by Julia King
“Of course,” Hélène nodded. “Time for some medicine; it’ll help you feel better. Pierre, will you get it for her?”
He went to the table and grabbed the bag of medicine. After scanning the bottle, he filled a cup with water and brought two pills in his large hand over.
The temperature of her face increased. She gazed at the window desperate to stick her head out of it to cool down the heat that rose higher every second. Instead, she hid her face behind her hair, knowing her skin probably was brighter than the sun. “Well . . .” she paused, sucking in a breath and then she fixed her gaze on Pierre. “It seems I cannot swallow pills. At the hospital, they had me take something to relax me before getting that awful . . . what was it called? MRI. So the nurse crushed them and put them in water.”
“Okay, will do,” Pierre said as though it wasn’t a huge deal at all. Her anxiety flooded away like rushing river water.
He found a knife in a kitchen drawer and proceeded to try to cut them into small pieces with difficulty. Hélène watched with a huge smirk glowing on her face.
“This is hopeless,” he said under his breath.
Hélène laughed hard, holding her side. “Do you want me to help you with that?”
“No, I got it,” he said, gritting his teeth and muttering incoherent curses. In the end, he took out a sturdy-looking mug and pounded it hard on the pills. Once he looked satisfied that they were crushed to a fine powder, he brushed it into the cup of water. “Here you go.”
Ém endured the bitter taste as it had lathered her tongue before she swallowed it fast. She asked for another glass of water to wash down the disgusting flavor. Gulping the water down as fast as she could, she thought about Pierre’s struggle to crush her pills.
“That was funny, Pierre. You know, you pounding away at the pills.” Ém laughed until warmth filled her insides—the first bit of happiness she had felt, of course, outside of being around Pierre.
“Is that so?” He raised an eyebrow coyly. “Let’s be honest, I usually do.”
“No, not at all. Really.” Ém tilted her head away. Heat rose up her throat. Changing the subject, she babbled out far too loudly, “I think it’s time for that nap.” She stood up, moaning at the stabbing pain engulfing her side.
“I’ll show you to Pierre’s bedroom . . . your bedroom for the time being.”
“Mom . . . uh . . . just a minute,” he said, dodging past them into the hallway.
“He isn’t the cleanest person. Let’s give him a minute to tidy up. I’ll get fresh linens and properly make his bed.”
Pierre rushed back into the living room a couple minutes later. He ran his hand through his hair, straightening the damage he had done to it earlier. “You can go in now.”
His bedroom still looked messy—clothing strewn all over the place and his bed not made. Hélène and Pierre put the clean sheets on the bed. Then Ém cuddled into the blankets, sighing as relief spread throughout her core to her limbs from the comfort of the soft mattress.
“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate you helping—saving me today. Pierre, I feel as though I have known you for. . .” She stared at him, biting her lower lip.
An awkward silence fell upon the three of them. The commotion of people—their voices and footsteps—outside was the only sound that echoed throughout the room.
Pierre shattered the noiseless moment by clearing his throat. He nudged his mom in the side as though he was silently communicating something to her.
“Oh . . .” she paused, tugging on Pierre’s shirt. “Let’s head out. Sleep well, Ém.” And then she backed out of the room. “Coming, Pierre?”
“Uh . . . give us a minute.” Pierre seemed as if he was begging by narrowing his eyes at his mother.
She stared back at him without blinking before she turned down the hallway. “Pierre, I don’t want you in there for too long.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“It’s strange,” Ém started, “but I feel like I have known you for a long time.” She steadied her gaze on Pierre’s handsome face with a strange longing for him to hold her—kiss her.
“I feel the same way about you.” Pierre’s eyes kept drifting to her lips. Ém found she had the same struggle. He reached for her hand that was positioned on top of the blanket and squeezed it.
Ém’s grasp on his hand tightened as her belly started to squirm. She did not want to wake up and not see Pierre ever again. “Will you stay until I fall asleep? Please.”
“Okay.” He sat on the bed, still holding her hand but glancing back at the door.
“Thank you, again.” Her eyelids fluttered, and soon she drifted off to sleep, still feeling Pierre’s warm hand in hers.
“Are you really okay with this, Mom?” Pierre said after he took a quick bath and changed into his own well-sized shirt and pants.
“Strangely, I am. Don’t ask me why.” She paused, studying his face. “But I want you to be careful. You don’t know her yet. It seems like you . . . she likes you. It’s not surprising, though. You look exactly like your handsome father.” She stared off into the distance, eyes dancing as if they were engrossed in memories. “Anyway, don’t let your emotions or, uh . . . hormones get in the way of being smart.”
“Mom!” His face flashed hot. Not this conversation, please. “I don’t like her, just want to help her out, you know.”
“That’s obvious, Pierre. Some other things are obvious, too.”
“Seriously, not this conversation.” He shrugged, growing hotter and sort of sick to his stomach at the turn of the discussion.
“I won’t talk about it anymore if you promise not to fall for her.”
“Okay, I promise,” he said just to get her to stop bugging him. “Guess I’ve got to get to school. If she wakes up, will you let her know I’ll be back later?”
“Are you sure you want to go to school today after all that’s happened? Maybe you should rest. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I’m feeling great. Don’t worry, okay? You know I don’t like to miss school.”
“All right, Pierre. I’ll take care of her. No need to worry. I’ll call in sick to work.”
Leaving the apartment, he inched the door closed little-by-little, not wanting to wake up Ém with its loud squeaking. Once outside, his neighbor’s door opened.
“Pierre, what are you doing home?” Regardless of her serious question, the older woman with long, gray hair skipped over to him, almost tumbling over due to her chronic clumsiness. Pierre steadied her and then she acknowledged him with a string of squeals, giggles, and customary kisses.
Once he was able to speak, he said, “Something happened on my way to school, Madam Rose.”
“What happened? It sounds serious.”
Pierre went over the basics of the morning’s events. The whole time Madame Rose’s facial expression grew somber—her hand clasped over her gapping mouth.
“Is she okay? What a terrible thing to happen.”
“She’s sleeping right now. Just needs some rest, I guess.” His gaze drifted to his door, and he sighed, thinking about her—Ém, or whatever her name was.
When he finished, she perked up saying, “You like her, don’t you? I see it right there in your eyes.” She pointed at his right eye almost poking it out.
He dodged her deadly finger. “Really, I . . . we’re just helping her until she remembers who she is.”
“Whatever you say, Pierre. Sometimes I think I know you better than you do yourself. And for heaven’s sake, don’t let your father’s death keep you from being happy.” She glared at him so hard Pierre backed a step away, but then her voice became happier. “You’ll have to bring her over so I can meet her.”
“I will, but she . . . Ém. We gave her a nickname for now. She might need some time to remember who she is, you know.”
“Cute name. Well, let Ém take her time,” she said, smiling. “Get yourself to school. Love you, my surrogate grandson.” She stood on h
er tiptoes to squeeze Pierre’s cheek as she had when he was a little kid. He smiled even though it brought waves of embarrassment upon him. However, she did the same thing to Luc as well; it made Pierre snicker every time he witnessed Luc grimace as the little woman’s spidery fingers pinched him.
As they left the building, Pierre headed for the metro station a block from where they lived. Madame Rose went in the opposite direction, most likely to the library. She loved to read books.
Before Pierre entered the station, he glanced back to the building where he lived. He scanned up one floor and three windows over from the building’s entrance. Ém lay just beyond that window in his bed, sleeping soundly. He turned and strolled into the metro station. A deep groan rumbled loud in his throat. The poor person paying for a ticket glared at him probably thinking the sound was directed at her for no reason at all.
He shrugged off the accusatory scowl with his thoughts dancing back to Ém. He already missed her. He groaned again, only louder this time.
Wizard of the All-Knowing
Pierre tiptoed to his desk in the English classroom, even though only a few minutes were left of class. He saw Luc’s head bobbed up—doing a double-take—from doodling on a notebook.
“Why are you here? I swear you’re a crazy man,” he covered his mouth and whispered.
“I hate missing school, remember?” Pierre rolled his eyes as he stated the obvious.
“Whatever you say—”
“Luc,” Miss Russell, a tall, well-dressed American who never spoke French while teaching, scolded him as she placed her hands on her hips along with her customary tapping of her foot. “I know you are extremely interested in learning English, but at least if you talk while class is in session, you could try to speak in English.”
“I not speak English well. It too hard. I speak French. You speak English good. Thank you.” The class clown smirked and coughed a chuckle away. The other classmate stifled snorts of laughter.
“Mister Broussard, I know you can speak English better than that. I have heard you chatting with Pierre during class. Don’t sell yourself short. Please try.” She shook her head as though thinking: what am I to do with this kid? Then her eyes trained on Pierre. “Pierre, welcome. Why are you tardy? It’s unlike you.”
“Something . . . uh, unexpected happened this morning,” he spoke in English. “Sorry for being late.”
“You’re right about that,” Luc said under his breath in English.
“I hope everything is all right. But you are well ahead of everyone, so you didn’t miss much.” She turned back to the chalkboard and intricately wrote some new vocabulary on its surface. “We will continue.”
Lunch was next. Pierre and Luc purchased some baguette sandwiches topped with ham and strong smelling cheese. They caught up as they tore into the tough-make-your-jaw-ache bread.
“So, what happened with the girl?” A large bite of Luc’s sandwich swirled around in his open mouth as he chewed.
“Well,” Pierre began, wracking his brain for a way to say what he had to say. He sure didn’t want Luc to show up unexpectedly and bother Ém, or for that matter ask her out. That was his job and only his. Pierre envisioned himself kissing her. A lot. Shaking his head of the thought—incredibly great thought—he decided on the truth. Luc would find out one way or another, anyway. “She’s staying at my place until she—”
“What?” A chunk of cheese flew out of Luc’s mouth and onto the table. “You have to be kidding me. You have absolutely the hottest girl in the world staying with you. I’m so jealous. You are so going to have me over all the time. I want to hook up with her so bad, man.”
It was a bad call telling his friend the truth. “First of all, your eating habits are disgusting. Second, I’m not kidding. Third, you’re never, ever coming over. And fourth, and most serious, you cannot ‘hook up’ with her.” Pierre continued eating as though the conversation was over. In his mind, this particular girl was off limits to everyone, especially Luc.
“You dig her, don’t you?”
“Luc, how about we speak in English for the rest of lunch?” Pierre said in English, trying to divert him away from talking about Ém.
“You’re hopeless, man,” Luc responded in English. He did have a good grasp on the language but would rather keep up his funny guy reputation. “You could have any girl in this school, in Paris, or the world, but you don’t go out with any of them. I bet you’ve never kissed a girl, either.”
“You were there when I kissed someone. Remember that German girl at the nightclub you dared me to kiss?” Pierre felt like a three-year-old due to his lack of experience with girls. It’s not like he didn’t think about them—like them. It was just for the best not to hang out with them.
“You just need to kiss someone you really like. You’ll never stop after that.”
“Have you ever kissed someone you actually liked?” Pierre grinned at him—the highly friendly guy with all the girls.
“Let me think about that.” He tapped his forehead, looking at the ceiling. “You got me there. I guess I’ve never kissed someone I really liked. But there’s that girl over there.” He nodded at a short, brunette with glasses, sitting by herself as she nibbled at a salad, a book perched in her hand. “Her name is Chéri. Well . . .” He coughed, brushing a hand through his thick, messy hair. He leaned in close, glanced from left to right, and whispered, “I’ve liked her for a while.”
“Then ask her out, bro. You can ask anyone out and within minutes are making out. She looks like way higher quality material than the rest of the people you’ve gone out with.”
“See that’s the thing, she is higher quality. I always go for the less quality girls because they won’t stick around. I can move on—not lose my rep, you know? If I hooked up with her, I’d give in to stability. I’m totally not ready for that.”
“Give up the bad girls, go for a good one for once,” Pierre suggested, still speaking in English.
“So not doing that, but you have to go for whoever the girl is you saved today. She’s way too hot to pass up the chance. Plus, she doesn’t want to leave your side. What better way to reel her in?” Luc motioned his arm back and forth as if casting off the line of a fishing rod.
Pierre laughed at Luc’s poorly done theatrical performance of fishing. “What is she, a fish now? She just needs a place to stay. Hanging out with girls is literally going to kill me one day. Remember?”
“Pierre, you’re ridiculous. Just think about getting with her, all right?” Luc rolled his eyes.
“No, my mind is made up. It’s been made up for years. I’m never dating anyone.” Shrugging and feeling his stomach tighten, Pierre thought of his families curse.
“Forget about the ‘Rousseaux Curse’ for a minute.” Pierre grumbled as Luc continued. “Man, I’ll bet you three-hundred Euros you’ll change your mind in a couple days.”
“I’m so not making this a bet,” Pierre said, knowing all too well that he was developing feelings for her. He would lose big time.
“Be that way, then. It’s not like you don’t have a lot of money or anything.” He laughed, punching Pierre in the arm.
“Always have to hit me, huh?” Pierre rubbed his arm and groaned just for effect.
“Man, you’re built like a brick. Punching you hurts me more than you. Look at you.” He motioned up and down. “When was the last time you lifted weights? You’re gifted with good looks, smarts, and could have all the girls. You don’t even have . . . How do you say these in English?” He pointed to a couple of red spots on his chin.
“Pimples, zits, acne.”
“I like zits the best. Anyway, you better sort through your feelings. I want to win the bet.” Luc pumped his arm in the air, whooping in the process.
“I already said we’re not betting. You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Admit it Pierre, you like her.” Students were filing out of the lunchroom. A few girls looked at Pierre and giggled then whispered to each oth
er. Class was about to start again. He hadn’t had much of a chance to eat his sandwich with all the chatting about his apparent love life.
“If I admit it will you stop bugging me about her?”
“I knew it.” He slapped Pierre on the shoulder, stood up, and shouted in English, “I am the wizard of the all-knowing!” The few students left in the cafeteria clapped at the outburst. Luc had a way with people. He could get someone to jump off a building if he said “Jump.” The thought made Pierre think of Ém. His heart thumped hard against his ribs.
“Nothing gets by you, Luc Broussard, the wizard of the all-knowing. Time for class, bro.” Pierre reverted back to his native tongue.
“You’re ruining my moment of wizardry. Just shut up for a minute.”
Pierre got up and dumped his tray, not waiting for Luc to follow. As he was about to leave the cafeteria, he looked back to see Luc staring up at the ceiling with an awed expression on his face.
He’s the weirdest person alive.
Sitting through the rest of school was agonizing. Pierre couldn’t concentrate. The only thing he paid much attention to was the clock, and it seemed to be tick, tick, ticking backwards.
Come on clock, go faster. I need to get out of here. What if Ém wakes up and panics because I’m not there? Ugh, I miss her and would love to kiss her right now. Pierre get a hold of yourself. Don’t let yourself fall for her. That will only lead to bad things. Just breathe.
He stared at the clock again. His knee bounced up and down. He slumped in his seat, fiddling with his pen.
Get me out of here. Now.
He was never going to make it through the afternoon. Yet, somehow he did. He booked it home as soon as the last bell rang.
Nightmare
A hunched-backed man turned up the collar of his heavy overcoat. He folded his arms tight around his chest, a shiver itching down his spine. The wind whipped circles around his frail frame, driving the bitter chill of winter deep into his bones. He quickened his step when he heard the all too familiar scratchy voice creep—unwanted—into his mind as it had thousands of times before.