thierry, if you know anything, you should tell him,” Elder Ferguson said. “They’ll help. We all want what’s best for you.”

  Elder Pike rested a large hand on Thierry’s shoulder. “You know we’re your friends. We’ll stand by you.”

  “I don’t know where he’s at,” Thierry mumbled, his foot toying with a loose cobblestone. “But he’ll be back.” He shot a nervous glance at Philippe, who remained quiet. “At least I think he will.” Abruptly, the boy looked deflated.

  “Could we go inside and talk?” André asked, noticing the interested stares of several neighbors as they leaned on their elbows out of their second- and third-story windows.

  Thierry grunted something André took to be assent and followed him into the apartment building and up the worn marble staircase to the sixth floor. The missionaries and Philippe brought up the rear.

  André surveyed the studio apartment with compassion. The carpet wasn’t bad and the empty white walls had probably been painted within the past two years, but the ceramic tile in the kitchen had dirt-caked spider web cracks throughout and the overpainted cupboards drooped. The laminate on the short counter was relatively clean, but peeling, and the single bare window looked as though it had been painted shut too many years ago to count. A large, battered television set sat on a crate against the wall. Another crate sat next to it, filled with dusty books and what André thought might be picture albums. The only other furniture in the room was a rickety old dresser, a double bed hiding under a mound of blankets and clothes, and a sagging blueberry-colored sofa.

  Thierry pointed at the sofa, inviting them to sit. André and Philippe settled on the too-soft cushions, while the missionaries sprawled on the floor with an ease that suggested they had done so many times before.

  “How long have you lived here with your father?” André asked gently as Thierry threw his backpack onto the bed.

  “A year.” Thierry didn’t look at him but concentrated on settling himself on the crate of books next to the television.

  “And before that?”

  “I used to live in Toulouse with my stepdad, but he died a couple years back and I lived in some foster homes until they found my dad. Then we came here.”

  “Is he gone a lot?”

  Thierry met André’s steady gaze. “Yeah.” Then he shrugged. “But I take care of myself. I’m not some baby.”

  “Of course you’re not,” Philippe said, speaking for the first time. “Your father’s been gone about a month, hasn’t he? Or just over five weeks, to be exact.”

  Fear leapt into Thierry’s eyes and the boy’s chin jutted out defensively. “So, are you from the cops?”

  “No. Look—” André cast Philippe a hard stare. “We’re not here in any official capacity.” He glanced at the missionaries, to include them in his words. “We’re here because we are concerned, but—”

  “What do you care?” interrupted the boy. “Don’t tell me—you’re just worried my dad’ll get in the way of my baptism. I tell you, he won’t. He and I do what we want. I only stay with him because he pays the rent.”

  “Well, the rent’s due again, isn’t it?” Philippe said. “Or very soon. You have to admit, you’re a little worried that he won’t be coming back to pay it.”

  “He will too!” Thierry jumped to his feet, hands clenched.

  Philippe’s blue eyes glinted. “What I really want to know is why you stare at me in church. These last weeks, every time I look up, you’re there. You’ve seen me before somewhere and I frighten you. Why?”

  “I’m not afraid of you!” Thierry exclaimed.

  André knew better. The boy was terrified of Philippe but was trying hard not to show it.

  Thierry strode to the door and opened it. “Look, I want you to leave. All of you.”

  Everyone remained motionless, stunned by the request. André stood and walked over to Thierry. “I apologize for Monsieur Massoni’s outburst,” he said softly. “To tell you the truth, I’m here because he asked me to come. Before you kick us out, I want to tell you about my wife.”

  Watching him warily, Thierry shut the door, folding his arms across his chest. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “She died a little over six weeks ago.” André spoke only to Thierry but knew the others were listening. He was glad his back was to them; only Thierry would be able to see the tears glistening in his eyes.

  “I know,” Thierry said, less angry now. “I liked her. She was nice. We talked a few times.”

  The knowledge made André happy. “Well, what you probably don’t know is that she was raised in a very poor family. Her father died when she was young, then her little sister and her mother. She had a brother, who went away when she was small. She never saw him again.”

  The boy shifted, obviously wondering impatiently what the story had to do with him. André smiled gently. “His name was Basil. Basil Lorrain.”

  Thierry stared, jaw gaping. He blinked and shook his head once. “You’re saying my dad’s her brother?”

  André shrugged. “Could be. I hope he is.” He said the words wi
th all the sincerity he felt in his heart.

  “But I talked to her. I never guessed.”

  “There’s no reason you would have recognized each other. You were using the name Bernard and she was using her married name. The name Lorrain wouldn’t have come up in casual conversation. You both have dark hair, but your eyes are brown and hers were turquoise. There is really no resemblance between you.” Except the smile. But he didn’t say it aloud. “Claire was very young when her brother went away and her memories of him were faded. Even if you looked like him, she wouldn’t have placed you as his son.”

  “I look like my mom,” Thierry said. “I’d hate it if I looked like him.”

  “Well, I would be very happy if you turned out to be my nephew. Very happy.” André let that sink in before asking, “How would you feel about it?”

  “I—I . . . don’t know.” Thierry was struggling with something, and André thought it best to allow him do it on his own—for now. “It’s just so weird. My . . .uh, dad, well, he told me about his family. Said they lived in Strasbourg, but that they died while he was working in Germany. He went back and asked the neighbors about them.”

  “That’s true. They did live in Strasbourg, and they all died. Except my wife. I’m not surprised the neighbors didn’t know what happened to Claire. She and her mother were pretty much ostracized in the neighborhood after they were baptized. Her mother died suddenly, soon after I met her, and she moved here to live with my parents until we were married. She never went back.”

  “He said he only had one sister, not two.”

  “The other sister could have been born after he left. He was quite a bit older than Claire.”

  “I don’t know.” Thierry moved away from the door, his expression glazed.

  “If you have any pictures, it might help us know if you really are related,” Elder Ferguson suggested.

  In response, Thierry walked to the crate full of books and rifled through them. “Here,” he said after a long moment.

  André took the frayed album eagerly and sat on the sagging sofa, the others gathered closely around him. He saw immediately that the photos were not in order but placed haphazardly without much care. With ease, he picked out Thierry’s father because the resemblance to the boy was strong. Except Basil’s eyes were turquoise.