Felicite Found (5 page)

G
etting to Know You

Pierre plopped with a deafening thud face first on the floor. He rubbed his eyes, wiping the sleep from them while vibrating a lungful of air out of his lips. Muscles tensing, he hoisted himself up as if he were doing a push up. He remembered why he had fallen asleep: heavy-eyed exhaustion. And then he remembered Ém. Was she okay? He hopped up to his bedroom to see an empty bed. Stupidly, he rummaged through the blankets as if she had shrunk to some doll-sized person and was still there. He backed out of the room almost tripping over his legs. His chest heaved in and out which magnified his sense of helplessness.

Where could she have gone?

With the blink of his eye, he spotted her in the small kitchen, watching him, a bright smirk frosting her expression. 

“Are you all right, Pierre?”

“Oh.” He wondered if she had seen him fall off the couch. “Ugh. I’m fine. Was worried you left.”

“No, I am still here,” she said, turning her head away. “Where else would I go?” She brushed a loose hair out of her eye, biting her lower lip. “Uh, so one minute you were sleeping and the next you turned and fell right on your face.” She pointed toward the floor and laughed, but stopped, slapping her hand over her mouth.

His shoulders rolled forward as boiling heat churned in his cheeks. “No problem. I’ll do that more often if it’ll make you laugh.” Even though what happened took a stab at his pride, she was happier for it, so he tossed the embarrassment away. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not very long.” Her eyes flashed to the circular clock on the wall. “It was five o’clock when I woke up.” Pierre turned to see it was now six o’clock. Bright yellow covered the living room, glistening upon the furniture and hardwood floor.

“An hour?” he asked. “What have you been doing this whole time? You could definitely have woken me up.”

“I felt bad. You seemed so comfortable there, sucking your thumb and all.”

“Wh . . . What?” Pierre raked his hand through his oily hair.

“I am joking.” She giggled an amazing laugh. “No, I was fine just watching you.” Her eyes dashed to the right as her pale face blushed pink.

“Watching me, huh?” He took a risky step closer. “You’ve been here a few days now and are already invading my sleeping privacy.” Shifting his jaw back and forth, he advanced closer, sweat moistening the nape of his neck.

“Never. But it is difficult when this,” she motioned around the room, “is the only common area in your flat.”

“Touché.” Gazing at Ém’s unforgettable body made intense pressure build heavy in his rib cage—fear mixed with chickening out bad time. Skirting past her, he grabbed a couple mugs. As he pried open the coffee canister, the aroma of the potent beans wafted around the room. He could taste the strong smell flowing through his mouth without having downed a drop of the drink. “You hungry?”

“Ravenous.”

“What are we waiting for, then? Breakfast time.” Within moments, food was strewn across the counter. He chopped and stirred and clanged pans around the room.

“I am going to freshen up a bit.” She ducked into the bathroom.

Pierre thought back to the first time Ém used the bathroom. His mom had to teach her how to use the sink and the bathtub as though the girl was from a third-world country. He accounted for it because of her memory loss, but he wondered how she could have forgotten so much.

Wiping the strange memory clear from his mind, he focused back on his mad cooking frenzy. Eyes widening, he cracked a large brown egg into a sizzling frying pan. He breathed in the scent of spices with a smile filling his face.

He turned on some pop music that whispered from his iPod, and he nodded his head rhythmically to the beat of the drums.

Ém peered into the mirror above the washbasin to appraise herself. She removed the bandages and gasped when she saw the rope burns—still red and tender. It made her sad to think that not only once but twice she had tried to take her life.

Why would I do that?
She wondered.

No beauty reflected back at her in mirror. Nothing stared back at her, for that matter. She still had no idea who she was.

Who am I?

Again, as she had done so many times over that past few days, she knit her brow until her forehead crinkled into miniature dips of mountains and valleys. Forcefully, she willed herself to remember something—anything. Her eyes blazed a firestorm at her reflection until all that resulted in the exercise was a wild ache in her head. Nothing came to mind, not even her own name. Ém was not doing the trick. In fact, the nickname only brought on violent frustration. With her failed attempt, she took one more glance at herself and
humphed out a bitter groan.

She undressed, and removed the ace bandage from her chest and then stepped into the hot water until her entire body was immersed. Immediately, the knots in her back loosened and the stitch of pain in her ribs lessened. She grabbed the strawberry scented soap and lathered herself from head to toe. After a thorough, yet, delicate scrub, she let the water wash away the suds. And her hopeless and helpless thoughts.

Pierre Rousseaux

“H
i.” A smile formed on Pierre’s face as Ém sashayed like an angel out of the bathroom.

“Do you need help with anything?” Ém inquired, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Nah, you just rest. You need anything?”

“I am okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“That’s a bit hard to do when you are  . . . 
you
.” He almost said, “Beautiful you.” Pulling on the neck of his shirt, he changed the subject. “Anyway, let’s eat.”

After an awkward lull in conversation, Pierre asked while pointing at her plate of food, “Good?”

“Very delicious.” She licked her lips. “I do not think I have ever tasted such good food in my life—I think?” She paused with a slight grin on her face. Pierre chuckled at her comment. “Maybe if you told me more about yourself, it could help me remember something about myself.”

“Well, I was born in Paris. My mom raised me by herself because my dad died when I was two. Anyway, I like movies. I have a lot of DVD’s and those aren’t all of them. There’s more in my bedroom.” He gestured to an orderly collection of DVD’s and laughed.

“What are DVD’s?” 

Pierre stood and grabbed one of the cases that held a disc. “A movie—you have to remember what a DVD is?”

“I have forgotten everything.” She scowled a deadly grimace at the DVD case. “It’s so frustrating not to remember things that I should know.”

“It’ll come back. It will, I know it.” He grasped her hand from across the table and pumped it a few times.

“It’s so nice to have your support.” She squeezed his hand back, smiling. Pierre wondered if she would surrender his hand back to him, even though he enjoyed the feeling of her soft skin melting into his. Again, he had the crushing urge to kiss her. He almost leaped over the table to attack her with his lips. “But, please continue.”

“Uh . . .” He shook the thoughts of her lips on his out of his head. “I’m studying for
le bac
.”

“
Le bac
?” Her eyes glazed over.

“
Le bac
or
Le Baccalauréat
is a test taken before graduating from high school. It gets you into university.”

She nodded, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want to do after you graduate? Are you planning on attending university?”

“No, I want to be a police lieutenant after I graduate. Everyone thinks I should become some doctor or scientist because they think I’m smart.” He groaned.

“Are you?” she asked, her head perking up and her shoulders relaxing.

“Nah, I’m not smart, but school’s been easy.” He didn’t want to go any further than that. Educational aspirations weren’t something he liked to talk about. Shifting uneasily in his chair, he continued, “What else do you want to know about me?

“Maybe tell me more about your mother.”

“Let’s see, where do I begin? She’s the coolest parent ever.”

“I already know
that
.” Her eyelashes fluttered as if they were dancing in the wind. “What does she like to do?”

“She loves art. She studied art history at university. After graduating, she worked at an art museum here in Paris, but she always wanted to work at
Musée du Louvre
. She would take me there a lot when I was growing up. I
hated
it.” Pierre rolled his eyes. “But she loved it there. She was happiest there.”

He paused, thinking of his mom’s fanatical excitement every time they went to a museum. They would dress up—Pierre always with a bow tie and her in a dress—and then they were off to a museum. She radiated every time they ventured to see art; it seemed to pull her out of her depression more than anything. It was one of her three loves: her first love, her son; her second love, art; and her greatest love of all, her late husband.

Ém stirred Pierre from his memories. “It seems like you are very close to your mother.”

“Yeah, but I’ve had to be. She’s been unhappy a lot, so I’ve tried to help her out.”

“If you do not mind me asking, why has she been unhappy?”

“She’s been down since my father died.” That’s as far as he wanted to delve into his dad’s death, and the consequent depression of his mom. Just thinking about his father made Pierre’s stomach cramp into dull twists and turns. He didn’t even want to think about what it meant for him . . . one day, that is.

“Sorry about that.” Ém sighed. “She must have loved him a lot.”

“That’s the understatement of the century.” Pierre squinted at the photograph of his mom and dad on the wall. Ém’s eyes followed his gaze.

“You look exactly like him.”

“Yeah, we could have been twins. Of what my mom has told me, the day she met my dad was the day her life truly began. I’m pretty sure the day he died, most of her died with him.”

“How did she meet him?” She cupped her head in her hand, the other still held by Pierre.

“It’s sort of a funny story.” Pierre chuckled, a light cloud of happiness enveloping his mind. “They met at a café. My mom went there for her lunch break. On her way to sit on the patio, he bumped into her. The food in her hands spilled all over her shirt. She ended up wearing it instead of eating it.” Pierre laughed. “He felt terrible and ended up buying her a new shirt and lunch. They exchanged phone numbers, and from that day on they were inseparable. They married after a year, and I was born two years after that.”

“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 distinctly 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.