Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  Of course not. Paul had been gone since December—more than five months. Kids grow. Somehow I hadn’t thought of that.

  At Bass, across the street, Dumond selected leather shoes for Paul, and then at Eastern Mountain Sports he bought a duffel bag to hold all the new clothes, and Paul admired his new shoes as the clerk rang up the purchase. From the time we’d left my front door the whole expedition had taken just over an hour. Amazing how fast you can shop when you don’t look at prices. Paul was wearing one of his new outfits, and now I was the worst dressed. But one of the reasons I like Lake Placid is that everyone dresses casually, so I fit right in.

  We walked back to the house in silence, Paul skipping along between us, holding our hands. The sun was bright and it was one of those beautiful Adirondack days that make you grateful to be alive, a segment of life you want to hang on to forever. I could almost pretend this was real, that I had a partner and small son and was out for a walk with them.

  On the front porch Paul turned to his father, his face creased in a frown. “Est-ce qu’on retournera à Montréal?” Are we going back to Montreal?

  The porch swing creaked as Dumond sat on its edge. “Non, nous allons retourner au Canada, mais pas à Montréal. J’ai acheté une nouvelle maison à Ottawa.” Not to Montreal, but to Ottawa, a new house.

  The furrow between Paul’s eyebrows disappeared. He emitted a burst of French too fast for me.

  “Oui, oui, c’est vrai,” Dumond said, pulling his son to him for a hug. His eyes met mine. “He says he is happy that we have moved, because now the bad men will not find him.”

  A lump grew in my throat. Paul had not, after all, shucked off what had happened to him. Of course not. This was no TV movie of the week, happy endings in two hours or less. This was real life, gritty and painful. He had a lot of adjusting ahead: new life, new city, new house. With no mother.

  “I’ll get his things together,” I said. I went up to my rooms and stuffed the clothes he’d worn when I’d found him into a Gap bag, along with the things I’d bought him and, as an afterthought, my crayons and coloring book. I’d had them since I was a kid, but they’d only remind me of him. I wondered if Dumond would let me come visit, but it was, I thought, more likely he’d want his son to put all this behind him.

  As I turned toward the stairs, Dumond was coming up. I held the bag toward him, but he didn’t take it.

  “I’d like you to come with us,” he said.

  I blinked, not understanding. Suddenly I remembered my car was in Ottawa—of course I’d have to go get it. “Oh, right, my car.”

  “No, I mean I’d like you to stay with us awhile, in Ottawa.” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Yes, we have Elise, the nanny, but Paul has gotten very attached to you, and I think it will help him adjust to have you with us.”

  I stared at him.

  “It’s a big house,” he said, meeting my gaze. “You can bring your dog. And I’ll compensate you for your time.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. It’s not that. I can do most of my work wherever I am.” A moment ticked by. My brain raced. Me with Paul and his father, in Ottawa. Surely it would be better for me to break with Paul now—a clean, sharp pain, back to my solitary life. But I knew I wasn’t going to.

  “All right,” I said. Dumond nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less. Maybe he hadn’t.

  It took less than ten minutes to pack: laptop, clothes, passport, leash, dog food, Tiger’s rabies inoculation certificate, and my little digital Canon. No room for my bike, but I could survive without it for a while. While Dumond carried my bags out to the car, I speed-dialed Thomas’s home number, knowing he wouldn’t be there. The coward’s way out, but you can’t always take the high road.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I said to the recorder. “Everything’s fine; I’m … um … I’m going to be out of town for a few days, but you can reach me by email and I’ll, well, I’ll try to call.” I hung up guiltily. Thomas deserved better than this. Thomas deserved the girlfriend I was unable to be. Next I called Baker, who wasn’t home either. Another easy out. She’d already done her best to talk me out of going to Ottawa once and might try again. I told her answering machine I was going to Ottawa with Paul and his father and would call later, and would get the borrowed clothing back to her when I returned. I stuck a note on the fridge for Zach and locked the door to my rooms.

  Paul and his father were waiting by the car, Paul apparently having assumed all along that I was going with them. In his bright new world, of course the woman who rescued you and delivered your father to you accompanied you to your new home. Paul hopped into the back, with Tiger beside him on an old comforter. Dumond drove smoothly out of town, remembering the turns without my prompting him.

  In an odd way it felt right, sitting here in this car, leaving Lake Placid behind, listening to Paul murmur to Tiger in the backseat. Like I was heading to a new adventure.

  At the border Dumond told the customs inspector that we were returning to Ottawa after visiting Lake Placid. She glanced at our passports and Tiger’s rabies certificate. Dumond told her he’d bought some children’s clothing, and she waved him through. We pulled into Canada and stopped in Cornwall at a Harvey’s for burgers and fries, the image, I suppose, of a happy little family. Soon after we left Cornwall I fell asleep, and didn’t awaken until we exited from the Queensway into Ottawa.

  IT FELT MORE THAN A LITTLE ODD TO BE CLIMBING OUT OF the Mercedes at the Tudor house I’d arrived at with the same man just over twenty-four hours ago. Like the old Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day, where you’re doomed to live the same day over until you get it right. Here we were again, this time bringing home the missing child.

  Maybe this time everything would be fine.

  The sound of our car doors closing behind us was sharp. I was acutely aware of our footsteps crunching against the flat stones of the driveway, of the leaves of the trees around us fluttering in the breeze. Paul was clinging to his father’s hand, with Dumond leaning over, speaking to him as they walked toward the house. The door opened and in the doorway I saw a spare sixtyish woman, gray hair pulled back, her entire body radiating anxiety. Paul pulled his hand free from his father’s and ran into her arms. She was mouthing his name, over and over. Her face broke and tears streamed down her cheeks.

  So much for my notion that Dumond could have been involved with the nanny-turned-housekeeper. She looked up at us as we reached them. It was a mistake to come here, I thought. She was Paul’s life, past and future. I was the interloper.

  Dumond spoke. “Elise, this is Troy Chance, who found Paul for us. Troy, this is Paul’s nanny, Elise.”

  The woman released Paul and pulled me to her in a rough, hard hug. I sensed an enormous amount of emotion, so much she was barely keeping it contained. She didn’t say anything and didn’t look me in the face, but I knew it was because her feelings were so intense. She turned back to Paul and began chattering in rapid-fire French. They headed off together—toward the kitchen for cookies and milk, I supposed, likely the first line of treatment when lost boy returns home. I felt a pang of something uncomfortably like jealousy.

  But this was his nanny, his father, his home. What I had given him had been great compared to being locked up in a room for months, but nothing like the life he was supposed to have.

  When I turned to Dumond I saw something flicker across his face, and knew that what I was feeling was infinitesimal compared to his pain. Watching your long-lost son marching away with the nanny without a backward look must be the moment when you long to erase the long hours and late nights at work, wish for an Etch A Sketch moment when you shake the box, erase everything, and start over.

  But now he had that second chance—with his son at least.

  As their footsteps died away he spoke: “Elise has been with Paul since he was born.”

  I made an Mmm noise to try to convey That’s great and I understand. He spoke again. “She’s always blamed herself for Paul being taken. She thinks if she had been th
ere that day she could have protected him.”

  I blinked, envisioning the tiny nanny trying to fight off kidnappers. “But she couldn’t have—”

  “I know,” he said, picking up my bag. “But logic doesn’t come into it. I know all about that. Let me show you your room.”

  Tiger and I followed him. We passed Paul’s room and reached a spacious room with large windows and sunlight streaming in. It had a queen-sized bed, light wood floors, and Shaker-style furniture. Just what I might choose if I earned ten times what I did. “I think this has everything you might need,” Dumond said, waving vaguely toward an attached bathroom. I could see it was equipped with hair dryer and bottles of lotion, like a fancy health spa.

  “Make yourself at home,” he said. “If you need anything, ask Elise—you’ll find the kitchen to the left of the front foyer. I’m going to show Paul around the house, and we’ll have dinner in an hour or so.”

  I’d assumed he would take Paul straight to the police station, but he’d planned that for after a visit to the doctor tomorrow morning. Dumond was, I think, used to getting his way. I sat on the bed and bounced once or twice: a firm mattress, just what I like.

  Okay, this was awkward. But there’s no handy guide for introducing your motherless five-months-kidnapped son to a new life. Although maybe step one would be Have the person who rescues your son come home with you to help out.

  I looked around the room. I like staying in guest rooms and hotels, nesting in miniature, setting up my things in a new space. I unpacked everything and set my laptop bag near the desk. This took about five minutes. I folded the comforter from the car beside the bed, where I could pretend Tiger would be sleeping instead of with me. She sat on it, watching me.

  Sitting here seemed too Jane Eyre-ish, too much like a governess awaiting a summons. New Troy wouldn’t hide away meekly—she would open the door and step out of the room. So I did.

  I passed Paul’s room and stifled the urge to unpack his bag of new clothes. Not my house, not my kid. This would have to be my inner mantra while I was here.

  I wandered into the living room and dining room, which were tastefully furnished, but too austere for me. I perched on the leather sofa: comfortable, but cold. I wondered if Dumond’s wife had picked out this furniture. I saw nothing remotely personal: no piles of magazines, no photos, no knickknacks. But maybe they would be too-painful reminders of missing wife and child.

  Then I found the library, which I loved instantly: built-in bookshelves, a fireplace of rounded stones, and stuffed sofa and chairs you could disappear in. I walked the length of the shelves, running my fingers along the spines of the books. They were new and old mixed in together—fiction, nonfiction, English, French. I saw a French version of The Count of Monte Cristo, a book I’d fallen in love with around age twelve.

  So the house did have some personality—and presumably its owner did as well. Greatly cheered, I wandered on. I found the state-of-the-art kitchen I’d expected, with a marble-topped center island and rows of gleaming pots and pans overhead. Elise, busy at a mixing bowl, looked up.

  “Troy,” she said, the r sound making it clear she was a native French speaker. “Your room is good, eh?” It’s the uvula, the little thing that hangs down the back of your throat, that lets French speakers make that trilling r. For us English-speakers, it just hangs there uselessly.

  “Oh, yes, it’s great,” I said quickly. “It’s wonderful.”

  “Would you like anything? A snack, something to drink?” she asked, setting the spoon down.

  “No, no, I’m fine. I was just—Paul’s father told me to look around.”

  “It’s a very nice house. It will be a good home for Paul.” Her next question caught me off guard. “Where Paul was, where Paul was kept, was it very bad?”

  My throat tightened. I had no idea how much Dumond had told her about Paul’s captivity or what he wanted her to know. I sat on a stool before I answered. “I don’t really know. I mean … he told me only a little, but, no, I don’t think it was very nice.”

  She dumped the dough on the countertop. “Paul will be happy here. He will forget the bad things.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Yes, Paul probably would be happy here, but he would never forget the bad things. I saw her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and realized she knew all this. “Yes,” I said gently. “He will be happy here.”

  She shoved at the dough. “Paul likes you.”

  I shrugged. “I was the first person he met. I think he would have liked anyone.”

  “No. He likes you especially. He told me you saved him.” Her voice broke. I blinked, my throat tight. She looked up from the dough she was assaulting, and somehow her look said We are in this together. I had rescued the child she loved.

  I stood. Suddenly I wanted to see Paul and his father. “I think I’ll go find the guys.”

  “They are up in Monsieur Dumond’s room, I think.” She nodded in the direction of the spiral staircase I’d seen yesterday.

  At the base of the stairs I called out, “Hello?”

  “Troy!” Paul answered. “Viens! Jouons à l’ordinateur.”

  My sneakers squeaked on the metal steps. As I reached the top Dumond called out, and I could see the two of them in an attached room at the back of a large bedroom. I walked past furniture similar to that in my room, with darker bedding and a moody painting of a seascape. Then I was in an office with a built-in desk that stretched the width of the room. Paul was playing Tetris on a computer with a huge flat-panel monitor.

  “Regardez, Troy,” he exclaimed, bouncing on his chair. “C’est mon jeu préféré!”

  Dumond, in a chair off to the side, caught my eye. “Yes, Paul always liked playing this game on my computer,” he said. I watched Paul maneuver the colorful falling blocks as they came faster and faster, eyes intent on the screen, fingers poised on the keyboard. If you’re fast enough, you can line the blocks up into a tidy wall. One misstep, and your wall has holes you can never fill.

  A discreet beep sounded from Dumond’s pocket, and he pulled out his phone and glanced at it. He excused himself and stepped out of the room.

  When I turned back to Paul, a small silver-framed photo on the far end of the long desk caught my attention. I could see it was Madeleine, with a younger and smaller Paul laughing into the camera; she was laughing as well, one hand holding down that honey-blond hair to try to keep it from being blown in the wind. I felt abrupt nausea: it seemed I was trespassing, here in this room with this woman’s family.

  A minute later Dumond reappeared. “I must make some business calls,” he said apologetically. I stood up quickly. “Perhaps—would you mind? Paul might like your help setting up his room.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Paul, sweetie, let’s go unpack some of your things. Paul, viens avec moi, s’il te plaît.” His gaze was locked on the screen and the little falling blocks, but as soon as my words penetrated he flicked off the game and followed me. I wondered if he had always been this obedient, or if this was how an abducted child would act—a little too eager to please.

  There was so much I didn’t know.

  THE SUN WAS SENDING SHAFTS OF LATE-AFTERNOON LIGHT across Paul’s bedroom, seeming to welcome us as we stepped across the threshold. Paul walked around the room slowly, running his hand along each piece of furniture. He knelt beside one of the open boxes and began pulling out toys and inspecting them, as if greeting each one: Hello, this is Paul, and I am back. When he’d emptied the first box, he moved on to the next and began pulling out clothing.

  I sensed another presence and turned to see Elise in the doorway. She smiled shakily. “I wasn’t …” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t sure if any of his things would fit him. But we brought everything from Montreal.”

  I flashed to an image of the two of them, father and nanny, packing Paul’s clothing and toys into boxes that might never be opened. Of course they couldn’t have gotten rid of them, just as they hadn’t been able to unpack the
m. Maybe years later they would have donated them or moved them to an attic. I wondered if Madeleine’s things were packed away as well, in boxes stashed in a closet in Dumond’s room.

  “It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s good he has them all, even if they don’t fit. Later he can get rid of things if he wants.”

  The pain in Elise’s face was stark. “I have been with Paul since he was a baby,” she whispered.

  “I know. I know.” My throat caught. She stared past me, tears welling, then murmured something about dinner and left.

  Paul looked up. “How’s it going?” I asked. “Comment ça va?”

  He nodded solemnly and turned back to the box of clothes. Next he opened a box of books and began to thumb through each one. The room was starting to look like a rummage sale in progress. I moved closer and gestured at the bookcase, and Paul began handing me books one by one to place on the shelves.

  “How goes it?” Dumond asked from the doorway. I jumped.

  “Salut, Papa, je mets mes livres sur l’étagère,” Paul replied, without looking up.

  “No, I think it is Troy who is putting the books on the shelf,” Dumond said, smiling. “And I think it is only polite to speak English when Troy is here. Nous devrions parler anglais quand Troy est ici.”

  Sitting back on his heels, Paul shook his hair out of his eyes and smiled at his father. “Okay, Papa. I try.” Surrounded by piles of clothes and toys, he looked like any child in a messy room. It seemed impossible he had been gone so long.

  Paul returned to the box of books, rooting through it as if looking for something in particular. Dumond picked up a toy car, and idly spun one of the wheels. He watched his son stash toys in the closet, in a dresser drawer, but none in the big toy box. Maybe it was Paul’s way of defining his space. Or hiding his toys so no one could find them.

  And then it was time for dinner.

  We ate in the fancy dining room; Elise served but didn’t eat with us. It made me think of old Agatha Christie novels, where nearly everyone had servants. But no one objected when Tiger tucked herself neatly under the table.