by Julia King
“Lieutenant, I don’t know how I can move on. Will the sun ever shine for me, for us again?” She looked at her husband, chin trembling. The man took her hand in his. “I’m angry at that villainous man for doing this to our daughter. She was only walking home from a friend’s house and was almost home for dinner. She’s such a good girl—talented at so many things and so smart. She didn’t deserve to die when she had so much to live for. Oh, Lieutenant what are we to do? She is . . . was our only child.” She fell into her husband’s arms, tears welling up in her eyes. “Oh, dear, what are we going to do?”
Pierre could tell that her husband had tried his hardest to be strong for his wife, but he was clearly at breaking point. Choking tears back, he responded, “My love, somehow we will make it through this. I don’t know how, but we will. I miss her . . . I miss her, too.” They both were crying now. Pierre engulfed them in his arms.
Minutes later they sniffed away their tears and then Monsieur Thomas spoke, leaning away from Pierre but still holding his wife. “Lieutenant, thank you for letting us grieve. Sometimes all that matters is knowing that someone cares.” He and his wife backed away and sat down, still embraced in each other’s arms.
Pierre stood still, stomach twisting in knots for the couple. He prayed they would make it through this terrible ordeal. Luc’s tapping on his shoulder interrupted his heartfelt prayer.
“Hey, thanks for talking to them. It seemed to help. I could never have done what you just did for them.”
“It was the least I could do,” Pierre said, his emotions running high.
“I assume the doctor gave you the all clear,” Luc asked, changing the subject.
“As good as new.” He tapped on his head. “Let’s go give our statements.”
“Okay, but one thing.” Luc tripped as they walked. “How are you holding up lately?” Luc caught himself before he face planted on the floor. “I haven’t asked you in a while. What happened tonight made me worried.” He slipped again. “What the . . . Can I even walk today. I might be the next Lieutenant at the hospital. I can see it now: ‘The Embarrassment of the Department, Luc Broussard, Injured While on Duty—He Tripped.”
“Uh,” Pierre said, nodding down at Luc’s feet. “You may want to tie your shoe.”
“Oh,” Luc said with a sheepish grin. He bent down and tied it. “You’re avoiding my question, man.”
“I have a lot to think about. A lot to think about.”
A Promise Kept
The metro wouldn’t offer the fresh air he needed right now, so Pierre walked home. But what he truly needed right now was Félicité Moreau. How could he have been so harsh to her? She told him the truth; that had to count for something. Plus, she was trying to make her past mistakes right. He couldn’t hold that against her, right? At that moment, he knew she was more important than anything she had done in her past.
He remembered his mother’s words: “You must understand that all of us have a past, but it’s what we do with our future that is the measurement of one’s character.” He contemplated her wisdom by rubbing his chin.
Unconsciously, he made his way toward Pont Neuf. After some time and a lot of thought, he knew where his legs had led him—where his life truly had begun. Where Félicité fell into it, and the place where his own ancestor had brutally murdered her so long ago.
He continued walking until he found himself at the place where she had jumped and had been forced to an early death. He touched the stone with one hand and raked the other through his hair, practically pulling it all out.
He no longer associated Félicité with the evil things she had done to his family, now. He only thought of her as a strong person. It had to have been extremely difficult for her to be honest with him.
Félicité, like the meaning of her name, had brought happiness into his life for a short five weeks. The only thing he could think of was her well-being and happiness. His world fell completely and utterly in focus on one thing: a beautiful girl named Félicité.
He started running, pumping his arms and legs faster than he ever had. He had to talk to Madame Rose. Now!
His cute, surrogate grandmother appeared at her door after he hammered on it multiple times.
Breathing hard and with sweat beaded on his forehead, he said, “Madame Rose, I have to ask you something so important. You have to tell me where Félicité is. I need to talk to her.”
She shook her head and huffed out a long breath, clasping her hand over her chest. “You scared me to death, Pierre.”
“I have to talk to Félicité right now!”
As if finally registering his demand, Madame Rose sighed, saying with finality, “No.”
“Why?” He didn’t understand why after all this time Madame Rose wouldn’t tell him where to find the girl he loved.
“I would tell you, but I must honor Félicité’s request never to tell you her whereabouts. However, I will call her right now and see if she would like to talk to you,” Madame Rose said with hope beaming in her eyes.
She stood in front of the phone. Obviously, she didn’t want Pierre to see the number as she turned the dial. He hoped he would’ve been able to memorize the number, so he could call Félicité later. Madame Rose knew him too well to be fooled.
“Hello, this is Madame Rose.” Pause. “It was good to see you last night.” Pause. “You played very well, and you thought you wouldn’t win at all. You’re a natural. But Félicité . . .”
Pierre leaned forward wanting to snatch the phone out of her hand. He resisted the powerful urge pumping hard in his arms by sitting on his hands.
“I have Pierre here, and he wants to talk to you.” A long pause. “All right.” She shrugged. “I’ll tell him.” Pause. “I love you, too. Bye.”
Madame Rose sat and crossed her skinny legs. “Félicité doesn’t think it’s a good idea to talk to you. I’m sorry, Pierre.” She folded her arms across her chest, signifying she wouldn’t tell him anything more.
“I understand.” Pierre wilted like a flower into the couch and stared at the ceiling. He was almost certain he would have seen Félicité today. His heart swelled with the pain of knowing he wouldn’t be with her today and touch her hair or skin. Or, he may never see her again. He left the comforts of Madame Roses’ flat with his head hanging low. He went home to his own flat that he had moved into a year ago and wondered how he was going to live without Félicité.
He would do everything he could possibly do to find her. For weeks on end, when he wasn’t working, he scoured the streets of Paris showing everyone her photo, but with no success. He didn’t find a single person who had seen her. He even thought about following Madame Rose’s every move until he found Félicité. The little woman would never trust him again, so he resisted that sneaky method.
With summertime on its way and the weather warming up, he found himself walking up and down Pont Neuf for hours and hours after work, eagerly scanning the bridge in hopes he would see her there.
He never did.
But Félicité saw him.
What was Lost, Now is Found
The elderly woman Félicité had been working for the past two years, Madame Margaret Richard, had passed away in her sleep eight months before. Félicité had a difficult time with the loss because she had become extremely fond of the woman. But the woman’s health deteriorated so much that death had been the most merciful thing to happen.
Weeks after the funeral, Félicité was surprised to find out that Madame Margaret had willed all of her possessions to her. Félicité had become like a daughter to the elderly woman.
Over the past eight months, with the help of Madame Rose, Félicité had put most of the money into starting a shelter for abused women. It offered them a place to live while they got back on their feet. She thought it would help her to gain penance for her sins. But more importantly to offer much needed assistance to women who were in the situation she once had been in. She spent hours listening with empathy to their problems and sorrows.
One evening after returning home to Madame Margaret’s flat, she sat out on the miniature terrace sipping some coffee. No matter how hard she had tried to sell the home, she couldn’t. There were too many treasured memories here with Madame Margaret. The sweet woman had helped her to become happier within the walls of their home—now, her home.
She offered Madame Rose the opportunity to move in with her, but it was declined for obvious reasons. The little woman juggled being a part of Félicité’s and the Rousseaux’s lives. And she did it with grace, loving all three individuals the same.
Watching the sun go down over the tops of the buildings around her, she gazed at Pont Neuf. For a long time, the bridge had caused guilt to stain her heart because it was so close to her home. But now, it stood out as a symbol of helping others get out of situations she had once been in.
All of a sudden, she noticed someone familiar pacing the bridge. He stopped where she had died. Squinting down at the person, she knew exactly who it was: Pierre Rousseaux. He scanned the bridge back and forth as if searching for someone.
She stood so abruptly that her cup of coffee fell on her lap. The scalding heat on her legs made her gasp and look away. She ran inside to change. In her room, she threw off the skirt, wiped off her red and stinging legs with a towel from the bathroom, and grabbed the first thing she could find to clothe her semi-nakedness. Running back to the terrace, she peered at the bridge, but he was no longer there or anywhere to be seen on the bridge. Had she just imagined him there?
She decided to be on the terrace at the same time the next day. He was there again and every day for weeks after that. She never went to see him, though—it was too hard for her. Still thinking it best for her to stay out of the Rousseaux’s lives, she only looked at him with a stabbing pain in her heart. Perhaps, the agony she felt would be an additional way to gain forgiveness of her sins.
But, one evening, she didn’t see him.
Where is he? Has he given up. Oh, no! I lost my chance.
She ran out of her home desperate to find him somewhere on the bridge. Twisting down the three flights of stairs, she sprinted straight to Pont Neuf. Her heart beat double-time by the time she finally made it to where she had died. She scanned the faces of those crossing the bridge but did not see him. He wasn’t coming.
I should have gone to him the first time I saw him, she berated herself. He gave up because I was too stubborn.
She trudged up and down the bridge for a full hour, flicking her eyes through the many people’s faces, but never saw him. Turning around, she walked home with her shoulders slumped. Tears splashed from her eyes. Moisture flooded from her nose; she rubbed it away with her sleeve.
Not paying attention, she tripped on a loose cobblestone and fell into the oncoming traffic. In slow motion, she tried to stand to get out of the way of a car that barreled its way toward her, but she wasn’t fast enough. The car hit her. She fell until her head crashed onto the road, losing consciousness right as she saw the owner of the car hovering over her with his cell phone to his ear.
Something tugged blissfully at Félicité’s aching belly until she felt light, no longer burdened by the heavy weight of her body. She saw a bright, majestic light as her soul rose from her body. Warmth swept over her until she yearned for it to engulf her completely. This time she would walk into the light with her head held high.
Suddenly, worry flashed through her bodiless form. She thought back on the years of her second life. Had she done enough to be worthy to go into the light? And there was Pierre. She still loved him with all of her heart. Would he miss her? With absolute certainty, she knew she would miss him.
Looking back at her lifeless body for a moment, she knew it was too late. She was dead—again. She turned toward the light and walked toward it with hope that she had done enough to have the sweet peace of its rays. That the warmth would flood over her until she was back with her father and mother.
Why Her?
Pierre drove the patrol car while Luc slapped his hands on his legs. He recently took up playing the drums and wanted all the practice he could get. Nerves tightened in Pierre’s jaw to the point where he wanted to handcuff Luc’s hands to the car’s armrest. And irritation itched annoyingly at his mind that they had to work a double shift today. A couple of the lieutenants were sick. He took a sip of his coffee to keep him awake for the night.
Drifting off into his thoughts, he reminisced about yesterday’s visit to the bridge and how it had made him lose all hope of ever being with Félicité again—ever touching her soft, blond locks of flowing hair, seeing her beautiful blue eyes, or holding her small body in his arms.
He wished Madame Rose would tell him where she was, but she wouldn’t break her promise. He felt guilty for constantly pressing her for information, but thought one day she would give in.
Still thinking about Félicité, a call came in on the radio about a girl being hit by a car on Pont Neuf. Within seconds, adrenaline kicked in. Pierre gunned the car and turned on the siren. All the while, Luc yelled for Pierre to slow down as the car weaved in and out of traffic like in an action movie. A couple minutes later, he had flown across town to the bridge. He skidded to a stop and jumped out of the car without turning off the engine. He left his friend behind with a stunned look on his face.
Pierre ran to the body and recognized her through the blood. It was Félicité. He knew it was her from the first word that blared through the police car’s radio.
He screamed after feeling no pulse. “Why her? Why was I not here to protect you?” Tears rushed from his eyes. “I love you, Félicité! Don’t you leave me, you hear? YOU. DO. NOT. LEAVE. ME!”
“Oh, man, it’s Félicité, isn’t it?” Luc knelt at Pierre’s side. “We have to do CPR. We can save her, Pierre.” Luc started doing compressions, and Pierre would breathe into her mouth. Laboriously, they kept at the pattern as perspiration clothed them both in sweat.
“Come on, Félicité,” Pierre groaned out between breathes. “You don’t leave me.”
“Man, I am sorry,” Luc choked out. “We’ve done all we can do. She’s gone, Pierre.”
Pierre slugged Luc in the arm and screamed, “Don’t you dare, Luc. She’s in there. I know it.”
Arms tense and teeth digging into his lips, Pierre pushed Luc out of the way and started crushing pressure on the love of his life’s chest. Pressing his lips on hers, he puffed all the air in his lungs into her mouth. Within minutes, Félicité’s face turned blue, and her body stiffened as more blood gushed out of her wounds.
Luc wrapped his arms around Pierre, pulling him away from the bloody mess of a girl on the ground. “Man, she . . . she’s gone. She’s gone, Pierre. I’m so sorry.”
The two guys lay side-by-side on the cobblestoned road, breathing hard as if they had just run a full marathon. Pierre crawled over to Félicité after having gained some sense of control over his heightened emotions. Through heavy tears, he cradled her in his arms, rocking her back and forth.
Félicité gazed into the bright, magnificent light ahead of her. But her attention turned away from the light when she saw a police car recklessly driving toward Pont Neuf. It slid to an abrupt stop, and a lieutenant jumped out of the car in a dead run. It took her a moment to recognize him—it was Pierre. He slumped to her lifeless side and pressed his fingers to her neck. He screamed out so loud it stung her to the core.
She wanted to reach out and console him, but she couldn’t do that. It was her time to go into the light. Whispering in his ear, she said, “I love you and always will, Pierre Rousseaux.”
He had become a police lieutenant, she thought, a smile forming on her face.
She heard the other lieutenant say they were going to save her. But she knew it was too late. She should’ve gone into the light years ago, but today she would choose the light, not the dark. Turning away from the scene, she continued to walk, her head held high.
Two figures came out of the light and glided toward her. She rec
ognized one of them almost immediately: her papa. Peace embraced her soul like thick syrup.
“Papa,” she whispered, paying no attention to the other person standing behind him.
“My dear, sweet girl, you have made me proud.” He smiled as he appraised his daughter. “Félicité, the light is not ready to greet you. Your mission is not yet fulfilled.” He pressed his palm against her cheek—warmth spread from her face to neck and then deep into her limbs. “When I died, I never found you. I wanted to know what had become of my daughter. From that day forth, I hoped that one day your heart would soften. Pierre helped that to happen. When you decided to forsake your sinful ways, I came to you. Through the process of remembering your identity, I helped you to remember events from your past, mainly your birth. Most of the other memories, you remembered on your own.”
She nudged her way into his arms. But before she could get comfortable in his embrace, her father said, “Look back at your body, my daughter.” He pointed toward Pierre working systematically on her to resuscitate her back to life.
“He loves you and has forgiven you. You are meant to be with him. When Pierre and you are old, you’ll be able to come into the light and join me and your mother, Gabriella.” He gestured behind him. Félicité glimpsed a woman who looked remarkably similar to herself. “But for now I place you in the trusting hands and companionship of Monsieur Pierre Rousseaux.”
Her mother stepped forward. She had a look of excitement beaming on her face. “Félicité, my daughter, I love you. I’ve waited for this moment for so long. Oh, dear girl, you make me so happy.” She fell into her mother’s arms—it felt peacefully soft. Her mom affectionately ran the palm of her hand up and down Félicité’s back. “Over these many years, I have longed to embrace you and now I have. But, my Félicité, you are not meant to come to us yet. You are meant to share a long and happy life with Pierre.”