Felicite Found (3 page)

“Will her memory come back soon, Doctor DePaul?” Lieutenant Lambert asked. He shifted in his seat as though the chair was uncomfortable.

“If I were a psychologist, which I am not, I would diagnose her with post-traumatic stress disorder accompanied with amnesia,” he said while rolling a pen back and forth on the desk. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure that she will recover her memory with time—perhaps, in a couple days or weeks. By her present condition, her memories may come back with some difficulty.” He paused, looking at his computer monitor as he moved his mouse around, clicking it a few times.

“She should see someone as soon as possible to help her deal with these problems. This is a psychologist who specializes in such circumstances.” He scribbled a name and phone number on a piece of paper and then handed it to Lieutenant
LaRoche. “Do you know of any women’s shelters where she can stay at for the time being?”

A stabbing pain flashed through Pierre’s chest. The crushing sting of the girl leaving him sucked the air out of his lungs, making him light-headed.

“There are some good ones she can go to,” Lieutenant LaRoche responded, brushing a finger over his thick mustache.

“She can stay with us,” Pierre interjected without thinking about it. His heart beat double-time; it pulsed in his thumbs as he pounded his right hand on the desk, thinking it would show them that he was serious.

“Pierre,” Hélène snapped, pulling his hand away from the desk. “We don’t even know her. She could be . . . crazy.”

“I know this sounds weird, but I’m sure she’s okay.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” the two lieutenants offered at the same time. They looked at each other with their foreheads knitted into ripples like ocean waves.

“Maybe you should talk to her and see what
she
wants.” Pierre hoped she would say she wanted to stay with him.

Hélène shook her head, scratching her cheek. “I don’t like this, Pierre. But I trust you. I’ll meet her and see what I think. If it’s all right with the lieutenant’s and is what she wants, I’ll think about it.”

“I guess if it’s good with you, Madame Rousseaux, we’ll take this into consideration.”

They filed out of the office, and the lieutenants went to talk with the girl for a moment.

After they left the room, Hélène and Pierre entered. He was nervous, yet, anxious to get this hospital experience over with. Even though he knew, upon doctor’s orders, she had to stay for a couple more hours to make sure she was fine.

Oddly enough, all he wanted to do was take her home—cuddle in close to her, so she could have some peace away from her problems—whatever those were. But selfishly, a part of him wanted her all to himself. Being away from her was like being sawed in half, one grueling push and pull movement at a time. And to make it worse, he had no idea how to process these warm pulsating feelings that were mounting heavy in his chest. These possible romantic feelings drove his mind to feel heavy with fear; fear that he dreaded like death. With his families terrible past, he had decided not to get involved with anyone. He
couldn’t
give in, especially since he hardly knew her. And for that matter, she hardly knew herself.

“Pierre,” the girl said, with a slight smile drawing him close. “You did not leave. I thought you would go.” Her eyes darted to Hélène. A look of anxiety flashed across the girl’s face.

“Wasn’t even a possibility.” He kept his gaze anywhere but at his mom, so she wouldn’t say no to the girl coming home with them because he might like her. She would see right through him otherwise, no matter how hard he tried to keep an impassive expression upon his face. “Anyway, this is my mom, Hélène.” His mom moved forward, offering kisses on the girl’s cheeks. “She wants to meet you.”

“Mademoiselle, how are you doing?” She took one of the girl’s hands in hers. A couple tears fell from the girl’s eyes.

“I am sure I have been better, at least I hope so.” She wiped the tears away with her short, delicate fingers. “I am sorry for crying.”

“Oh, you’ve been through a lot. You can cry all you want.” Hélène patted the nameless girl’s thigh. “It was nice to meet you. Pierre, come outside for a minute.”

They stepped outside and closed the door. “I’ll agree to her staying with us under a few conditions: she gets your room, you sleep on the couch, and if she does anything that suggests she’s not a good person, she’s gone. I don’t particularly like this situation, but something in me says this is the right thing to do.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He hugged her, grinning with a new energy vibrating in his veins. It was as if he had met a kindred friend—one that he never wanted to lose. 

They talked to the lieutenants who agreed to the proposition under the condition that the girl would be taken away if she caused any problems.

“Go tell her. She would probably like to hear some good news right now.” Hélène nudged her son to the examination room.

Pierre knocked on the door. The girl’s sweet voice came through the door, saying, “Come in.” She lay on her side in the fetal position, massaging her side. Without knowing what to do, he sat on the chair beside her. Heart pounding from being in her presence, he wanted to hold her until she felt better but resisted.

“How you doing?”

“I am better now that you are here.” She reached out for his hand. He stood and went to her bedside. His large hand swallowed hers without difficulty as though her hand was a pearl resting inside an oyster. “Will I be able to go home with you?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the girl’s hand with his thumb. Her eyes beamed wide-eyed at the news. This was the first time she had shown any real sign of happiness. “You aren’t some crazy person are you?” He chuckled, feeling lightness rest upon his shoulders. But her eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry, really bad joke.”

“I am confused, Pierre. I do not know who I am or remember anything before you saved me.” She sat up and hugged him. There was no one else he ever wanted to be in his arms again, not that anyone had ever been there before. This thought startled him, making him withdraw from the embrace. She had grabbed his hand before he was out of reach, though.

“How can you trust me so much? Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy.”

“Perhaps, it is because you are the only person I remember in my life. I can trust someone who is here for me. In fact, I do not think you could ever be crazy, maybe crazy enough to jump into a river to save me.” She gestured to herself, a despondent frown etched upon her beautiful face. She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “Can we leave now?”

“You need to stay here for a little while longer to make sure you’re going to be okay.”

“Only if you do not leave me.”

“I’ll stay right here.” He stomped his foot and pointed to the floor. His lips curved up into a half-smile.

The thought came into his mind that she needed some kind of name until she remembered her own. It would get awkward always calling her “girl,” “you,” or “mademoiselle.” “Do you want a nickname or something until you remember who you are?”

“Maybe . . . It would make me feel more like a person, not a thing.”

“What should we call you, then?” He rubbed his chin and smirked to lighten the mood.

“You pick.”

After a minute of contemplation, he said, “How about Ém, short for Émilie, I guess?”

“That sounds nice. Hopefully my real name is just as pretty.”

“I’m sure it will be just as pretty as you.” She smiled and blushed pink in the process. Pierre’s cheeks flushed hot, and his palms became wet with sweat. He let go of Ém’s hand in order to wipe the moisture off onto his pant legs.

When Ém was cleared to go, Pierre asked, “You ready?” He moved toward the door, but she didn’t follow. “What’s wrong?”

“I have no shoes.” Her eyes darted down to her wiggling toes. Pierre didn’t even notice; a hollow pit formed in his stomach out of shame. He remembered wondering why she had no shoes on when he pulled her out of the water. The river current must have pulled them off her feet.

“I’ll see if the nurse has anything.” He held out the pink jacket. Pierre’s palms brushed her soft skin as her arms slid into the sleeves. He grinned as thunderous prickles of warmth spread up his fingertips and into his arms. When she turned around, he took in just how much better the jacket looked on her than it did on him. He chuckled inside at walking out of the bathroom with it on. The thought of Luc putting a life-sized cut-out of it at school made him queasy. And his best friend most likely would do it, too.

At the nurses’ desk, Pierre asked the same nurse from earlier if the hospital had any shoes for the girl to wear. She blushed and left, bringing back some flip-flops a few minutes later. “It’s all that I could find,” she said, not looking him in his eyes.

“No problem.” The nurse blended into the background of the hospital. No girl would capture his attention ever again. He bent over and slipped the flip-flops onto Ém’s feet like in the Cinderella story. The girl’s face wrinkled as she looked at the so-called shoes. It was mean to make her walk around with nothing to shield her feet from the cold.

“We’ll buy some proper ones on our way home, Mademoiselle,” Hélène assured her.

Ém nodded with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“Mom, we figured until she remembers her name, we’d use a nickname. I picked Ém.”

“What a good idea. Ém, we probably won’t need to call you that for long.” Hélène touched her arm reassuringly.

“I hope so.”

They purchased Ém’s medication, ointment for her neck, and some extra bandages at the pharmacy. Pierre glanced at her after placing the money on the desk. He noticed her studying the Euros that the Lieutenants had given them.

“I don’t recognize the currency.” She cocked her head to the left, fingering the bills.

Pierre draped his arm around her. He grabbed the change and put it in his jacket pocket and then led her toward the exit, pulling her closer to keep her warm. “Your memory will come back soon for sure.”

“You’ll remember before you know it,” Hélène said reassuringly.

Pierre caught his mom glance at his arm around Ém. The girl snuggled into his embrace as they approached the hospital doors. Despite what his mom thought, he kept his arm wrapped around her. He couldn’t resist. She was beautiful, or how Luc would describe her—hot. Yes, she was beautifully hot. A smile lit up his face.

Warm Welcome

Hélène and Pierre ushered Ém through the small foyer and into their living room. She took in the room and sighed. The décor was clothed in bright, orange paint and whimsical patterned wallpaper on one of the high, arching walls. Hélène had a few art pieces hung with professional precision on the walls. The flat was small but would comfortably fit a small family made up of a mother and her son. Nothing out of its place—tidy as could be. Ém ran her finger over the great collection of books on the shelf. They were alphabetized and aligned side by side in perfect order.

“Thank you,” Ém whispered, biting the side of her mouth.

“It’s no problem, just happy to help you out.” Hélène responded as she set her purse on the table. “Pierre will let you use his bedroom. He’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I do not want to be a bother.” Ém shook her head. “Please, I can sleep on the couch.”

“Mom would be really mad at me if you did.” Pierre laughed playfully.

“Really?” Ém’s eyes widened and her lips pulled down into a half moon.

“I assure you, she’d probably disown me for it.” Pierre winked at his mother, grinning.

“Are you serious, Pierre?” She glanced back and forth
from Pierre to Hélène, mouth gaping. Grappling with her loss of memory was one thing, but being the wedge between a mother and son made her throat tighten until her mouth was dry.

“I’m joking. I’m joking, Ém. Really.” He drew Hélène into his side and kissed her on the forehead—it was sort of sweet. That bond stung her heart for some reason and the muscles of her temples tightened as she creased her brow. “She probably wouldn’t talk to me for a few days, though.”

“In that case, I accept the kind offer of your bedroom.”

“Good, that’ll keep me from being upset with my son, even if it’s just for a few days.” Hélène winked at Pierre, smiling big. “But, you’ve had a rough day. Please, come sit down.”

Hélène brought her to the tufted, brown leather couch. For the first time since they’d left the hospital, Ém released her grip on Pierre’s arm. He didn’t sit down, but stood in one place, staring at her, fidgeting with his keys that were still in his hands. Hélène sat in a dark, rich wood rocking chair opposite the couch.

“That is a beautiful rocking chair, Madame Rousseaux.”

“You don’t need to call me that. Please call me Hélène.” Pierre’s mother rubbed her hands on the shiny arms of the chair as she rocked back and forth. “Pierre’s father hand-crafted it for me just before Pierre was born. But Pierre refinished it for my birthday a couple years ago. He somehow did it all in secret, too.” Hélène watched her son with wondering eyes.

Pierre paced to the window and drew open the creamy tan curtains after dropping his keys on the coffee table. Around the window, the paint curled away from the frame in crumbling bits. Ém watched his every move, wondering what he thought of her. Was she just some crazy person to him? How about his mother? Why was she being so kind? It didn’t seem as though she deserved such a warm welcome. However, Hélène peered back and forth from Pierre to her with a wary expression painted upon her face. But then it was gone, replaced by a softened glow shimmering from her beautiful smile.

“Is it better in here with some sunlight?” Pierre asked, face flushing as he raked his hand through his hair; it pointed up in steep peaks.

“Yes.” She leaned her head back, taking in the warmth coming from the window. Ém inhaled a deep, gratifying gulp of air. Relaxation settled upon her as she exhaled, tension melting away from her tight muscles. “I like your flat. It is old-fashioned, nice.”

“That’s exactly why I like it.” Hélène’s gaze flowed throughout the space, stretching over to the kitchenette and dining room. “I still feel like I’m living in old Paris. It’s small, quaint.” 

Pierre sat on the other side of the couch—as far away from Ém as possible. She wanted to reach out to him, but resisted, not wanting to annoy him. Or give Hélène the wrong impression since she’d had that guarded expression before.

“I think it is perfect, just big enough for two people.” A flickering thought flashed through Ém’s mind—a large châteaux—but not in complete detail. She strained her mind to bring the vision back, but nothing happened. The determination to recall something more made her head pound, thumping to the beat of her heart. She massaged her forehead, trying to make the pain fade but only to hit the swollen bump; it throbbed all the more. “I think I lived somewhere really big once.”

“You remembered something,” Pierre said optimistically, looking at Hélène with a smile. “Try to remember some more.”

“That’s all, nothing more.” A deep tangle of frustration webbed itself in her mind. She gritted her teeth and huffed out a bitter-filled breath.

“That’s okay, it’ll come back.” He leaned over and patted her leg, offering her a bright smile.

Ém wore blue scrubs the nurse had given her to replace the filthy tattered—hardly worth salvaging—dress she had worn when she jumped off the bridge. A dress, possibly even skirt, seemed to be more her style. Her new shoes—black slip-ons—looked funny with the scrubs, as the nurse had called them.

“I hope so.” Ém brushed against the swollen portion of her forehead to release the pressure of remembering where she had lived. “I am tired and feel sore. Can I take a nap for a while?”

“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.”