Learning to Swim

by Sara J. Henry

  “But it’s time to get you dressed, little one.” Philippe scooped Paul up and carried him down the hall, giggling, under his arm.

  I headed to my room, grateful it was Paul who had found us and not Elise. I pulled on running clothes, called Tiger, and on the way out told Elise I’d be late for breakfast. Maybe it was just my conscience that made the look she gave me seem odd.

  As my feet pounded rhythmically on the pavement, scenes from the past week cycled through my head. Me in Philippe’s arms. Madeleine’s emails downloading onto the screen. Jameson warning me about Philippe. The flicker of concern I’d seen from Simon when he’d first seen me with Philippe and Paul. The look Elise had just given me.

  Of course I knew this was dangerous territory. Of course I knew I should leave before I let my heart get broken, by Paul or Philippe.

  Of course I wasn’t going to.

  When I got back I toweled off and pulled on a sweatshirt and shorts, then slid into my seat just before the others finished.

  Philippe looked up with a smile, an errant lock of hair falling on his forehead. I could see a pulse thumping in his throat, a small patch on his chin not shaved quite as closely as the surrounding area. I could, without much effort, imagine his cheek against mine, his breath on my neck, my fingers in his hair.

  But that wasn’t the way this script was written. I was his son’s temporary substitute mother; last night I had been a pair of comforting arms. I knew the type of woman Philippe liked—stylish, fashionable, sophisticated. Like Madeleine. There had been a spark between us, but one we couldn’t let ignite for many reasons, the most important of which was sitting at this breakfast table with messy hair, finishing his sausage.

  “You went to run early,” Paul proclaimed.

  “Yes, I did,” I said, patting my tummy. “I’ve been eating so much of Elise’s good food that I needed some exercise before breakfast.”

  For some reason Paul found this very funny—I’ll admit I don’t always get six-year-old male humor.

  Philippe smiled, and in this moment I could forget the ugly facts of kidnapping and murder and the looming threat of kidnappers. I could forget that this wasn’t my life and that all too soon I would have to begin the painful process of extricating myself from it.

  Paul was happy. For now, that was all that mattered.

  Philippe went off to work and I left Paul playing with his racetrack and joined him after my shower. Piles of his old clothing were still lying about, and I tentatively suggested boxing up some that were obviously too small. He surprised me by agreeing.

  He took it seriously, as he did most things, trying on each piece of clothing and handing me the ones that didn’t fit. He had far more preppy clothing than I knew a small boy could possess, all fine quality and showing almost no wear. I wondered if his mother had picked them out, or if she and Philippe had done it together. Or maybe this was something a nanny did.

  Paul watched me letter PAUL’S OUTGROWN CLOTHES on the boxes and fold down the lids.

  “When you want,” I told him, “you can give these things away for someone else to wear, someone smaller than you.”

  He nodded. “Pete,” he said, naming Baker’s youngest.

  “You’re right.” I was surprised he had thought of it. “These would be great for Pete, or maybe Rick.” Of course Pete and Rick then would be the best-dressed kids in Saranac Lake, but it might be a welcome change from hand-me-downs. And it wouldn’t take long for them to make these clothes look lived-in. “When I go back I can take them to them.”

  “When you go back,” he repeated, his dark eyes luminous, almost tearful. It was too easy to forget how fragile he was.

  I reached out and touched his cheek. “I can’t stay here forever, sweetie. I have my house, remember, and Zach and Baker—and Tiger needs her lake to swim in. But we’ll be here awhile, and I can always visit. It’s only a few hours.” I translated into French as best I could.

  He wasn’t quite happy with this, and I was annoyed with myself for upsetting him. I grabbed him up and tickled him lightly; then we heard Elise call us.

  Zach was standing in the front foyer grinning, next to a beaming Elise.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, astonished.

  “Philippe th-th-thought you’d like to have your bicycle, so he asked if I could bring it up. Dave let me take his car.”

  I was almost speechless. Then I turned to Elise. “Elise, have you met my roommate Zach?” She nodded, and her smile told me she’d been in on this.

  “Zach, Zach!” Paul squealed, grabbing Zach’s hands and launching into a burst of excited French.

  I laughed at Zach’s expression. “Paul, he doesn’t understand French—Il ne comprend pas le français. Zach, Paul says he has a new room and lots of toys and is starting a new school and has clothes for Baker’s children and maybe you can take them.”

  Zach blinked and nodded; this was way too fast for him.

  Elise scurried to set out thick sandwiches for us while Paul chattered to Zach as if he were a long-lost brother. After lunch Paul showed Zach his room and his toys, and we talked Paul into a nap, a very, very short one, while Zach and I unloaded my bike and gear. He had brought along my toolbox, bike stand, the crate with my helmet, bike shoes, shorts, and gloves—plus an armful of clothes on hangers and some folded jeans from my closet. This wasn’t like Zach; I figured Philippe must have suggested it.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” I asked.

  “Sure. Fried chicken. Elise told me.”

  After Paul got up we played endless computer games, and then Philippe was home, looking weary but pleased. I caught his eye and mouthed Thank you.

  At dinner Zach ate so much that Paul watched in awe. Elise, bringing refills from the kitchen, began to look worried, and I kicked Zach under the table. Philippe asked Zach if he’d like to stay over, but he declined, saying he needed to get the car back to Dave. After dinner Elise packed a box with sandwiches and fruit for Zach, plus a bag of pastries he promised to share with Dave.

  I tried to give Zach cash for gas and the bridge toll, but he said Philippe had taken care of it. Men apparently are more adroit about these things.

  I eyed the carton of food on the seat beside Zach. “Think you have enough chow there?”

  “I’m a growing boy,” he said, flashing his smile. He’d probably have half of it eaten before reaching the bridge to New York. He drove off, car sputtering.

  I went to thank Philippe, and found him in the library.

  “I hope you didn’t mind,” he said. “I wondered if you might want Zach to bring something specific, but I wanted to surprise you.”

  “No, that was fine. And Zach did bring up some of my other stuff.” I didn’t mention that I knew Zach wouldn’t have done it on his own.

  We sipped coffee and nibbled shortbread cookies. The psychologist had okayed Claude visiting, Philippe said, as long as no one mentioned Paul’s mother and there were no emotional scenes. Which I thought would have been obvious. I also thought it obvious I didn’t fit in at a family reunion, and said so.

  “No, no, I think it’s better for Paul that you’re there,” Philippe said.

  And kid-needs-you trumps you’re-going-to-be-miserable-meeting-mysterious-uncle. How could it not be painfully awkward, with Paul, his father, and uncle—but no Madeleine, and me there instead?

  “Does Claude know about the, uh, ferry and rescue?” I asked.

  Philippe shook his head. “He knows you found Paul and that you came here to help him settle in, but I wasn’t comfortable telling him about Paul in the lake. Claude likes to dig at things, and can’t leave them alone.”

  “But wouldn’t the police have told him?” Something along the lines of Someone tried to drown your nephew and Do you have any idea who?

  “Probably.” He paused, weighing his words. “But if I haven’t told him, then he won’t discuss it here.”

  So if the host doesn’t acknowledge the pink elephant in the room, the o
ther guests can’t either. I could see this being a useful standard—not that any of my friends would ever follow it.

  At least Claude wouldn’t ask me questions about the ferry incident. I wished Philippe could have avoided telling him I was the one who had found Paul, but he had to explain my presence here. And maybe the police had told him anyway.

  So Madeleine’s brother would be coming to dinner tomorrow night.

  That night my thoughts tumbled together as I lay in bed: Paul and Philippe and kidnappers and Claude and Madeleine and Elise and Jameson. How quickly I was becoming entrenched here and how these people were weaving themselves into my life, and I was weaving myself into theirs. But this wasn’t my world. I wasn’t used to not being in control, not living in my own space, not making all the decisions.

  It was a sensation I didn’t particularly like.

  THIS MORNING PHILIPPE WAS TAKING PAUL TO ANOTHER psychologist’s appointment. I watched Elise cooking chocolate pudding—I’d been in college before I realized pudding could be prepared any way other than instant. To me cooked pudding still tastes oddly smooth and creamy.

  I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to ask what Paul’s mother had been like and what kind of mother she had been. I wanted to know what her marriage to Philippe had been like. I wanted to know how and why Philippe had abandoned his old home and life and seemingly so readily blocked out everyone but Elise and his brother-in-law.

  But of course I couldn’t.

  I needed to go for a ride. My bike is the one place I’m fully comfortable, where I own my space in a way I don’t on two feet, where the rhythm of pedals turning and wheels humming along the pavement lets my brain work smoothly and I can work out my problems. Usually.

  I went out to the garage and lifted my bike into the work stand. It was gritty from my last ride down River Road at home, where sand spread for traction lingers long after the snow melts. I cleaned the frame, wiped the chain, scraped crud from the derailleur pulley wheels, and lubed the pivot points. I had disconnected the cables from the derailleurs and was dripping Tri-Flow into the housing when I heard a car door. When the connecting door into the house opened I looked up to see Jameson, wearing jeans and a shirt open at the neck.

  I stood up and wiped my greasy hands with a rag. “What are you doing here?” As I said it, I realized it sounded rude. He held out something black—the daypack I’d left on the Burlington ferry.

  “How did you get this?” I asked in surprise. I had thought about asking Thomas to retrieve it, but that would have required explanations I hadn’t wanted to make.

  Jameson reached out and lightly spun the front wheel of my Cannondale. The tick-tick-tick sound it made echoed against the walls of the garage. “We sent someone to Burlington. It was in the lost and found department.”

  I nodded. “I left it on the deck when I jumped in.” So the Ottawa police were checking into things in Burlington. I unzipped the pack and peeked inside, wincing at the thought of policemen looking through my notebook, my toiletries, my change of clothes.

  “You were on your way to see your boyfriend.”

  “Yes. Well, the guy I was dating.” I didn’t try to explain why they weren’t the same thing. Or why I’d used the past tense.

  “And you saw no one with Paul.”

  I shook my head. “No. I told your guys. I just saw him falling toward the water. I never looked up toward the deck. I just dived in.”

  He was watching me closely. “And Paul was where?”

  I frowned. “He was on the back of the ferry going to Port Kent.”

  At first I couldn’t figure out why he was asking, and then I got it: He thought Paul had been thrown in from my ferry—and that I had seen it happen. He thought I was shielding someone who would try to drown a child. For a moment I couldn’t speak.

  “Look,” I said finally. “I was on the ferry to Burlington. Paul was on the ferry to Port Kent. I didn’t see anyone.”

  He waited a long moment, and when I didn’t speak again, he pressed the button that opened the garage door and walked out.

  I returned to my bike, moving by rote, reconnecting the cable housing and checking the shifting. So the police thought I’d happened to see Paul being thrown in and refused to tell them what I’d seen. Or that I’d been involved with the kidnappers. I could see the logic: Kidnappers want to dump the kid, soft-hearted female accomplice revolts. Paul would have told them he hadn’t seen me before, but he was only six. And in theory I could have been involved without him ever seeing me.

  So I was in cahoots with the kidnappers—but had rescued Paul and cheerfully returned him home? And now was living with father and kidnapped child? This made my head hurt.

  I put the tools in my toolbox, washed up, and climbed the stairs to Philippe’s office. I turned his computer on. Maybe the police had read these emails, and something in them had made Jameson suspect Philippe. Or maybe something in them would help clear him.

  I needed to know.

  I took a deep breath, opened Outlook Express, and went to Madeleine’s emails. I clicked on the first and oldest one, and started reading. By the time I had read the first half dozen, my stomach began to roil, but by then I couldn’t have stopped, like not being able to look away from a car crash. Because many of the incoming emails quoted her emails and her Sent folder held outgoing emails, I could read ones she had written as well as those she’d received. Only about a third were in English, but I could read enough French to understand the gist of the others. I skimmed them, one by one, with a growing sense of nausea.

  I couldn’t tell Philippe about these, not now, not ever. I hoped he had never seen them. Some of the emails, the ones written to people on committees or in Philippe’s business circle, were professional and polite, with a touch of humor. But the emails to her personal friends were entirely different. It almost seemed like reading a teenager’s diary. She spoke scathingly of Philippe and never mentioned Paul; she talked of shopping and vacations and made crass sexual jokes. Her tone with male correspondents was coy and suggestive.

  I couldn’t reconcile these emails with the elegant, graceful woman looking at me from across the room.

  How could Philippe have been with a woman like this? Had he known this side of her?

  And the next thought followed immediately: If he did, how could he not have wanted to get rid of her?

  I wanted to try to forget I’d ever seen these emails, to hit Control A and the Delete button and empty the trash so they’d be gone for good. But they weren’t mine to delete.

  Neither had they been mine to read, but that was done. And there could be something in these emails that would lead to the kidnappers: a name, a date, a hint of what Madeleine had done her last few days. Maybe the police had seen them, maybe not; maybe they had missed something in them.

  I printed them out. I ran the French ones through an online translation program and printed the translations. I turned the computer off and went down and hid the stack of paper in the bottom drawer of my dresser, my stomach churning. I had crossed a line I’d thought I would never cross.

  I went to ask Elise for something to quiet the turmoil in my gut. She gave me some Gelusil, a crunchy tablet that tasted like a Di-Gel. Then I went for my ride, and I rode hard.

  Paul and Philippe were back from the psychologist visit and in good spirits when I returned. It had gone well, Philippe told me. The psychologist had said that Paul washing out his clothes and his reaction to napping showed he was processing what had happened to him and adjusting to his new environment. And Paul seemed okay with the idea of seeing his uncle tonight. Just not eager.

  Part of me wanted to meet a relative of Madeleine’s, but part of me didn’t. Maybe Philippe had had the right idea moving here: new house, new town, new school, new friends—even new language. Let the past go. Unfortunately the part of Philippe’s past known as his brother-in-law had moved with him.

  After lunch Philippe headed to work, and Paul went off for a nap. I agonized over
what to wear. Shopping is one of those girl skills left out of my DNA. This is where I need friends like Kate, who can effortlessly find great clothes at bargain prices and could have had me outfitted in no time. I settled on my cord slacks and a pullover from among the stuff Zach had brought up. I tried to iron the slacks, but Elise appeared and took the iron from me. Whenever I try ironing, whatever I’m working on ends up more wrinkled than when I started. I should call it wrinkling instead of ironing.

  “So Paul’s uncle lives here in Ottawa,” I said as Elise deftly wielded the iron. She gave me a quick look that somehow said that Claude wasn’t her favorite person, then nodded.

  “He and his sister were very close?”

  Another nod. “Mostly,” she said, and the tone of her voice told me she wasn’t going to say more. Good nannies did not gossip, and she was a good nanny.

  “So does Paul have other aunts and uncles?” I asked.

  This Elise answered readily enough. “No, Monsieur Philippe is an only child, and there were only Claude and Madeleine.” She handed me a crisply pressed pair of slacks, and I thanked her.

  Philippe got home a scant fifteen minutes before Claude arrived, with just enough time to greet us and go change. By the time he reappeared, Claude was there. My heart was hammering—I felt as I were going to meet a part of Madeleine.

  But if Claude resembled his sister, I couldn’t see it, except his hair color. His features were indistinct, and he was good-looking in a careless way, with wispy blondish hair and a diffident manner. He was flawlessly polite, shook my hand briskly, and presented Paul with a small stuffed dog that talked when you squeezed it. Paul accepted it with equal politeness and said in careful English, “Thank you, Uncle Claude.”

  Not even a hug, for a child who had been gone for months. But somehow I wasn’t surprised.

  It wasn’t a scintillating evening, to put it mildly. Paul was dressed neatly with his hair carefully combed, and Tiger banished to the kitchen. The food was exquisite. But Paul was listless and answered in monosyllables. Philippe’s manners were impeccable, but he wasn’t what you could call relaxed. Me, I’m not that comfortable in new social situations in the first place, and this was particularly awkward. You couldn’t discuss Madeleine or what had happened to Paul, and you could only say so much about the weather and how good the food was. It didn’t help that Claude occasionally lapsed into French he assumed I couldn’t understand, although Philippe steadfastly responded in English. The meal dragged interminably, and Paul asked to be excused before dessert.