Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  Jameson was speaking. “How long are you staying?” he asked me, almost exactly as Simon had.

  “It depends on Paul,” I said automatically. “It depends on what the psychologist says.”

  Something in my gaze must have satisfied him. He grunted slightly and stood. “Please give these to Monsieur Dumond.” He held out the envelope. “He can call me if he has questions.” He shook Simon’s hand, and then mine. His hand was unexpectedly rough, his grasp strong and brief. His eyes were pale, like wolf’s eyes. “You have my card.” It wasn’t a question. I nodded.

  Simon looked at me after Jameson left. “What was that all about?”

  “I think he thinks I’m going to have an epiphany and realize that I saw the kidnappers, or find out it was actually Philippe.”

  He nodded at the envelope. “What’s that?”

  “Sketches of the kidnappers.” Simon neatly lifted the envelope from my hands and was opening it before I could protest. “Simon, I don’t think—”

  “Ahhh,” he said, smoothing the sketches out before him on the coffee table. “Your typical computer-generated sketches.”

  I looked at them. My first thought was that they were of androids, because they didn’t look human. I’ve read that these sketches aren’t supposed to look like a specific person, but just remind you of someone enough so you’ll make the connection. But these looked especially strange, with dark brows, jutting jaws, thin mouths.

  “Hmm,” Simon said, disappearing and returning with the sketch pad and soft pencils he carries in his briefcase. He drew quickly, with intense concentration, and I knew not to try to talk to him. Soon he had a collection of drawings of faces with softer jaws, longer noses, wavier hair, and other variations.

  I got more lemonade and watched Simon, and finally he laid his pencil down. “There, we’ll see if Paul can tell us which ones are best.”

  I looked at him.

  “What?” he protested. “You know no one will ever be able to identify anyone from those other sketches.”

  “I know. I just … it’s hard on Paul to look at these faces, to remember them.”

  We heard a noise at the door, and Simon scooped up the drawings and tucked them inside his sketch pad.

  Paul ran and hugged me, and shook Simon’s hand when his father prompted him. Philippe gave me a discreet thumbs-up as Paul hugged Tiger, telling us in a mix of French and English about his ice cream cone, pink like the one he had in Lake Placid, a very small one, so he could eat dinner and keep Elise happy. I followed Philippe to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water.

  “Paul was quite comfortable with the woman. We met together first, and then he met with her separately. Apparently he opened up quite a lot.”

  “Philippe, I …”

  As my voice trailed off he looked up sharply. I started again. “Detective Jameson brought by copies of the sketches for you. But Simon has drawn some others—if, that is, you think Paul can handle looking at them. To pick out the best ones.”

  He thought about it. “I think he can. He told the psychologist about the men, and how he wants them to be put in jail. Let’s ask him.”

  Paul surprised me by agreeing, and sat on my lap as Simon brought out the sketches, his only sign of agitation the tightness of his small fingers on my arm. He looked over the first set with great deliberation, one after the other, and then pointed at one. “Comme ça,” he said. “With a thing on the face.”

  Simon whipped out his pencil. “A thing? Like this?” He penciled in a small dot.

  “More,” Paul insisted, and when the dot grew to resemble a good-sized mole, Paul nodded. In the second set of drawings, he pointed decisively at the fourth one. “Plus de cheveux,” he said critically, and Simon smoothly penciled in longer hair.

  “How about colors?” Simon asked, and I translated. Paul pointed to the hair: “Noir. Et le nez, rouge.”

  “Paul has colored pencils in his desk,” I murmured, and Philippe went to get them. Simon broke open the pack and began to add color, penciling in reddish veins on the nose, coloring the hair, and making changes as Paul directed, first on one picture and then the other. Philippe watched. At last Paul closed his eyes.

  “Je suis fatigué,” he said crossly.

  “So you should be tired.” I hugged him. “You’ve done a lot of work today. And you’re probably hungry, too, because it’s nearly dinnertime.” I lifted him off my lap and took him off to wash for dinner.

  After dinner Philippe put on a Jim Carrey movie about lost pets and jungle animals. To me it seemed painfully juvenile and not at all funny, but the guys found it hilarious, even my intelligent, discerning, artistic brother. I went off to bed, leaving the three of them chortling at the movie.

  I had planned to read, but couldn’t keep my eyes open. I knew Simon would be soaking up everything there was to take in here, and wouldn’t talk to me about any of it until just before he left on Sunday. In some ways Simon is very predictable, which can be annoying, but also comforting.

  It meant I could stop trying to second-guess everything and could switch off the part of my brain that kept nattering questions at me: What is Jameson thinking? Why does Paul never mention his mother? Why does no one talk about Madeleine? Why did Philippe choose to move to Ottawa?

  At least for now.

  I SLEPT HARD—IT WAS, I THINK, THE FIRST TIME I’D RELAXED since I’d found Paul. By the time I got to the breakfast table the guys had filled their plates and were deep in discussion about window latches. I helped myself to a fluffy waffle and strips of bacon, and smiled at Paul, who seemed to get a little worried if someone wasn’t participating in the conversation.

  Then I caught the words Canadian Tire and Home Depot.

  “What?” I said, in the tone that means Did I hear that right?

  “We want to go pick up a few things for the house, some things Simon suggested,” Philippe said. The three of them looked at me expectantly. Apparently the male desire to roam the aisles of giant hardware stores is independent of age, financial status, or nationality.

  “Oh, no,” I said, lining up sliced strawberries on my waffle. “You aren’t dragging me along.” To me this is the definitive gender difference—this and the Three Stooges. I hate wandering Home Depot searching for a particular screw or fixture, just as I have never found anything remotely funny about the Stooges.

  The three of them grinned. “You’ll do just fine without me,” I said. “I can do computer stuff.”

  They were clearly eager to be off, Paul delighted to be included in this guy fix-it stuff. I tousled his hair, and my eyes met Philippe’s. He nodded to acknowledge what I was trying to say: Be careful and don’t let him overdo it. I lightly punched Simon on the arm as he passed, which meant Watch out for Paul, and don’t say anything embarrassing about me.

  I was glad Paul was going out in a normal visit-Canadian-Tire sort of Saturday, but the ordinariness of going off to hardware stores seemed strange in a way I couldn’t quite define. Of course keeping him cloistered at home couldn’t be good for him. Of course he would be safe with his father and with Simon, who pretty much automatically scanned every situation for possible threats.

  Maybe I just didn’t like seeing Paul going off without me. Not your kid. I was going to have to keep reminding myself.

  I finished my waffle, and vaguely thought about calling Thomas. The thought made me uneasy, which probably meant I should do it, my theory being that almost always the choice that makes you the most uncomfortable is the one you’re supposed to do.

  It couldn’t have gone much worse. I had forgotten about giving the police his name, and he’d gotten a call from them. At least I had emailed him the basics, but even Thomas couldn’t manage to be completely phlegmatic about this.

  “Troy, you don’t know anything about this guy,” he said, letting some asperity creep through his normal reserve. “You don’t know how he might have been involved in this. This could be dangerous.”

  I’d wai
ted a four count, then said, “I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I had thought it would be a relief to have Thomas drop his careful indifference, but it wasn’t. He had stepped out of the bounds of our carefully structured relationship, and I didn’t like it.

  I didn’t want to hurt Thomas, but … but you want to keep him as a safety net, said that unpleasant inner voice. You aren’t ready to give him up yet.

  I hate these moments of self-realization.

  I called Baker, who knew that something was up for me to call her from Canada, and told her about Simon’s visit and about Thomas. “He seems almost jealous, which doesn’t make sense. I mean, I live with four guys, for Pete’s sake. And he doesn’t know that Philippe is, well …”

  “Gorgeous?” Baker said.

  “Well, yeah, and all the other stuff.”

  “Like, rich? The Mercedes and the Armani and the hundred-dollar haircut?”

  “Baker, you don’t have any idea what his haircuts cost.”

  “No, but I’ll bet they do.”

  I was silent. Baker’s sister was a hairdresser who had worked in New York City, so she was probably right.

  “But Elise is here. And Paul.”

  “Yes, there’s Paul, and that may be what scares Thomas the most. That’s the one thing he can’t compete with, and he knows it.”

  I knew that Thomas didn’t want children, and clearly I did. And here I was with a real live child and his real live father.

  I told Baker I’d keep her updated, and went up to use Philippe’s computer. I checked my Twitter account, then found more books on kidnapped children and looked up the nearest branch of the public library.

  Then a little demon in my head made me wonder who had used that “Julia” identity I’d found in Outlook Express, and wonder if Philippe had had a girlfriend—maybe in Ottawa, which could be why he had moved here. Or maybe an assistant had used the computer. I could take a quick glance at email headings to see if they were work-related. So I opened Outlook Express, and clicked on the Julia identity.

  But it asked for a password.

  This was my downfall. It was a challenge that completely shut off the emotionally aware part of me and sent my brain into problem-solving mode. Instead of thinking This is private, back off, my brain said, Aha, something to solve. Without a twinge of guilt—because at this point it just seemed an intriguing puzzle—I tried the name of Philippe’s company, its address, Philippe’s name, and a few other possibilities.

  Then it occurred to me that Philippe’s wife could have used this computer back in Montreal. This alone should have caused me to push back from the keyboard, but it didn’t. I tried Paul’s name, alone and in combination with what I guessed was his birth year. Madeleine didn’t work, but I hadn’t expected it to—almost no one is that obvious, especially when they’ve gone to the trouble of setting up a password. Then I tried it backward: enieledam.

  It opened the program, like the door to Aladdin’s cave sliding open. Emails flowed onto the screen, one after the other, seemingly faster and faster. I watched, frozen. I could see enough of the subject lines flashing past to see that this had indeed been Madeleine’s email account. The first messages coming in were months old, but then more recent ones started dumping on the screen. My heart hammered. How could Madeleine’s friends not know she was dead?

  The download stopped at last. My mouth was dry. That voice in my head told me: You are sitting at a computer used by Philippe’s dead wife.

  There were dozens of unread messages, dating back to July, long before the kidnapping. Why would Madeleine not have read or downloaded her messages for all those months? Could she have disappeared before Dumond said she had?

  For a long moment my brain was blank, and then I got it. I’ve done this myself: begun to use a new computer without deleting the email setup on the old one. Madeleine either hadn’t known or cared that her email program had been set to leave messages on the server—or that they would merrily download here if someone signed on.

  Of course she had had no idea that someone else would open her account. Or that she would die and that Troy Chance would come along and sit at the computer she had shared with her husband, and randomly, rudely guess her password.

  I stared at the screen.

  I’d like to say that morality took over and kept me from reading any of the emails, and maybe it would have. But I heard voices downstairs. I switched back to Philippe’s identity, and closed the program.

  And clattered down the stairs, pretending as hard as I could that I hadn’t just seen a dead woman’s emails.

  THE GUYS HAD FOUND THE SPECIAL DOOR LOCKS SIMON HAD suggested, brighter outdoor bulbs, intricate window latches. Paul seemed fascinated—maybe it was good for him to see the house being made more secure.

  I watched them opening their packages, but standing around and handing people screwdrivers isn’t my idea of a good time. I like fixing things, not watching other people do it. So I went for a quick run through the neighborhood, past the stately homes. Tiger was delighted to be out in the fresh spring air. I concentrated on putting one foot cleanly in front of the other and tried to not think about what I had just done. I was breathing hard sooner than I should have—too much of Elise’s cooking, too little exercise.

  When I got back, the guys were setting out a tray of sandwiches, sliced veggies, and cookies Elise had left us before she went out. We ate in the kitchen perched on stools while Simon explained the virtues of the new locks. I tried to seem interested, like he does when I talk computers or bicycles. Tiger sat near Paul, who dropped pinched-off chunks of sandwich when he thought no one was looking.

  We’d decided to do some sightseeing downtown after Paul took a short nap. Paul followed me to his room without protest, but seemed subdued. He was on overload, I thought—Simon’s visit and the Home Depot trip had been too much for him. His lip quivered as he perched on the edge of the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned. “Qu’est-ce que c’est le problème?”

  He burst into tears. Instinct told me this wasn’t just a fatigued child who didn’t want to take a nap. Something was horribly wrong. I folded him into my arms, murmuring to him as he cried against my shirt. I whispered questions; he choked out answers in French. It took me a while to comprehend.

  Then I knew that the last prescribed nap Paul had taken was in Montreal, where he had gone to sleep a happy little boy in a lovely home with two parents and a nanny who adored him, and had woken up a prisoner in a small room far from home.

  And he was afraid the same thing would happen here.

  I took his face in my hands and told him he was safe here, that his father and Tiger and those new locks would never let a bad person in. When he calmed a little I went to get Philippe. I thought he might be upset that Paul had told all this to me and not to him, but he wasn’t. Maybe it had been easier to tell me in French because I didn’t understand it all—like talking in a confessional to someone you can’t see.

  Philippe told Paul much the same as I had, and that if he wanted to read instead of nap, that was fine. Some of the tension began to leave Paul’s small body as he leaned against his father.

  I pulled some books from the bookcase and looked questioningly toward Tiger, then the bed. Philippe nodded. I patted the bed and Tiger jumped up. I motioned to her to stay, although she seemed to know when she was needed.

  We just told Simon that Paul was overtired, because neither of us wanted to talk about this small child being terrified that kidnappers would scoop him up during his nap. I went back and sat with Paul until he fell asleep, then Philippe took my place.

  When Paul awoke we headed downtown to admire what looked like miles and miles of brightly colored tulips on the grounds of Parliament Hill. Philippe let Paul pick up a few petals that had dropped. I knew the story, but Simon didn’t: During World War II, Princess Juliana of the Netherlands had been evacuated here and had given birth in a hospital room temporarily declared
international territory. So in appreciation the Netherlands ships over hundreds of tulip bulbs every year, and Ottawa has its Tulip Festival every May.

  From Parliament Hill we walked over to the locks on the Ottawa River at the beginning of the Rideau Canal. They were a small boy’s dream—Paul was fascinated watching them opening and closing and the boats sinking along with the water level. I couldn’t help scanning every face around me for any resemblance to Simon’s sketches, not that it was logical that kidnappers from Montreal would be here. But I looked, and probably Simon and Philippe did, too.

  Then we stopped at a chip wagon to buy poutine, which roughly translates to “mushy mess.” It’s thick french fries and white cheese curds with brown gravy poured over it, which you wash down with cold Pepsi guzzled from the can. It sounds awful, I know, but it’s delicious. I laughed as I saw Simon’s tentative expression turn to bliss. We explained to Paul that, no, you couldn’t buy poutine just anywhere, and this was the first time poor Simon had tasted it.

  Fortunately Philippe had told Elise not to cook dinner, because none of us could have eaten. By the time Paul had his bath, his lids were drooping. We tucked him in, and he sleepily accepted a hug before settling down with his father for his bedtime story.

  Back in the library, Simon looked at me intently. He gently pulled at a handful of his short curls, which sprang back as soon as he released them. I couldn’t read the expression in his green eyes.

  “What?” I said. “What, what, what?!”

  “They’re nice people, Troy. This is a nice place.”

  But not my people and not my place. He didn’t say the words, but they rang in my head. “Simon, I know,” I said heavily, as we heard Philippe’s footsteps coming down the hall. “This is only temporary.”

  He gave me a look that said, Just be sure not to forget that.

  WE HAD DESSERT IN THE LIBRARY, THICK CHOCOLATE cake topped with fresh raspberries, and sipped red wine, which curiously enough went well together. Philippe told us about his marketing business and some of his clients: a brewery, a printer, a bank. We talked about the school Paul might attend, an English-speaking one so he would become fluent, and I told Philippe about a program that would let him access his work files from home.