by Rose, Willow
The Priest looked at Marie-Therese for a few very pensive seconds. "I'd like to meet her," he said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
He made an important decision. He was going to confront her. After twelve Belgian beers (all containing between seven and nine percent alcohol) at the inn, Paul was ready to have that talk that he had been waiting for so very long. It was time, he thought, while trying for the third time to put the key into the ignition of the Toyota. Finally, he succeeded and turned the engine on. He hadn't been alone in the bar, as he had expected. There had been two other guys there that he, after the first five beers, had been feeling comfortable talking about his situation to. Bjorn, the one who had been sitting to Paul's right (or was his name Ole? Paul couldn't remember anymore) had said that it was about time he confronted Emma.
"You can't keep walking around pretending you don't know anymore."
At first, Paul hadn't seen eye-to-eye with the guys, but after a couple of beers more, he agreed.
"You're entitled to know," Bjorn (or Ole) had continued.
"Yeah, if the bitch thinks she can keep you in the dark any longer, she has another thing coming to her," the guy on Paul's left, Ole (or Bjorn?) had said.
"Yeah," Paul agreed and emptied yet another glass of Westmalle. He nodded at the bartender, who poured him another one.
As the hours passed, Paul got more and more drunk, and when the Swiss clock above the bartender struck noon, he was ready to face Emma. His eyes were blurry, and the room was spinning, but he was ready…well, almost. He had stayed for yet another hour and forty-five minutes before finally having raised enough courage.
"What's the worst that can happen?" Ole (he was certain it was actually Ole who had said this and not Bjorn) had asked, and tapped him on the shoulder with a huge grin.
That I find out that she has really been with another man, he thought, but that wasn't what he said. He wasn't quite drunk enough to share that part of the story. He only told them that he thought she was pregnant and that he didn't understand why she didn't tell him about it.
Now, sitting in the car, letting it roll slowly down the hill, filled him with a strange anxiety. This is it, he thought to himself, as he turned left onto the road. Time to face the truth.
On his way through town, he thought the conversation over and over in his head. But each time it always ended with him getting hurt. And Paul didn't like getting hurt. He had avoided it for so many years now, simply by not letting anyone get too close, but now he had crossed the line anyway. He had let himself grow too fond of Emma, a result of letting his guard down.
"It's typical," he said out loud to himself in the car as he drove past the grocery store where he had spoken to Mrs. Hansen earlier in the day. It felt like weeks ago. Paul blinked his eyes to better focus on the road as he continued past the church and turned left towards Isefjorden in the distance and the calm neighborhood he had just moved in to. Paul slammed his hand into the steering wheel while letting out an angry roar.
"Now, who does she think she is?" he mumbled. "Sleeping with another man and getting pregnant without telling me. Well, what if I actually wanted kids, huh? Maybe, just maybe I changed my mind, what do you say to that, huh?"
Slowly, as he drove down the street, he realized he didn't know how to move on without her. Even if it did turn out to be someone else's kid, would he be able to still be with her? Did she want to be with him? Paul felt tears pressing on, but repressed them as he always did. He wasn't going to let her have the joy of seeing him emotional, of seeing him cry, that was for sure. Paul never cried. He hadn’t since his mother had left him, his sister, and his father when he was only eight. Back then, Paul cried a river when he said goodbye to her and she told him she would be back for him some day. He had taken her hand and tried desperately to hold it, wishing she would change her mind, that she would stay for his sake, but she didn't. After she had left, his father grabbed him, then slapped him three times across the face.
"Pull yourself together, boy," he said, while Paul's cheek had burned like hell. Since then he had never cried again. Not even when he realized that she wasn't coming back for him and that he was never going to see her again.
But not showing emotions didn't come easy to Paul, who was born a very sensitive boy (much to his father's regret), so in time Paul learned to not put himself in emotional situations, and mentally he built up a wall that he never let anyone come through. He told the women he met up front that he wasn't interested in anything deeper, in anything long-term, such as marriage and definitely not in children. They were welcome to hang around and he would take them out and treat them well, but to him it was nothing but sex. He was never going to go deeper than that. In that way, he never had to cry when girlfriends left him, he never had to get upset when they cheated, and he never had to care about them more than he wanted to. It was an easy life and he preferred it that way.
But along came Emma and changed everything. She could get Paul emotional alright. He would feel anger like never before, but also a passion and a deep, deep love that he still had failed to tell her about or even show her. He wasn't so certain he would be able to not cry if she left. In fact, he was now sure that he was going to cry for days, maybe even for the rest of his life.
"That's what you get for getting in too deep, old boy," he mumbled, as he spotted his new house in the distance. In his anger and frustration, he sped up the car. The local bus was in front of him, parked at the bus stop, unloading the children coming home from school. He passed it while accelerating the car, the old engine roaring wildly.
He felt like the entire neighborhood was spinning around him as the tears finally escaped his eyes and he could stop them no more.
He blinked hard and suddenly lost control of the car. It sped up further, even though he didn't touch the pedal, and Paul barely saw the woman in the street before it was too late. As her blood was splattered on his windshield, he thought he heard laughter. He turned his head and looked out the side window into the very green eyes of a little girl standing on the sidewalk.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emma and Thomas heard the bump at the same time. First it was the bump, then the scream, and then everything went quiet. Thomas was sitting on the couch, covering his head with his hands, feeling sorry for himself, wondering if his life was ever going to be normal again, wondering if he was ever going to feel happy again, now that Minna had walked out the door.
Emma was in the kitchen eating mackerel straight from the can, a craving that had increased daily ever since she became pregnant, which she found funny, since she normally couldn't stand mackerel. Now she dropped the can on the floor and ran outside. The air was filled with a strange despair, and she just knew that someone had died. It could be her instinct that had also increased with her pregnancy that told her, or it could be the children's crying that let her know right away that someone was dead. Emma spotted the bus that was still parked on the side of the road and the driver had stepped out, along with all the passengers, who were all now holding on to each other, covering their mouths with their hands, some were crying, some tried to pull the children away and hold on to them.
Emma paused as she approached the scene. Then she felt her stomach turn. She held a hand to her mouth, then turned and threw up in the hedge.
Filled with fear, Thomas did something he hadn't done in weeks. He ran. Without even thinking about his weak muscles and sore body, he jumped up from the couch and raced out of the house. He almost stumbled in the front yard, then he grabbed the hedge and didn't even notice he got some of Emma's thrown up mackerel on his hands. His heart was pounding unbearably in his chest as he approached the car that had his wife's blood smeared all over it, walked past it, thinking stop. Don't go any further, don't look at it. But he did it anyway. While the entire street of people watched him, he walked slowly past the car and looked at the asphalt where he saw the remains of Minna. Her face was almost unrecognizable. Her arm was at a weird angle. And then her eyes. Her eyes were
red and staring into the air. Her entire body was surrounded by a pool of blood. Her suitcase was destroyed and her clothes spread all over the street, her underwear hanging from the side mirror.
Thomas sobbed, and then kneeled next to her where the bus driver stood while he called for an ambulance. He moved away when Thomas picked up her bloody lifeless hand and held it to his chest.
"Minna," he whispered, knowing there would be no answer. Then he broke into tears. He threw himself on top of her body and sobbed. "Don't leave me, Minna. Don't leave!"
Her heart racing in her chest, Emma ran to the car and opened the front door with the taste of sour mackerel in her mouth. "Paul," she screamed as the door swung open. Paul's face was covered in blood and glass from the car windows that shattered when he hit the lamppost, trying to avoid hitting the woman. He wasn't moving; his body leaned across the steering wheel, his bloody head smashed in between the wheel and the broken windshield.
Oh, dear God, let him be still alive.
She pulled his shoulder gently and, with all her strength, managed to get him to sit back in the seat. She gasped when she saw his face, covered in glass and blood. Oh, my, oh, dear, I can't lose him now. Not now.
"Paul?" she said in desperation, while putting her finger on his throat to look for a pulse.
Emma felt waves of relief go through her body as Paul suddenly groaned.
"Shh," she said. "Don't try to speak. The ambulance is on its way. You're going to be fine. You'll be fine. Our daughter is not going to grow up without a father."
That was when Paul opened his eyes and looked into hers with a smile. "Daughter?" he said. "It's a girl?"
Emma cried and nodded while stroking his cheek gently, careful to not touch any of his bruises.
In the distance, the sound of sirens filled the air.
Chapter Twenty-Four
They were too late. Marie-Therese and the Priest arrived right after the accident. The ambulance was there and the woman that Marie-Therese recognized as her nice neighbor was being scraped off the asphalt by the paramedics. They heard the scream through the forest when they had been standing in the courtyard, almost ready to leave the campground. Immediately, Marie-Therese knew something bad had happened. She looked at the handsome Priest standing next to her and saw in his eyes that he knew it too.
"We're too late," she said.
Then they both jumped into her old Volkswagen and drove through town, following the sound of sirens. They led them to her own street and, as she slowly drove up the street with her heart pounding in her chest, Marie-Therese wondered if anyone else had gotten hurt. With an anxious mind, she pictured Ida lying in the street on the other side of the car, in her own pool of blood, but as she came closer, she saw Ida standing on the other side of the road, holding Sebastian's hand, hugging him so he didn't have to look at the scene. Next to her stood Edwina. Her face expressionless, like seeing the dead woman in front of her smeared in her own blood did nothing to her emotionally. Marie-Therese gasped as Edwina suddenly lifted her eyes and looked at her. At that second, Marie-Therese could have sworn she felt the crucifix around her neck burn her skin.
The Priest came up behind her and, as he came closer, she felt her uneasiness disappear. There was just something about him that made her feel safe.
"Is that her?" he whispered in her ear.
Marie-Therese nodded with a sigh. "I'm afraid she is somehow responsible for this," she whispered back. "Though I don't know how."
The Priest nodded. "Let's take her inside."
They walked across the street and approached the children. "Let's go home now. There is nothing to look at," Marie-Therese said and pulled Ida's shirt.
Ida nodded, and then started walking, still holding Sebastian in her arms. "You too, Edwina," Marie-Therese said. "Get back into the house."
The Priest kept at a distance, but Edwina spotted him, and before she started walking, Marie-Therese saw her turn her head and hiss at him.
The Priest jumped at the sound and pulled back. Marie-Therese looked at him. She didn't speak out loud, but shaped the words with her mouth. See, that's what I meant.
The Priest nodded slowly and Marie-Therese drove the children towards the house, away from the scene of misery, like they were a flock of lambs.
Inside of the house, Marie-Therese asked them all to go to their rooms. The Priest followed them inside and stood in the kitchen while the door slammed to each of the three rooms. Marie-Therese joined him after watching Edwina go into her room.
"So, what do you think so far?" Marie-Therese asked and put on a kettle of water for coffee. She found the bottle of instant coffee and poured a teaspoon into two cups. The Priest remained quiet for a long time, and it made Marie-Therese feel uneasy. The kettle reached a boil and she poured in the hot water and stirred.
"Milk?" she asked, as she handed him the cup. He shook his head. She sipped her cup, it burnt her tongue. Marie-Therese felt like crying, like giving up and running away from it all. Why did she bother, after all? Why hadn't she just left the house long ago? She could call Line, the social worker, and have her come and get all the kids and then she could sell the house and move to a completely different country. Maybe France? She had always wanted to go back to that place she had visited as a child with her mother. That place where the tide came and often drowned a car or some stupid tourist who wasn't aware of the tidewaters coming and going. What was that place's name again? Mont something. Saint-Michel! Yes, that was it. Mont Saint Michel. Marie-Therese had been no more than ten years old when her mother had taken her to that beautiful island in Normandy with the treacherous ocean.
But you know you can't run from her, don't you?
Marie-Therese swallowed her coffee and let the warmth spread into her cold body, her body that had been so cold ever since Edwina had come into her life, her body that felt like it was getting colder day by day, even though it was the warmest fall in many years. She shivered and drank some more. Then she stared at the Priest, who seemed to smell something in the air. Marie-Therese smelled it too. It was the strange odor coming from Edwina's room, the same smell that had from time to time woken her at night. The scent of sulfur so strong it drove tears into her eyes.
"So, what do you say?" she repeated her question from earlier.
He looked at her seriously, then put his cup down on the table. "I believe we need to get to work as soon as possible."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fifteen-year-old Dan was pulled out from his classes by the principal herself. He was asked to pack his things and leave the classroom immediately. Dan didn't know what to think and, as many other boys his age, he naturally thought he was in some sort of trouble. Did they know about the magazines? he thought, sweating, while frantically putting his books in his backpack. Was he going to be marked as a pervert, a sex offender for the rest of his life? His mom had said that to him, she had warned him when she first found the magazines under his bed. Since then he kept them in his backpack and only pulled them out when he was alone.
It wasn't the magazines, but only a few seconds later, Dan wished that had, in fact, been it. The principal took him into the hallway and spoke with a low voice. Her eyes were filled with tears and it scared Dan. What now? he kept thinking. Ever since his sister’s death, he had lived in some sort of emergency condition, constantly alarmed, constantly ready to receive more bad news. That day he was at a friend's house and the police had called to let him know. Since then, he couldn't stand the sound of a phone ringing. It would make him jump (and once when the phone rang at another friend's house, he even wet himself a little bit, but never told anyone). Now Dan felt that gloomy feeling of anxiety growing inside of him once again. For a few more seconds, he still maintained some sort of hope, some sort of belief that it might still be just the magazines, but deep down inside, he knew this was worse; this was much worse than anything he had ever faced. Maybe even worse than his sister dying.
"There has been an accident," the principal
said. Her lips shivered while she spoke. Dan could see she had eaten something with parsley for lunch. Some of it was stuck between her teeth. Maybe she had fish? Dan thought. With parsley-sauce and potatoes. Stupid thing to be thinking at this moment, he scolded himself, and focused on the words coming out of her lips. But he wasn't sure he even wanted to hear them, was he? Was he even sure he could bear to face more bad news?
"I'm so incredibly sorry to have to tell you this…"
All Dan could think about was that ridiculous sauce. He loved parsley sauce. Why didn't his mother make parsley sauce anymore?
"Your mother…well, they say she didn't see the car, but…"
Dan stared at the woman's mouth and thought he could smell the sauce on her breath. Why didn't his mother cook anymore? Ever since…ever since…
"You better get to the hospital and find your father; I called for a taxi…but, Dan…well. They told me it's bad. She is…she is…"
Dan's eyes left her lips and the thoughts of parsley. "Dead?" he asked.
Principal Moeller stared at Dan. A tear left her eye. "They wanted to tell you at the hospital. The police are there and they were going to tell you, but I thought you deserved to know. Yes, Dan. Your mother was killed in a tragic accident."
Dan nodded slowly. He felt numb. So much pain, so much sorrow in such a short time was too much to cope with. Suddenly, Dan felt like he was in a movie, a teacher passing them in the hallway, an extra. The principal, just another extra. One of the few with lines. Dan, the main character, the protagonist who had to endure so much pain before everything would get better. Before the happy ending.
"Dan, are you okay?"
Dan looked for his lines at the back of his head. What would a hero do; what would Bruce Willis say at this moment when there was nothing but fire and death surrounding him? Yippee ki-yay motherfucker? Probably not. He thought about his favorite movie, The Last Boy Scout, and wanted to say, This is the ’90s. You don’t just go around punching people. You have to say something cool first. But he didn't. He just stared at the parsley-woman and thought she suddenly looked more and more green and that leaves were growing out of her ears and nose.