Lies Told In Silence

by M. K. Tod

  “Where are you going? Don’t leave, Edward. Please come back to bed.”

  Edward paid no attention; instead, barefoot, he rushed through the door and thundered down the stairs. When she finally found him, he was leaning against a tree near the old chicken coop, pounding the bark with his fists. Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him away.

  *

  On Monday, Edward watched as Helene prepared to board the train to Paris. For a moment, he looked away, unable to hold her gaze, and stared into the distance. Then he turned back, and she could see his face once more.

  “We will have memories of this time together.”

  Helene brushed the tears from her face, struggling for composure. She thought of their last night and wondered if it could sustain her or whether it might destroy her. Edward did not reply.

  “Sometimes the heart asks more than life can give,” she said.

  She touched his face fleetingly with her fingertips, recording his tall, slim figure, his hair dark and wavy, his high forehead high marked with a burn from childhood, his shoulders wide and erect even now. The train shook with a low rumble.

  “I’ll never forget you, Edward. You were my first and most precious love.”

  There was nothing left to say. They had had five days together, and now, somehow, they would have to go on with their lives. Helene braved a small smile from the top of the stairs, no longer able to speak, and Edward watched in silence, his body rigid as the train began to roll away.

  *

  Memory was her retreat. As the train spun its way to Paris, she closed her eyes, replaying each moment, each caress, every kiss, every touch. She remembered the way he looked at her with joy and ultimately with profound sadness; she heard his deep chuckle and saw the flash of amusement crossing his face. She recalled his words, his questions, his hurt, his passion. How could she let him go? The wheels cranked on and on. Passengers came and went, and still she remembered.

  Every part of her felt bruised, as if she had fallen into a deep hole, tumbling over and over again until reaching the bottom. Not far from Paris, she stumbled into the tiny bathroom to splash water on her face then forced herself to repair her makeup and create some semblance of normalcy. Or else Francois will know.

  How could she face him? And what would she disclose? Could he stand the truth? He loves me, she thought. Would his love turn to dust if he knew? Could she lie to him? If she chose that path, it would mean a lifetime of denial, no turning back. What would Grandmere do? Helene’s thoughts flew to her grandmother’s room, where she and Edward had made love. Stop, she ordered herself. Do. Not. Think. Of. Him.

  There was no doubt. Grandmere would have lifted her chin and gone on with her life. She would have honoured her family and those who loved her and depended on her. Telling Francois about Edward merely placed her sadness on his shoulders, and the weight would be too much. Instead, she would have to seal the memory of Edward and their time together in some deep hidden part of her soul and learn to love Francois more than she already did.

  Learn to love Francois again, she thought. Just like Grandmere and Grandpere.

  Chapter 47

  August 1936

  He was waiting for her at Gare du Nord amidst the bustle of baggage, the shouts of vendors, the chaos of crowded platforms and bellowing steam. He looks happy, as if he has much to tell me. Helene looked beyond him and did not see her children, her tall willowy Claire, who was so much like Edward she knew it would hurt to see her, her blond Juliette, bubbling with stories, her gangly Daniel, whose feet were much too large for his body and whose hands were clumsy with unaccustomed size. Only Francois. She had hoped their children would deflect his questions.

  Helene breathed in deeply, straightened her shoulders and slowly exhaled. As she carried her suitcase along the platform, the distance between them shortened, and she could see that what she thought was happiness was only a mask, for his eyes were dark with worry, and the small lines on either side of his mouth were etched with fatigue. He kissed her on both cheeks, took her suitcase and held her arm as they left the station.

  Practical details occupied the next few minutes, and they spoke little, making their way through the crowds, dodging a woman selling roses who clamoured at Francois: “Monsieur, buy your sweetheart a rose. Monsieur. Very fresh flowers. Monsieur, she will love you for it.” In the heat, taxis were scarce, and they waited in a line seven deep until their turn came, and Francois gave curt directions for home. Helene stalled him further by asking about the children, and he recounted reassuring stories about the week’s happenings. After exhausting that topic, she was silent.

  “How was it?” he said.

  “The ceremony?” He nodded. “It was incredibly moving. Francois, you should have seen the crowds. Thousands of people. The King of England, our president, their speeches were wonderful.” Helene described each detail and his impatience grew.

  “And then?”

  She dipped her head as if lost in thought. “I stayed in Beaufort and remembered. I remembered it all. I climbed the hills and explored places from the past. I had coffee and croissants in the café near the fountain. I …” Her voice trailed off.

  His voice became sharp. “Was he there?”

  “No.”

  She said it clearly and simply, and it was done. Her denial complete, irrevocable. Helene felt like Judas must have felt denying Christ, though she knew that thought was blasphemous.

  “It must have been difficult.” Helene saw the fear in his eyes fade and his body relax. He reached for her hand and held it to his lips. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

  Helene smiled for her husband’s sake, even though every part of her longed for Edward, every inch of skin ached for his touch. She felt shattered. Body, mind and soul ripped into shreds, dangling on a precipice of numbness and pain. She had lost him twice, and yet somehow, she had to find a way to go on, to live the life she had.

  I have my precious children, my family and friends. Francois loves me. And I have loved him too and will again. But I’m not back, she thought. Not yet. Only time will stitch me back together.

  Epilogue

  June 1960

  “I’m here, Papa,” Claire called out, walking into her father’s apartment with her usual confident stride, dark hair swinging loosely, a tight black skirt and fitted blouse accenting her slender figure. She looked at her father with affection.

  “Beautiful as always, my dear. Your husband is a lucky man.” He rose to greet her, a warm embrace followed by a kiss on each cheek.

  “Thank you, Papa. But don’t fathers always think their daughters are beautiful? You would say the same if Juliette were here.” She grinned at her father. At sixty-seven, he still looked young despite the fatigue and lingering sadness of his wife’s death four months earlier. “You seem better than you have been. Not so sad.” Claire looked around at the familiar space decorated in blue and white with sweeping silk drapes and bright pink pillows. “Maman really had an eye for colour, didn’t she, Papa?”

  In the kitchen, they chatted about the family while he made two cups of espresso, and then they returned to the living room. Claire settled into the chair that she thought of as her mother’s and breathed in deeply, catching a hint of her perfume. She blinked furiously to chase away tears.

  When her mother had died, the grief was so great she could barely cope, and for weeks she cried at the slightest memory. Now that her tears were under control, she still walked around most days with a dull ache. Her husband Michel suggested medication, but Claire had refused. Pain was necessary to honour her mother.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t help with Maman’s clothes. Juliette told me you cleared the closet last Saturday.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. I knew you wouldn’t be able to cope with your mother’s things. Juliette set aside a few items for you. I’ll get them before you leave.”

  “Was it difficult?”

  Her father nodded then downed his espresso in one
gulp. “But what do they say? Life goes on. Your mother would not want me to mourn too long.” A tiny smile formed. He reached for a black lacquered box with a brass clasp and held it on his lap. “I wanted to show you this box Maman left,” he said.

  Claire nodded, wondering why her father would have called her over without including Juliette and Daniel.

  “It’s a box she filled years ago. With letters. And a picture.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I had never seen it before, but she left it for me. And gave me a decision to make. I want to tell you about it.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

  “Are you sure, Papa? Something seems to be upsetting you.”

  Her father extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, smiling apologetically before continuing in a deeper, rougher voice. “It’s a long story, chérie. I hope you will be patient with me.”

  “Of course.” She wondered for a moment if her father was truly all right. He seemed vaguely confused, nothing like his usual decisive self. Of course, losing your wife after more than forty years of marriage was a heart-wrenching time. Claire broke down in tears at even the slightest provocation, but Papa had been doing better. Juliette had said so. Claire folded her hands and waited.

  Papa cleared his throat. “When I married your mother, she was almost due to give birth.” Claire’s head snapped back at this revelation. She opened her mouth to speak, but her father held up his hand. “Hold your questions for a few minutes, sweetheart. To tell the story properly, I have to go back in time, so please be patient with me.

  “I had had a crush on your mother ever since she was fifteen. During the war, we wrote letters back and forth, and I kept hoping she would sense my fondness for her.” He smiled a vague, wistful smile, more to himself than to Claire. “I came through the fighting relatively unscathed until June 1918, when I was severely wounded. The doctors thought they might have to amputate my leg, but your grandmother prevailed on them to save it. I suspect she badgered them so much they knew the only way to get rid of her was to do what she wanted. I came home with scars on my body and I was unable to walk. And I was angry.

  “Angry at the war. Angry with our government. Angry at myself and everyone else. Your Aunt Marie helped me recover. Every day she made me get up and try to walk. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Several weeks later, she conceived the idea of taking me to visit your mother, who I thought was recovering from a severe illness. On the trip to Honfleur, Marie told me that your Maman had fallen in love with a soldier who never came back from the war, and she was pregnant. She wanted to make sure I didn’t show my surprise when I saw her.”

  A sharp crease appeared between Claire’s eyebrows. “Pregnant with me, Papa?” The thought was shocking. What he was saying could not possibly be true.

  “Be patient with me a little while longer. Being by the sea was helpful. I swam every morning, and my anger eased a little. After ten days, I returned to Paris, but I could not get your mother’s situation out of my mind. She had no husband, no way to support herself and her parents wanted her to give the baby up for adoption. Finally, I made a decision. In early October, I returned to Honfleur to ask your Maman to marry me. In November, you were born.”

  “You’re not my father?” Claire could not believe what she was hearing.

  “I am your father, just not your biological father. And I will always love you as a father loves a daughter. Nothing will change between us, but I felt you had the right to know. It’s your choice whether you tell Juliette and Daniel, and your choice what to do with this news. Maman’s box is full of letters between her and this soldier. There’s a picture of him and a letter she left for you.”

  “How could you, Papa? Why did you tell me? What am I supposed to do now?” Claire’s cheeks flushed deep red. Her voice cracked. “I don’t want some old box full of love letters. You’re my father, not some ghost in a picture.”

  “I’ll always be your father.” Papa reached out a hand, but Claire drew back into the corner of her chair.

  “Why didn’t Maman say something? Was she too cowardly to tell me herself?” Claire spoke with anger. “I loved her, Papa. I loved her so much.”

  Gulping sobs erased the quiet of the living room. Papa got up and stood behind her, his fingers massaging the back of her neck and shoulders, just like he had when she was a teenager crying over a lost boyfriend or some other tragedy.

  “Shush. Shush. Shush. You know how much she loved you. All of us. But I don’t think she could bear to tell you because of how it might affect me. She was never a coward. Never.” Papa held her hands. “I’ll always remember the night you were born. Such a tiny scrap of humanity and the bond I felt for you was instantaneous. You represented the future, a future with hope. Because of you, I had to set aside the memories of brutality and all the pain the war left me with. Having you to look after allowed me to come to terms with what had happened.

  “In a letter she left for me, Maman said it was my decision whether to tell you. We had always said to one another that the greatest gift we could give to you, Daniel and Juliette was the gift of independence, to be what you wanted and not what we dreamed for you. There was no doubt in my mind she would want you to know and that this knowledge would be part of your independence.” A dazed expression washed over his face. “You look a lot like him. I never knew until I opened the box and saw his photo. It must have been difficult for her to see his face in you every day.”

  Claire squeezed her father’s hand and sat very still.

  “She knows how strong you are, Claire. Maman never would have given me the box otherwise.”

  “But what about you, Papa? How does this make you feel?”

  Her father sighed deeply and returned to his chair. “There was always a part of her I couldn’t reach, a part she left behind when he didn’t return for her.”

  “She loved you, Papa.”

  “I know. She said that in her letter as well. She said she had loved me greatly. And we were so happy, especially these last twenty years after the three of you were grown. We had a few rough patches, but we loved each other very much.”

  Claire slumped back, her mind reeling with shock. “I have no idea what to say or do.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. You can leave this box with me and we’ll never speak about it again. Or you can take it with you. Your mother would have wanted you to have that choice.”

  “But in a way, she’s made that choice for me, hasn’t she? Maman would have known that I could not resist these letters.”

  Claire felt her mother’s presence from beyond the grave, as though Maman were standing beside Papa, her gaze reflective and gently encouraging. More than Juliette or Daniel, Claire had been the one who understood her mother’s moods and motivations, and today she knew without the slightest doubt that Maman wanted her to read the letters and then decipher her true intent.

  *

  Walking home with the lacquer box beneath her arm, Claire tried to absorb the blow of her father’s disclosures. Confusion clouded her eyes. This could not be happening to her so soon after her mother’s death. Although Papa said he would always be her father, suddenly a stranger had intruded on their special bond and she wondered whether their relationship would be affected.

  Claire longed to talk to Michel. Where would she be without his calm comfort, the man who knew when she needed to talk and when she needed just to know he was there? His little smile or glance when she reached for a tissue. His warm, undemanding embrace when she attempted to fall sleep. She was lucky with the men in her life. And now there’s another one, she thought, a man I never, ever expected.

  “I’m home,” she called out after entering their apartment.

  Quiet greeted her. On the kitchen table was a note in her husband’s scrawl: “Gone out for some tennis. Back around five.” Good, she thought, I can look at these in peace.

  Claire placed the box on the dining room table and pulled a chair close. Through the open doors of their small b
alcony, she could hear the blare of a police siren and the hum of traffic. She took a deep breath. Maman would not have saved these for me if she thought they would hurt me. Claire slid the clasp to the right and lifted the lid.

  On the very top was a photo of a young man in uniform. She drew it carefully from the box and held her hand over her mouth as she gazed at someone who looked so much like her there could never be the slightest doubt.

  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, imagining how this photo must have affected him.

  Claire traced the line of the man’s cheek and chin with her fingernail. He looks so young. Despite her earlier anger, the picture captivated her.

  Beneath the photo, wrapped in tissue, were letters, carefully folded and stacked one behind the other, arranged, as she soon discovered, by date. Many pages had little tears in the corners or at the creases, and she guessed that her mother must have read them over and over again. At the end of the pile was a bulky envelope tied with a ribbon and the words Open Last in her mother’s handwriting. Claire’s hands hovered. If she read them, life would never be the same.

  She left her chair and crossed to the window overlooking rue Louis Boilly. June was her favourite month. Long, bright summer evenings, trees bursting with vivid shades of green. With their sons now older, she and Michel could stroll in the park after dinner on their own. Fête de la Musique and the flower show were in June, events she looked forward to all year. From a young age, she and Juliette had attended the flower show with Maman each year, spending the day wandering the Bois de Boulogne where lush displays beckoned from every corner and lunching amidst fragrant roses of exquisite colour and shape in the Bagatelle Gardens. This was the first year they had missed it.

  Claire turned away from the window, picked out the first letter and unfolded a single sheet of thin paper, slightly brown from age. Narrow, slanted writing with closely packed words filled the page. “It’s in English,” she said out loud in amazement.