The Forgotten Daughter

by Joanna Goodman

  He tugs on the door handle to make sure it’s locked, and then, before she can muster the wherewithal to flee, he turns around and their eyes lock.

  “Véronique?”

  She doesn’t move. She can’t. Her feet are cemented to the sidewalk.

  “V? What the hell?” He comes toward her. “What are you doing here?” he asks her. “How did you know I’d be here?” Is his tone hopeful?

  She doesn’t say anything. Can’t find her voice to speak. Can he see that her whole body is shaking?

  “Did Sarah tell you I was here?” he asks her.

  Sarah.

  “Véronique, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” He takes another step toward her and she backs up. “V, why are you acting so strange? Say something.”

  What can she say? In all the scenarios she played out with Louis, not one of them included bumping into James outside his office.

  “V, it’s two o’clock in the morning. What are you doing here?”

  What the hell are you doing here? she almost screams.

  She has to remind herself she hasn’t done anything wrong. She has not been caught. He doesn’t know there are two bombs in her bag. He probably assumes she’s just here to talk.

  “V? Why are you here?” he asks again, softening his tone, speaking to her like she’s a lost child.

  “It was a mistake,” she manages, her voice coming out small and strange. The bombs feel heavy on her back, weighing her down. What if he can smell the gasoline?

  “Do you want to talk, V?”

  It slowly begins to sink in. Had she arrived ten minutes earlier, she would have killed him. James would be dead.

  “What was a mistake?” he presses.

  “Coming here.”

  “Why did you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “V, what’s wrong?”

  “I have to go,” she says, crossing the street, backing away from him.

  “Véronique, wait!”

  She ignores him, turns, and quickens her pace. Going in the opposite direction of where Louis is parked. I almost killed James. That’s all she can think about right now.

  “Do you need a lift?” he calls after her.

  She’s jogging now, aware only of the sound of the bottles rattling, her boots hitting pavement, her breath coming in short, loud puffs. The smell of gasoline is burning her nostrils. She’s worried the rags will slip out and the gasoline will spill in her bag.

  When she’s a few blocks away and she’s sure James hasn’t followed her, she slows down. She’s heading west now, toward Griffintown. She keeps walking. Don’t stop, don’t stop.

  What if he got in his car and decided to follow her? She spins around, looking for his car. Doesn’t see him. Whatever she does, she can’t go back to Louis.

  She pulls her phone out of the zippered pouch of the backpack and tries to call him. Her hands are trembling so violently, she keeps punching the wrong numbers. “Tabarnak,” she mutters, on the verge of tears. She stops walking and takes a deep breath, tries again.

  “Allo.”

  “Louis?”

  “Did you do it?”

  “He was there!” she cries, her voice tipping on hysteria.

  “Who was there?”

  “James! I was about to throw the bomb and then he came out of the building—”

  “At two o’clock in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you didn’t do it?”

  It takes Véronique a few seconds to comprehend the question. “Are you serious?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Louis. I’m not a murderer.”

  “Of course not,” he says. “I guess we can’t do the CNA tonight.”

  “No, we can’t do it tonight. We can’t do it ever. He’ll know it’s me!”

  “We can hit another target then. I’ve got a list. But we should do it right now—”

  “I almost just killed my ex-boyfriend!” she cries. “I’m a little messed up.”

  “Just come back and we’ll talk about it. Where are you?”

  “I’m walking. I need to clear my head. I’ll meet you at home.”

  “Walking where?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just go home.”

  Louis sighs, and she can hear the disappointment in that sigh. He wants to bomb something. He doesn’t care what.

  “Louis,” she says, “would you have done it? If James had walked out of the building and you’d been the one there with the bomb?”

  “Of course not.”

  She isn’t sure she believes him. There’s a part of her that thinks he would have done it. He’s out for destruction tonight. She’s not even certain it has anything to do with their cause anymore. His anger feels like a separate thing: a dark, self-sufficient entity that would exist with or without the French-Language Protection Brigade.

  She does not want to become like him. And yet, even as she has that thought, she realizes it’s already true. It is exactly who she’s become.

  She follows Notre Dame Street to Mountain Street, and then turns onto Rue du Séminaire, which she knows will take her straight to the Lachine Canal. She’s walking with purpose now; she has a plan. Just get to the water.

  As her legs carry her forward, the same refrain reverberates in her head: You almost killed James. You almost killed the man you love.

  She wipes tears off her face. The smell of gasoline is in her hair, her clothes. What’s happened to her? Did she really mean to turn out exactly like her father? Maybe that was always her goal.

  She wonders if young Léo was like Louis—blowing shit up and destroying lives out of pure rage. What if Léo’s cause was never a noble channel for his political anger, but merely an excuse to wreak havoc on the world and unload his own shame and self-loathing?

  When she reaches the water, the first thing she does is rip the backpack off and drop it on the ground. She stares bleakly out across the flowing canal at the old red brick metallurgy factory. It’s after three. Her phone vibrates. Louis must be wondering where she is.

  She ignores him. Bends down to unzip the backpack and takes out the two bombs. She removes the rags, which are soaked in gasoline, and tosses them into the water. She watches as they get carried off toward the St. Lawrence River. Funny she should find herself here now, throwing the empty bottles into the canal rather than into the Canadian News Agency’s front window.

  Going back to Louis’s apartment is not an option. Being with him equally so. She knows it’s over. She’s very close to Elodie’s apartment, so she walks along the pedestrian path in the direction of Pointe St. Charles, about fifteen minutes away. The smell of gasoline is still making her sick, so she pitches her backpack into the woods, getting rid of it once and for all.

  Véronique waits until morning on Elodie’s front steps. As the sky begins to lighten, a palette of diffused yellows, oranges, and pinks fans out from the most glorious tangerine sun. It seems to open up above her as it rises, like the palm of a hand, releasing a flood of golden light. She barely hears the door open behind her.

  “Véronique?”

  She turns around and Elodie is standing in the doorway, wearing a white nightgown with an eyelet trim. “What are you doing here?”

  “Watching the sunrise.”

  Elodie sits down beside her, and they survey the pastel horizon together.

  “You’re up early,” Véronique says.

  “I never sleep past sunrise. It’s my favorite time of day.”

  “It’s peaceful.”

  “It is,” Elodie says. “I put some coffee on. Should I bring you a cup?”

  “Yes. Please. Black.”

  Elodie returns a few minutes later with two mugs of coffee. She hands one to Véronique and sits back down on the concrete step. “You smell like gasoline,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “What’s going on?”

  Véronique lowers her eyes. I almost killed your brother.

  “And what are you doing on my doorstep at five
o’clock in the morning?”

  “I did something last night,” Véronique says, not meeting Elodie’s gaze. “Well, I almost did something.” She takes a sip of coffee. It’s strong, hearty. “Louis and I, we built a gasoline bomb.”

  Elodie swears under her breath.

  “I was supposed to detonate it last night, but . . .”

  Her voice trails off. She can’t tell Elodie the truth about what happened. She can’t bear the thought of not being forgiven by her. “I couldn’t go through with it,” she says.

  “Thank God.”

  “We weren’t going to hurt anybody.”

  “What were you going to bomb?”

  “It doesn’t matter. An English business.”

  “You mean you and Louis . . . ? The clothing store and the coffee shop?”

  Véronique nods.

  “Holy shit,” Elodie says, taking a long haul off her cigarette. “This was Louis’s idea, I assume?”

  “Sort of. He started it with the coffee shop, but I wanted to do it, too. I helped him build the clothing store bomb.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just so tired of losing,” Véronique says. “We just can’t ever seem to get ahead.”

  “There are other ways to fight.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t think violence is the answer. I don’t think it satisfies the way you think it will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It didn’t work for your father, did it?”

  “Your way doesn’t work either,” Véronique points out. “You’ve been fighting in the courts for years, and where’s it gotten you? You’ve been patient, tireless. And for what, Elo? Your criminal suit was dismissed, your civil suit is still languishing. You’ve never had any acknowledgment from the nuns or the government, let alone an apology. You haven’t received a penny.”

  “And what should I have done instead? Bombed a church or a hospital?”

  “Maybe. You might feel better.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I grew up with more violence than I ever care to witness again.”

  “Well, that’s you, Elodie. You’re a better person than I am.”

  Elodie reaches out with her free hand to cup Véronique under the chin. “That’s not true,” she says, her tone imploring. “Do you hear me? This may be who Louis is—maybe even your father—but it’s not who you are.”

  39

  JULY 1997

  When his alarm goes off in the morning, James quickly slaps it off and checks to make sure Sarah is still asleep. He’s not in the mood for another conversation about how late he’s been working or how much time he’s been spending on the book. He got home at around three in the morning and did his damn best not to wake her. He grabbed a beer from the kitchen and drank it standing at the counter to calm his nerves. Upstairs, he stripped down to his boxers and quietly slipped into bed.

  “It’s almost three,” Sarah said, her voice shooting out of the dark, startling him.

  “I finished the first part of my book tonight.”

  She didn’t say anything. Her back was to him. He didn’t mention seeing Véronique. Sarah must have told her where to find him, but she didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t probe.

  “I’m sorry it’s so late,” he murmured.

  Silence.

  He rolled over, turning away from her. Still reeling from the shock of seeing Véronique.

  Sarah let out a soft whimper. He looked over, and her back was quivering. She was crying. He knew that she wanted to be held and reassured. He didn’t move, though, just pretended to sleep.

  He showers and dresses quickly, tiptoeing around the room. Downstairs, he chugs orange juice from the carton and scribbles a note for Sarah: Gone to Cowansville to see my mom. Back tomorrow.

  In the car, he leaves a message for Damian. Working from home today. And then he takes off, eager to get his manuscript into his mother’s hands, and to get away from Sarah.

  He thinks about Véronique the entire drive. How she looked, how she smelled (faintly of gasoline?). The moment he saw her standing there, he wanted to pull her into his arms. Let’s be honest, he wanted to take her into the alley and have sex with her against the side of the building.

  Beyond that, he still wants to rescue her. She looked scared, agitated. She was withholding something—he could tell immediately. He wondered if it had to do with Louis. She took off before he could ask.

  Does she miss him? Want him back? His head is swimming with unanswered questions. Should he call her?

  He stops at one of the stands on the side of Route 139 and picks up two dozen ears of corn. It’s the end of July—not quite peak season, but they’ll be good enough. He tosses the paper bags into the passenger seat, missing his father. He always feels like a traitor, buying corn from another farm. Gabriel’s was the best in the region, his pride and joy.

  James decides to stop at the cemetery.

  “Salut, Pa,” he says, sitting down on the ground in front of Gabriel’s headstone. The sun feels good on his bare arms, the back of his neck. The air is filled with the scent of peonies, one of his mother’s favorites. What would his father say to him right now?

  Don’t settle. Love is too goddamn precious.

  His father believed in that kind of once-in-a-lifetime love. He liked the idea of having a soul mate. He’d found his, after all. It made him sentimental.

  Not everyone is so fortunate. Then again, James did find the love of his life, but he screwed her over and lost her to a total loser, so it’s not really misfortune so much as egregious buffoonery. They probably wouldn’t have made it anyway. You can’t love someone without accepting who they are. Maybe the person you want to change that much isn’t really the person for you.

  Which leaves him with Sarah, who has always felt to him like the consolation prize. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so black and white. Maybe there’s another woman out there for him. Still, he hasn’t been free of Véronique for a single moment since he saw her last night. She’s infiltrated his head, his body. And she’s not happy either—that was obvious. She was there last night for a reason. Why? What was that expression in her eyes? What do I do, Pa?

  A plea. A prayer.

  When he gets to his mother’s house, he finds Stephanie at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a bowl of strawberries. She’s wearing a T-shirt and nothing else, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head. She still looks about eighteen, nothing close to her actual age, which is twenty-six. Maybe all older brothers feel that way about their baby sisters. Or maybe it’s because she still acts like a teenager—living at home, working for her mom, partying with friends on the weekend. Aimless.

  “What’re you doing here on a Monday?” she asks him.

  “I finished the first part of my manuscript,” he says, placing it on the table. “I want Mom to read it.”

  “Born in Sin,” she reads, her lips stained red. “Congratulations. Has Elodie read it?”

  “No. First I need Mom to make sure it’s okay.”

  “Do you think it’ll get published?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still at the beginning. I’ve only written up to where Mom gave her away.”

  “Mom didn’t give her away,” Stephanie says defensively. “Our grandfather did.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t get why you want to tell Elodie’s life story. Isn’t it going to be horribly depressing?”

  “It’s an important story,” he says. “It has to be told, and I want to be the one to do it.”

  “But she’s your sister,” Stephanie says. “It’s not like she’s a stranger. We already know enough about what she went through. Why put yourself through that?”

  “Because it’s my job.”

  “And you’re fine with the whole world knowing our family history?” she says. “Mom’s fine with it?”

  “The ‘whole world’ is a stre
tch,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot his mother must have put on this morning. It’s still warm. “And yes, Mom wants Elodie’s story out there as much as Elodie and I do.”

  “Well, for the record, I don’t.”

  “Noted.”

  Stephanie pops a strawberry in her mouth. “Where’s Sarah?” she asks him.

  “Home.”

  “Why didn’t she come today?”

  “She had plans,” he says irritably. “We don’t have to do everything together, do we?”

  “It was just a question.”

  “Why aren’t you at work?” he asks her.

  “Monday’s my day off.”

  “Mom lets you have a day off?”

  “Sunday and Monday. I had to campaign for two days off in a row.”

  “Let’s go to Douglass Beach,” he says, suddenly inspired. “We haven’t been in years.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. It’s gorgeous out. You could use some sun.”

  She frowns, examining her arms. She is quite pale; it looks as though she hasn’t been outdoors all summer. She probably hasn’t. She’s always been a homebody, preferring TV to nature.

  “Go put on a bathing suit,” he tells her. “We’re going.”

  Maggie is waiting for them at the kitchen table when they get back. “You guys are burnt to a crisp!” she says. “Where have you been?”

  “Douglass Beach.”

  “Did you use sunscreen?”

  James’s manuscript pages are stacked in a neat pile on the table in front of Maggie. “I’m done with the first part,” he tells her. “I want you to read it.”

  “It has the makings of a masterpiece, James. The writing is exquisite.”

  “You’ve already read it?”

  “I just finished.”

  He sits down at the table.

  “I’m going to shower,” Stephanie says, disappearing.

  “James,” Maggie says, “it’s excellent.”

  “Really? You’re okay with the material?”

  “Of course. It’s all true. It has to be told.”

  “Anything you’d change?”

  “I made some notes,” she says. “But it’s very poignant. The hard part will be Elodie’s story.”