Felicite Found

by Julia King

  “They must have been deeply in love, and his death had to have been devastating for your mother. Was it difficult for you not to know you dad—to grow up without him?”

  “Yeah, but I managed.”

  Ém yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired again. My body wants sleep more than being awake, it seems.”

  “You should go back to bed. I have to get to school soon, anyway.”

  She swayed drunkenly back and forth as she stood, but Pierre caught her. He picked her up, trying not to jostle her ribs as he carried her to the bedroom. He placed her on his bed and rearranged the blankets over her body.

  “Thank you,” she said as she fell asleep. He stared at her beauty. He definitely liked her. A lot.

  Remembering

  That night, Ém was no longer asleep in Pierre’s bed. She stood in a cramped room, watching a stout, old woman with wide-set eyes filling a bowl with steaming hot water.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to get the attention of the old woman. There was no response. She tapped the woman’s shoulder. “Can you hear me?” Again, the plump lady gave no indication of being aware of the presence of someone else in the room. Waving her hand in front of the old woman’s face didn’t faze her at all.

  Ém hobbled a few steps back, sending up dust from the dirt floor. Looking around, she couldn’t make out the room. The only light came from a few dripping candles that were almost burned to the wick and a small crackling fire. Despite the flames, she had to wrap her arms around her chest. The humble circumstances were adorned with shabby curtains and few pieces of worn furniture. She took in a deep breath of the familiar scent permeating in the room—the strong smell of a farm.

  A young-looking woman drenched with sweat lay on the bed. Her dark-circled eyes were blue, her messy hair blond, and her skin shone pale—sickly pale; her belly was swollen big, heavy with child. The old woman limped past holding the bowl of water, a white cloth floating back and forth inside the basin. She sat by the woman and dabbed her sweaty forehead. A hoarse scream erupted from the labored woman’s mouth that startled the mid-wife. The bowl of hot water fell out of her hand and crashed to the floor, breaking into little pieces.

  She withdrew a piece of leather from her worn apron and forced it in the soon-to-be mother’s mouth. “Madame, bite down on this. It will ease your pain.”

  She moaned in agony and then clenched her teeth down on the strip of leather, jaw set tight. As the sweat increased on her skin, her face whitened until it looked transparent—blue veins pulsating from the thin covering of flesh. Her screams were replaced by her body thrashing across the bed. The mid-wife attempted to hold her down. Her feeble attempt only resulted in her being knocked to the unkempt floor. The old woman stood and dusted her apron off with a humph.

  “Monsieur, I need your help. Come quickly,” she yelled. Moments later, the door burst open. A tall man with a slender build and brown hair skidded into the room.

  “What is wrong with my wife?” he asked as his blood-shot eyes darted to the bed. Moisture appeared on his forehead while his chin quivered.

  “Hold her so she can’t move,” the old woman demanded.

  He sat behind her and brought her into a tight embrace, brushing his hand up and down her limp arm. His restraint stilled her shaking body until her head fell onto her husband’s shoulder. The labored woman’s eyes fluttered open until they rested upon her husband. In a haggard voice, she whispered, “Name her Félicité. She will make you happy. Love her as I have loved you.” A peaceful smile laced upon her lips and then her eyes drooped closed. She let out a long, deep breath; her chest rested, no longer rising or falling. The mid-wife felt the woman’s wrist and then shook her head, a frown etched deeply upon her face.

  “Why is she not moving?” The man shook his wife back and forth. “Make her wake up! MAKE HER MOVE!”

  “Monsieur, your wife . . .” A pained silence fell upon the room. “She is gone, but I can save the baby!” She looked the man straight in his eyes as she spoke, but he didn’t budge. She grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. “I am so sorry, Monsieur. If I am not quick, your baby is going to die.”

  The husband didn’t move, so the mid-wife picked up a knife and proceeded to cut the woman’s abdomen. The knife dug deep through the layers of skin and muscle until reaching the womb. Blood streamed out of the opening, dripping with finality onto the white bed linens. The old woman—gritting her teeth and groaning—tugged at the sides of the woman’s stomach until the baby, who surely was moments away from death, was found. She pulled the slimy little one out and massaged its chest until it let out a short cry, breathing for the first time.

  “The baby is alive,” she exclaimed as she wiped it clean and wrapped it in a blanket. “You cry and strengthen your little lungs.” She cradled the newborn in her arms and coed at it. “You have a beautiful baby girl, Monsieur.”

  The man’s stare darted back and forth from his lifeless wife, leaning on his chest, and to the baby—his daughter. Tears billowed from his eyes as he removed himself from the bed, laid his beautiful wife down, crossed her arms across her deflated chest, and kissed her lips delicately. “I love you, darling.”

  He spun around, took the few steps to the mid-wife’s side, and held out his arms to take his child. The woman gently laid the baby in his arms. He rocked the little one back and forth. His daughter fluttered her eyes open; the small beads searched him as though she were memorizing his face.

  Instantly, tears crept from his eyes; he brushed them away as a beaming grin lit his face. The man’s shoulders relaxed while he paced to the chair opposite the bed. Sitting, he let his finger stroke the perfect skin of his daughters face. Lifting the blanket from her, he drew out the little girl’s hands and counted to ten as did he with her toes.

  Delicately wrapping her snug again, his eyes found the mid-wife. “Her name will be Félicité because she will bring happiness. Félicité, my daughter, I love you. I love you so much.”

  Ém—Félicité woke up in Pierre’s bed and sat up so fast that the movement sent a stab of pain throughout her side. She groaned, holding her ribs. As the sting subsided, she remembered the dream. Even though it baffled her and seemed so far-fetched, she knew without a doubt she was the baby in the dream. Her father, with her late mother’s help, named her Félicité.

  My name is Félicité. I remembered my name. Somehow and I don’t know how, I dreamed about my birth. I watched my mother die to give me life, and my father loved me so much.

  A rush of sweet warmth flooded Félicité for having remembered something about her past. The heaviness in her mind and heart seeped free from her as though it pushed itself from all of her pores. She knew that eventually everything—her memories and knowledge—would come back.

  She ached for Pierre and Hélène to know her name. As fast as her legs could carry her, she sped into the living room. Pierre was sound asleep, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that followed his thunderous snores. He was so loud she found it difficult to remember why she had come to see him. However, she couldn’t bear to wake him.

  She observed that the light shining through the gap of the curtains came from only the moon. It must be the middle of the night. It was difficult for her to believe that she had slept all day and into the night.

  Gazing at Pierre, she noted how handsome he was even in his thunderous slumber. She wanted to touch his skin and the rough stubble of hair growth on his face. His hand that fell from the couch beckoned her to him. She resisted the urge to take it into hers, feel it, relish its rough texture, and press it to her face. Again, she felt as if she had known him for a long time.

  Should she wake him to hear his welcoming, deep and vibrating voice?

  No, she thought as her euphoria faded. All that was left was a lump in her throat.

  Her happy news would have to wait until morning. With one last look at the most kind-natured and loving person in the world, she shuffled her feet back to bed. However, before she fell asleep, she di
stinctly heard her father’s voice in the room telling her, “Félicité, my daughter, I love you. I love you so much.”

  She bounded out of bed like an animal pouncing on its prey and flipped the light switch. Scanning the room, she saw no one in there. She was alone.

  Hélène Rousseaux

  A light tap on Pierre’s shoulder woke him up. Instantly, he wanted to see Ém, but as he turned, he only saw his mom’s small, round face. He let out a disappointed growl and rolled over on his side, smothering his head with the pillow to escape from the blaring light that poured into the room.

  “I’m happy to see you, too,” Hélène said, her voice lathered with sarcasm.

  “Sorry, just wasn’t expecting you.” After saying those words, he regretted it. He knew his cover was up.

  “You like her, don’t you?” She picked up his legs with considerable effort until he sat up to make room for her.

  “I can’t keep anything from you, can I?” He nudged her in the ribs, making her giggle. He had tried his whole life to make her laugh since it was so difficult for her to be happy because of her depression.

  “You’ve never been good at hiding things from me. Like that time you brought a rat you caught on the street home as a pet.”

  He laughed at the thought. “After smuggling it in and putting its cage under my bed, it took you only three hours to smell it out.”

  “That was the end of your pet days. But Ém’s a different story.”

  “I promised you that I wouldn’t fall for her . . . And I haven’t. I just think she’s pretty. I’m a guy, can’t help noticing, ya know. Even Luc thinks so.” He imagined taking a punch at Luc if he ever tried anything. “Anyway, she’s only here until her memory comes back. She’ll be out of my life soon.”

  “If you say so.” She nudged him back, but it didn’t have the same effect as when he did the same thing to her.

  Pierre stood and stretched his arms to the ceiling, yawning deeply.

  “What in the world? Put some clothes on. What if Ém came out right now?” She threw the blanket at him. He wore only his boxers.

  “I couldn’t get into the bedroom to get pajamas. She was asleep.” He never slept in pajamas, anyway, always in his boxers. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. “I can’t believe she’s been asleep for over a day.”

  “I think it’s a good thing she’s been sleeping so much. Her body needs to recuperate after all she’s been through.”

  Pierre tilted his head, studying his mom. Her tone sounded so motherly. Ém had gained his mom’s admiration already. For some reason, her being with them had made his mom look younger and happier—angelic.

  “I think you like her.” Pierre squinted at his mom.

  “Maybe a little bit, like a friend. But you like her more. I can tell.”

  “I’ve only known her for, what, five days and have hardly seen her the whole time. Was at school, remember? You’ve spent more time with her than I have.”

  Hélène stood and started picking up the clothes he had tossed on the floor last night, most likely as a hint for him to put them on.

  “Then what is it, Mom?”

  “I like to see you happy. You’ve never been interested in a girl before—at least to my knowledge. You’ve always said you would never date or, heaven forbid, get married. And I understand why, but you can’t let that get in the way of your happiness. Live your life, Pierre, regardless of what might happen.” She was in the kitchen now brewing some coffee. The smell of the beans wafted over to him; it smelled delicious.

  “If it isn’t my lack of dating, it’s about going to university,” he huffed. “I don’t want either.”

  She snorted back at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’ll change your mind in time. But attending university is different. I want you to go, regardless. You’re so smart, Pierre.”

  “I swear, I’ll fail le bac just to get out of going.”

  “You better not. I’ll never talk to you again if you do that.” She sniffled.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. I wouldn’t fail le bac. You know that, right?”

  Coughing some cries back, she responded, “I know. I would hate to see you go into law enforcement just to solve your dad’s murder; if that’s what you want, great, but don’t do it out of some obligation to your dead father.” Her eyes drifted to the photo of her and her husband on their wedding day. A frown filled her cheeks. “You don’t have to be a police lieutenant. You could be anything. Anything, Pierre.”

  “I know, but I want to be a police lieutenant. Please, accept this for once. I do want to solve dad’s case, but I also want to help people, too.”

  She said nothing, only approached her son, and he hugged her.

  “Love ya, Mom.”

  “Love you, too. Just don’t break my heart by saying terrible things like failing when you very well could pass the test with a perfect score. Your dad would be so proud of you.”

  Pierre swallowed the hard lump in his throat. That was the first time he had ever heard his mom say his father would be proud of him. Having always wanted a fatherly figure to be pleased with him, he finally felt it through his mom’s sweet words.

  “That means so much to me.” Backing away, he kissed his mom on the forehead.

  “I’m proud of you, too.”

  “I’ve always known that.” He shuffled his feet back and forth, wanting to change the subject. “Okay, serious moment over. How can I make you laugh, now?” He ruffled her hair. She leaned away from him to get away from his hand and then brushed her hair flat.

  “I’m going out with Madame Rose today,” she said, obviously avoiding his comment. Hélène filled two mugs full of piping hot coffee, handing one to Pierre. “A whole day of just you and Ém together.” She winked. “What’re your plans?”

  “Don’t have any plans. She’ll probably be bored out of her mind. I’m not too entertaining according to Luc.” He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair.

  “You would believe something Luc said?” She smirked at him, giggling. She ran her finger over the lip of her coffee mug.

  “See, I made you laugh.” He cracked a smile. “Yeah, I’d never believe something he said.”

  They joked about Luc and all the absurd things he had done over the years. They laughed so hard once they worried they had woken up Ém. Their eyes zipped to the bedroom door, but it didn’t open. Both of them sighed in relief.

  Soon Hélène left, leaving him alone with Ém in the other room. He lay back down on the couch and fell asleep. Of course, his last thought was of Ém. He saw her beautiful face in his mind and felt a smile curve on his face.

  Name

  Félicité shook Pierre’s shoulder to wake him up. She had been trying for several minutes, but he was sound asleep, not snoring anymore, thankfully. Suddenly, he rolled over, waking up, and the blanket fell to the floor, uncovering him in his underwear. His brown eyes opened and closed rapidly. He rubbed at them and yawned. She looked away, shocked at seeing him so exposed.

  “Hi.” Pierre stood up like a flash, half smiling. Félicité stared at him again and was unable to keep her eyes from searching his chiseled chest, his tight abdomen. Little, if no hair grew on his chest. His appearance made heat-filled butterflies form in her stomach and up her throat. Pierre followed her eyes as she gazed at his body. Her face burned hot from knowing he had witnessed her blatant gawking. She glanced away.

  “Oh, sorry, let me put on some clothes,” he stammered, fumbling for his clothes folded on the arm of the couch.

  Even without looking at him, she was afraid she would never forget how he looked without a shirt. Her heart sped up and the twirling in her belly intensified.

  Stop thinking about him, Félicité.

  She smiled from thinking about not thinking about him. Then it dawned on her that she had referred to herself by her given name. And suddenly, all thoughts of Pierre in all his handsome, half-naked glory zoomed away. Giddiness rushed through her body until sh
e bounced on the balls of her feet, unable to hold in her gushing emotions. Her hands almost started clapping in excitement.

  “I’m dressed now.” Félicité turned around. He looked at her strangely, a sheepish grin on his face.

  Is he embarrassed? But she hoped he was admiring her.

  “What gives, Ém? You look like you’re about to explode.”

  “I remembered my name. Well, my first name, but that is progress.” Now, she was clapping and smiling and laughing all at the same time.

  “That’s great! I’m dying here. What is it?”

  “Félicité. Félicité. Félicité.” Without thinking, she jumped into Pierre’s arms. He held her tight.

  “How did you remember? Did it just come to you out of the blue?” Pierre led her to the couch.

  Félicité told him the particulars of her dream, excluding her mother’s influence in naming her—that was too special. With reverence, she related part of the dream where she remembered her name. “My father looked into my eyes, and he said, ‘Her name will be Félicité because she will bring happiness.’ Pierre, my name is Félicité. I remembered my name. I am Félicité.”

  “That’s amazing, Ém—Félicité.” He corrected himself while scrutinizing her face. He nodded as if accepting something. “Yep, it fits you better than Ém. Glad I know your real name now. That’s something to be happy about, right?”

  “Yes and no.” Her shoulders slumped. “It’s sad that my mother died. I feel as though I would have liked to have known her.”

  “Yeah, that’s hard. I understand completely. But at least we had another parent who loved us.” Looking at the wall, he seemed to drift into a different world. He laughed, his shoulders shaking up and down.