by S. L. Grey
Mark jerked his head in my direction and then stepped away from the couch. Muttering a vacant “Sorry,” he placed the scissors on the coffee table and left the room.
I rushed to Hayden, who was mercifully still asleep, and brushed the shorn locks away from her face. The room was too dark for me to fully assess the damage, but a scribble of hair came loose as I ran my fingers through it. She stirred.
“Mumma. Haydie tired now.”
“I know, monkey.”
Willing the icy calm to stay with me a few minutes more, I gathered the hot and sleepy Hayden to me and ran upstairs. Balancing her one-handed on my hip while she protested blearily, I pulled out a bag, shoved a bunch of my clothes and underwear into it, then dragged it into Hayden’s room and packed a random selection of T-shirts, shorts, and toys. At the last minute I dove into the bathroom for my toiletry bag.
Then, as it had before in Paris, the calm receded, leaving me feverish with fear. Get out, get out.
My back muscles screaming from the combined weight of Hayden and the bag, I crept downstairs, half expecting Mark to lunge out of the gloom, or for the multi-limbed thing to skitter out of the shadows toward us—wearing Mark’s face this time, it would be wearing his face—but we were alone. I fumbled in my bag for the car keys, slammed out of the security gate, and lurched toward the car. Hayden was now wide-awake and crying in mucusy gasps, but I didn’t dare risk taking the time to comfort her. I forced her body into the car seat, trying to ignore her sobs, and hurriedly strapped her in. I screeched away from the curb.
It’s a miracle I didn’t crash the car that night. My anger at Mark pulsed through me, so hot and raw it was all I could focus on. In retrospect, bolting out of the house with Hayden like that was not only stupid but dangerous. After the beers I’d shared with Karim and downing half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach, I was way over the limit. Somewhere around Worcester sense took over, and I eased my foot off the accelerator and slid into the slow lane. For the first time since I’d strapped her into her car seat, I peered into the rearview to check on her. She’d fallen asleep, head drooping. The hair on the left side of her head stood up in a clump of ragged tufts.
It was only when I pulled off the highway and onto the lonely country roads that I began to regret my decision to flee to my folks’ place. I considered driving back and finding a hotel, but I needed to be around people who were on my side. I couldn’t let them see Hayden like that, her scalp showing through the shorn hair. Checking that there was no one dodgy around, I stopped outside a deserted farmers’ market near Ashbury and woke Hayden. Using the nail scissors I’d shoved into my bag, I neatened her hair as best I could. Hayden hardly protested at all—perhaps she’d picked up on my desperation. After a limp “What you doing, Mumma?” she stopped wriggling in the seat and submitted to the ad hoc haircut. Her numb acceptance of the situation made my anger spike again. A part of me wanted to gather the hair and carry it with me—for some reason it felt wrong and dangerous just to leave it behind—but I buried it under a rock and drove on.
It was past one a.m. when I crunched the car into my parents’ driveway. The B and B was dark and silent, and I hesitated before I rang the gate buzzer. I had to get my story straight, but what could I say? The truth wasn’t an option. It would set them against Mark once and for all.
“Yes?” my dad’s voice barked through the intercom.
“It’s me. Can I come in?”
“Stephanie? That you, doll?”
I could hear my mother’s voice behind him. “Please let me in, Dad.”
“Hold on, doll, I’m coming.”
The sobs came then, and I fought to calm myself down, scrubbing at my eyes. I had to appear calm. The gate creaked open. I drove through, stalling the engine as I jerked to a stop and fell out of the car and into my dad’s arms. My mother fussed and buzzed around me.
“Can you get Hayden, Mom?” I managed.
“Of course. But, Stephanie, what’s happened? Has something happened? Why didn’t you call? Did you drive from Cape Town now, at this time? Where’s Mark?”
“Everything’s fine. We had a fight, Mom. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. I just had to get out of the house.” I made a stab at a rueful grin. “I overreacted. We’ve both been under a lot of stress lately.”
They didn’t buy it, but I caught Dad giving Mom a look, silently entreating her not to pry right then. I loved him for that.
She settled on an exasperated “Oh, Steffie. Dad would have driven down to get you.”
Hayden was breathing easier as my mom carried her up to one of the guest rooms. She dropped off the second Mom tucked her in. I kicked off my shoes and, without removing the rest of my clothes, crawled in next to her, reassuring my mom that all I needed was a good night’s sleep. My parents finally crept back to their own room, leaving me in darkness.
I slept until almost two p.m. the next day, waking disoriented and without Hayden next to me. I jumped up, irrationally panicking that Mark had crept in during the night and stolen her, but then I heard a ribbon of laughter trailing in from the garden. I peered out of the window. Hayden was helping Mom weed the flower beds that ringed the B and B’s lawn. Now that the fear had abated, the anger was back baking inside me. Fuck Mark. Fuck him.
I brushed my teeth too roughly, drawing blood from my gums, pulled on a clean T-shirt, and headed downstairs and into the garden to face the music. Hayden waved at me distractedly and returned to her digging. She was looking much better, and her sniffles appeared to be lessening.
Mom hurried over to me. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thanks,” I said automatically, but it hit me then that I’d slept right through for the first time in almost a week. Longer than that. I had the trace of a hangover, but otherwise my brain felt sharper, as if it had been sluiced with ice water.
“What happened to Hayden’s hair?”
Here we go. “She got some chewing gum caught in it. I tried to cut it out and made a bit of a mess.”
My mother gave me a look. “Really? Where did she get the chewing gum from?”
I gave her my brightest smile. “I’m not sure.”
Hayden laughed and held up a bunch of weeds and flowers. Mom handed her an empty flowerpot and then shuffled over to me, dropping her voice. “Your father says I shouldn’t ask you this, but will you tell me why you came here last night? I’m worried about you, sweetheart. Has something happened with Mark? Has Mark—”
“Not now, Mom.” She winced and I softened my voice. “Okay if I make myself something to eat?”
She brushed dirt from her hands. “I’ll get you something.”
“It’s fine, Mom. You stay with Hayden.”
“You know you can stay as long as you like. We don’t have anyone booked in until next week, and even then there will be plenty of room. It’s your home.”
Is it? I thought. My home was supposed to be in Cape Town, with Mark. This wasn’t how my life was supposed to go: running to Mom and Dad whenever I had a problem. But I had more than just a problem. It was more than just a marital spat. A glimmer of last night’s anger surfaced.
I kissed her cheek and went back into the familiar cluttered kitchen with its clunky tan tiles, flouncy floral curtains, and my mom’s collection of gewgaws. It was comforting being there. It was safe, and I hadn’t felt safe for a long time. I grabbed the bacon from the fridge and mechanically placed the rashers in the pan.
I knew I’d have to figure out my next move. Was my marriage over? Self-pity flooded in. I had no job, no cash of my own. Bacon fat hissed and spat, searing the back of my hand. I barely noticed. I tipped the rashers onto two thick pieces of white bread and squashed them into a makeshift sandwich. I was no longer hungry, but I made myself choke it down, standing over the sink and staring blindly out of the window.
The weight of a hand on my shoulder made me jump—my dad. “Don’t eat too fast, doll.” He joined me at the window. “Your mother loves having Hayden here.” H
e cleared his throat. “I told her not to bother you, but I need to know. Did Mark do something to you or Hayden?” My dad’s face was carefully blank, but his eyes were hard.
“No, Dad. We just needed time apart; that’s all. Hayden and I will be out of here soon as we can.”
“Doll, this is your home.”
It’s not my home. “I know you didn’t approve of Mark, Dad.” I’d used the past tense unconsciously, as if the relationship really was over.
“That’s true. I won’t deny it, doll, but he’s your husband. It’s your choice. Whatever you decide, we’re here for you.” For some reason I thought back to my low-key wedding day. We’d got married at the Cape Town Magistrate’s Court, followed by a small lunch with my parents, Carla, and a few of Mark’s closest friends at the Five Flies Restaurant. The food had been good, but the atmosphere was stilted, the guests divided into two camps: my parents perched stiffly at one end of the table, Carla and the rest of them at the other. Someone, possibly Carla, maliciously suggested my dad make a speech. It had been mortifying for him—he loathed being the center of attention—but he struggled gamely through it, reaching for something positive to say about my new husband (“Cape Town University, where Mark works, has a good reputation, or so I’ve heard”).
“Thanks, Dad.”
He hovered for a while, then drifted out of the kitchen to resume whatever DIY project he had going.
With Hayden still happily occupied, I cleaned the kitchen, then slogged upstairs to my laptop—my refuge. Ignoring my emails, I applied for jobs online in a feverish spurt and joined three temping agencies. This manic practical behavior, doing something I should have done months ago, helped. The way ahead no longer seemed so murky. And just think, I told myself hollowly, you’re on your way to being a published author. I decided that tomorrow, when I hoped the anger would have faded, I would contact Mark, tell him to check himself into a government-funded clinic or something to get the help he needed. I would insist that he move out of the house until he was well—the night before it hadn’t occurred to me that he should be the one to leave. Only…did I really want to go back to the house? It dawned on me then that the shadowy twitching thing hadn’t visited last night. I looked around the room, at the flouncy curtains and pastel walls decorated with benign watercolors my mom had bought wholesale at a furniture warehouse. Whatever it was, it hadn’t followed us here.
I didn’t call Mark that day, and he didn’t call me. I checked my phone regularly, but the only messages were spam from 419 scammers.
My mom tried digging for more details that evening, but I brushed her off, placating her with bullshit about Mark being stressed-out at work and needing some alone time. I watched the rugby in silence with Dad while Mom bathed and fed Hayden, hiding my irritation when she made her a typically unhealthy plate of fish fingers and processed sugary sauce. I turned in early.
Again, I woke late after a dreamless night. My body felt loose and relaxed, as if I’d been soaking in a hot bath for hours. One of my parents had placed a small pot of coffee and a plate of toast next to the bed. The toast was cold and the coffee lukewarm, but it was still drinkable. I stretched and padded over to the window. Down below, Hayden was helping my mother hang out the washing, giggling and chasing the birds that pecked at the breakfast crumbs scattered over the sun-dappled lawn. I dove back under the covers with my laptop.
My heart gave a sideways skip when I saw I had an email from the Canadian book agent. Expecting a rejection, I had to read the message twice before it sank in: she was offering to represent me. My first instinct was to tell Mark the good news. I wanted to share it with him, see the pride on his face, hear it in his voice.
You can’t. You left him. You left him in the house and ran away.
I had a right to be angry after what he’d done to Hayden, of course I did, but he wasn’t well. For all I knew he was in the midst of a full-on nervous breakdown. And instead of getting help for him, I fled.
I left him alone in that house.
Flushed with shame, I grabbed for my phone, almost knocking the coffeepot flying, and dialed his cell. It went straight to voice mail. I sent him a text, asking him to call me.
More out of twitchiness than hunger, I ate the toast, which was limp and chewy, and read the agent’s note again. I managed to formulate a reply, accepting her offer, that I hoped didn’t sound overeager and toadying.
I forwarded it to Mark and scanned the rest of the in-box. Karim had sent me a Facebook message, which didn’t help with my growing shame. I deleted it unread. There was also a message from an Olivier. It took me a second to place the name before it clicked: the French real estate agent, responding to my inquiries about the Petits’ building. I didn’t feel any trepidation as I opened it; I was too distracted by the news from the book agent and my conflicting feelings about Mark.
Mme. Sebastian,
I am writing to give you the information you request, but please understand that after this I cannot help you anymore, and I respectfully ask that you do not contact me again.
I first encountered the building in question nearly twenty years ago when I was approached by M. Philippe Guérin to act as the agent for it. After many years during which it had remained derelict, M. Guérin had bought the building and renovated the apartments, and I was instructed to advertise for tenants.
At first I thought it would be easy. Many people were interested because the area was desirable and the apartments were spacious. But time and time again people would view the apartments and then decline to live there. Some of the people said they experienced une mauvaise ambiance, but most could not describe why it was exactly they were uncomfortable in the building. I myself could not understand it, as I did not experience this thing. We made the rent lower and lower, so of course we did attract the tenants, but anyone who did move in did not stay for long or renew the lease, and the building was never more than half-occupied. It was not enough. This went on for many years. Eventually, M. Guérin, who was in poor health, wanted to sell the building but could not, as he had overcapitalized on it and he would have lost even more money. At this time, France was in a recession also.
I was frustrated that I could not secure tenants and I know that later M. Guérin engaged many other agents in the hope that they would have more luck. As far as I know, they did not. A structural survey was done, but no source of what could be creating such a bad atmosphere could be found. Confused and also fascinated as to why so many people found the accommodation odious, I decided to explore the building’s history.
I must say now that I did not believe in les fantômes. I still do not. I must also say again that I myself have never experienced bad things or feelings there in the years I acted as M. Guérin’s representative.
The building had changed hands many times over the years, so I was having much difficulty obtaining reliable information. I decided to speak to the businesspeople in the neighborhood, and heard a rumor that something terrible had indeed happened in the building during the 1970s. No one knew all the details, but it was suggested to me that I speak to the proprietor of a nearby tabac who had been in the area for many, many years. I was also warned that he did not like to speak of it. I began to use the tabac as a regular place to drink at night, and soon the proprietor—who is now deceased—began to trust me. I am lucky, as I can be charming, and one night I used all of this charm and a bottle of good pastis to help loosen the man’s tongue, as you say.
He said that during the 1970s the building fell into disrepair, but still many families lived there. One of them was the building’s concierge, who lived in an apartment (I do not know which one) with his wife and two daughters. The proprietor of the tabac did not know this man well, but said he was a veteran of la Guerre d’Algérie and had been injured and very much traumatized there by the atrocities he had witnessed. He had returned to France with his wife, an Algerian, and found a job as a concierge. After several years, they began a family and had two daughters. The proprietor sa
id that the concierge was a quiet man who depended on his wife for his strength and that the family was poor but seemed to be very happy. Then, the concierge’s wife became very sick. It was a long illness. For many months she lingered between life and death. Thereafter, she died.
The concierge turned to drinking as solace and began neglecting his job and his daughters. He had many warnings from the patron of the building, but did not change his ways. The tabac proprietor said to me that it was as if he was a changed man. His wife and he had shared a grand passion. His spirit was broken. His heart was broken. He gathered much debt and was then told to leave. He had nowhere to go.
His body was discovered lying on the courtyard of the building by his oldest daughter when she returned from school. It is believed that he threw himself from one of the high windows.
The coffee turned to bile in my throat. Mireille, I thought. I continued reading:
This was not the most tragic part of the situation. The oldest daughter found the body of her younger sister in the cellar of the building. Her father had done things, terrible things, to the child before she died. Mutilations.
The proprietor did not know what happened to the surviving daughter after she made this discovery.
Mireille? Was Mireille the missing daughter? I did the math—it was possible she was born in the sixties. And after reading this, how could I not think of Mireille’s attic room and her paintings of the sad-eyed child? Then there was the scrap of paper I’d found in the kitchen drawer in the Petits’ apartment. The child who’d written it—Mireille’s younger sister perhaps?—had implied that her father blamed her for her mother’s illness. Could this be a possible motivation for why the concierge had murdered his youngest child?
At the bottom of the email the real estate agent had written, As I say before, I cannot help you more. It is possible that you can verify this tragic story by exploring the records of the Paris newspapers. Also, I do not know if the building is still owned by M. Guérin nor do I have information about la famille Petit. He signed off with, This is the last telephone number that I have for M. Guérin. Perhaps he can help you more. The number signed off the email. I googled the prefix code 02. It covered the area on the outskirts of Paris.