Felicite Found (8 page)

Precious Time

Félicité tossed and turned all night; the blankets twisted all over the bed in the process. She worried about Pierre as they walked home. He was so distant after such a pleasant evening together.

What is wrong with him
? Her lips fell into a frown.
Is he afraid of me because I do not know who I am?

But, when she woke up at dawn the next morning, she could not stop thinking about something else—something important she had dreamed.

She had finally fallen into a deep sleep; her mind drifting into a memory in the same pitiful room where she had been born. The room looked much the same but had a makeshift bed in the corner made of thick material—straw escaping from holes in the stitching.

In bed, a young girl no older than ten-years-old, slept peacefully, making little puff sounds as she breathed in and out. Her long, curly hair draped over the side of the bed, reaching the dirt floor. Her face was the only part of her small body that was visible. A thin blanket wrapped around her neck. She shivered for a moment and then resumed her breaths of air.

As she lay sleeping, a rat scampered across the room in front of her bed. It stopped just short of the door to sniff, its nose twitching. But after a moment, it raced to the door, and disappeared by scurrying under a small crack.

Just moments later, she jerked awake to the sound of the wood-planked door opening with a screech. She watched through slits in her eyes as her father entered. He was older now; his hair graying with salt and pepper streaks spread throughout. He wore a black coat that was not enough to keep him warm and brown slacks held up by a thin rope. His shoes were black and scuffed; the right boot with a gaping hole at the heel.

A stack of cut wood was overloaded in his arms. Creeping across the room, he carefully placed it by the soot-blackened fireplace. He grabbed a metal rod and prodded the small fire that had almost died. A few embers still burned, so he added a couple logs to it. They caught flame as he knelt by the fire, coaxing it with the rod. Removing his holey knit gloves, he rubbed his hands together in front of the flames.

A rusted pot rested upon the embers. Small flames embraced it, licking up and down its sides. He grabbed a clay mug and dipped it into the steaming water and strained the liquid through tea leaves into another mug. His Adams apple jutted out of his neck as he swallowed a mouthful. Sighing, he smacked his lips together and leaned back onto the hearth.

He looked toward where his daughter slept. She closed her eyes as not to be caught, her heart picking up pace.

“She is so beautiful,” her father said in a hushed whisper.

Félicité took after her mom with the same blue eyes and curly, blond hair. The only thing that resembled him was her widow’s peak; it gave her face the appearance of a heart.

She risked opening her eyes again only to see a tear trickle down his cheek, which landed in his tea. He drank another gulp.

Her stomach twisted into knots at the sight. She feigned awaking from sleep, yawning and stretching her arms toward the patched ceiling. Turning her head to the side, she said, “Papa, are you there?”

“Right here, sweetie. Would you like some tea?” He prepared her a cup, like he did every morning to warm her chilled body.

She arose from her bed, wrapping the thin blanket around her arms and slipped on her black boots to walk toward the fire. She sat down on the wood stool opposite her dad. He handed her the tea. She wrapped her fingers around it, warming her hands and taking in deep breathes as if to warm her nose.

“Papa, why do you look so sad?”

He glanced away from his daughter, rubbing his eyes. He wiped his hands on his pants; it left some moisture on them—tears. “Félicité, I need to tell you something . . .” He groaned. “Something difficult for me to say. I am not the father you deserve.”

“Oh, Papa,” she said, frowning. “You are the only Papa I want.”

“I cannot provide for you how I wish I could do. Look at you: you are too skinny and need proper food, clothing, and a warm home. I do not want to, but I have to send you away to give you a better life.”

“Papa, do you not want me? Do you not love me? I will help you on the farm. I will do anything to stay with you. Please do not make me leave.” She flung herself at her father, bursting into heavy sobs. He held her as though he would never be able to again and let her cry out her grief. It took a while for her sobs to cease. After some time, she went limp in his arms. He rocked her from side to side. Through glazed eyes, Félicité looked at him, pleading. He had broken her precious heart.

“Félicité, I love you more than anything.” She stifled some more cries back, closed her eyes, and fell asleep in his arms as she had many times before. From the time she was a baby, she would snuggle into his lap, and he would rock her to sleep while singing a lullaby. He hummed the tune, unable to choke out the words.

When little Félicité woke up sometime later in her bed, she thought she had been dreaming. Her father was gone. She knew he would be out on the farm attending to his daily duties. She dressed in a shabby tan dress and put her boots on and a worn, black coat. On the way to the barn, she prayed that what he had told her had only been a bad dream.

She found him in the dilapidated barn bent under their cow, tugging on its teats and spraying milk into a tin bucket. As she tiptoed toward him, his head rose to meet her eyes. He patted his thigh for her to come snuggle into his chest. She moved toward him, unsure of the situation, but could tell by his solemn facial expression that what he had told her had not been a dream.

Broiling heat rose in her cheeks, so she stood her ground. She noticed his eyes were wet and red from tears. It tugged at her heart for a moment, but she resisted being sympathetic to him. She stamped her foot on the straw-covered ground and crossed her arms over her chest. Her chin quivered ever so slightly.

“Félicité, my sweet girl, I want you to know you are the most precious thing to me. I wish I could keep you forever, but I must provide for you in any way possible. Sending you away is not what I want. Far from what I want, but it is for the best.” He coughed a sob away.

She didn’t speak, even if it were to express her anger. She only stared at him with a distant look on her face as if they were already apart.

“I have arranged for a family in Paris to take you in. It’s a beautiful city. You will love it.” A smile crossed his face, but as he searched his daughter, it only crumpled to a frown. “You will help them with whatever needs to be done, but they will raise you like their own,” he said as though he hoped their sentiment would hold true.

She sucked in her lower lip and bit it hard as not to cry.

“Oh, dear, I know you are angry with me—it is only fair. I just hope that one day you can forgive me for not being the kind of father I should have been to you.”              

Hearing that, Félicité’s heart leaped into her throat; she could no longer be angry with her father. She sprinted to him and fell onto his lap, hugging him tight as though she could melt her arms into his skin, never to leave him and forever a part of him. Before long, his pant leg was stained with her tears.

They spent every minute together over the next week. She never left her father’s side—it helped her sadness fade. At night, she slept in his embrace. However, she fell asleep with tears in her eyes, and she could tell he was crying, too. Even though he tried to be strong, he could not hide his emotions from her.

The day before she left, it dawned on her that she would be leaving the only place she had known—home. She took in the wet wood and animal smells through deep breaths of the air and tasted the fluffy, white blanket of snow on the ground. She dug down into the frozen earth to extract a small portion of dirt and placed it in her mouth to savor its taste. She felt the bark on the trees and petted the milking cow, so she would not forget the soft texture of the animal’s coat.

Ultimately, the day for her to leave came. She crawled out of her bed well before dawn to prepare a delicious breakfast for her father of a small portion of eggs and a tiny slice of ham. She wanted to depart knowing his stomach was full. He woke up to the delicious smells wafting from the hearth. He came to her, pulled her into his arms, and hugged her tightly. She noticed the musky smell of the barn where he spent most of his day. That’s the smell she would miss the most—the smell of her papa. After breakfast and a last look at their humble home, her father grabbed her few belongings, and they started their long walk to town.

They strolled hand-in-hand as snow floated, drifting back and forth, to the ground. Barely speaking, they enjoyed their last hour together.

The dream immediately changed to a different setting. Félicité entered through the front gate of a large châteaux that stood tall and erect in front of her. The grounds were clothed with freshly fallen snow, and a towering stone fence circled the perimeter of the grounds.

Félicité had never seen anything like it. She would not have moved if it weren’t for the aged man who had picked her up when she had arrived in Paris. He led her to the large chocolate-colored and shiny front door with his hand on her shoulder. Then he twisted its elegant gold knob. She noticed that he had to use all his weight to get the door to budge.

“After you.” He gestured with his frail and shaking hand. She did as he requested.

Upon entering the châteaux, she gasped at the brilliance of its interior. It was as if the sun had fallen right smack into that room, brightening her eyes until she was blind from all of the fine cloth, art, and fancy furniture. And the colors of reds and blues and every color in the rainbow danced in front of her, making her dizzy from taking in all the beauty.

And this is where she would live—where
she
would live. The thought made her breath catch in her throat.

Félicité woke up in Pierre’s bed. She sat straight up, and her mind roved over the façade of the châteaux, the inner depths of the spacious structure.

Did I actually live
there
?
Oh, but papa.
A ripple of prickles spread over her chest until it was red with hives. She coughed to fight back her tears. No. She would not cry. She had to be strong.

At that moment, she missed her papa with excruciating fire-like pain. How had she survived without him? But more important, who was the family she had been sent to? She had to remember that. It would help her to remember so much—possibly everything.

Realization

Pierre yawned when he woke up from a restful night’s sleep. He rubbed his eyes as he shuffled his way to the bathroom. When he came back out, Félicité was on the couch half-smiling, half-frowning.

“Hi.” He plunked down on the other side of the couch from her, brushing the pillow and blanket onto the floor. His mind swirled dizzyingly with all that had happened between Félicité and him—how close he felt to her. Plus, what he had thought about on their way home last night had disturbed him until sour nausea overtook him. Regardless of his fear about dying like his father, he wanted desperately to have Félicité as close as possible. 

After a moment’s serious debate, he slid closer to her, lacing his hand in hers. He had to be near her; it was a losing battle. He either had to be with her or cut off the feelings all together.

“I had another dream,” she said, sliding closer to him even though her body stiffened in the process. She relaxed by his side.

It took Félicité over ten minutes to describe the details of the dream. Once she had finished recounting the dream, Pierre decided it was time to ask some questions. Wanting to be a police lieutenant, he logged in his mind the things that stuck out as important to draw any leads.

“Do you remember any details about the châteaux?”

Her eyes narrowed as if deep in thought. “I wish I did. All I remember is it was gigantic and beautiful. I do remember it had large grounds and a stone fence around its perimeter.”

“I’ll call the police department. See if they can look into it,” he said with confidence. “Do you remember anything about where you grew up?”

“In the country, I’m sure.” She shook her head and leaned back into the couch.

“Don’t worry, you’ll remember.” He squeezed her hand with encouragement. “How are you feeling?”

“All right, but my side still hurts. At least the ugly bump on my head is gone.”

“You could barely see it.” He played with her hand, opening it and closing it. In a way, he thought letting her into his heart was a good thing. All his fears could very well be wiped clean because of his feelings for her. “Anyway, I think it’s cool you’re remembering things about yourself through dreams. Maybe you should sleep all the time,” he joked.

“Maybe I should.” She laid her head on Pierre’s shoulder and sighed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Pierre’s middle growled. “I’m hungry.”
             

“I could make some crepes? Would you like to go to the market and get some fresh fruit while I cook?” she asked.

“That sounds delicious. Are you sure you can use the stove, now?” He pointed at it.

Pierre remembered the funny situation they had last night while preparing some coffee. Maybe it should be thought of as her
failed
attempt to help him boil some water. Pierre was in the bathroom while she tried to heat it on the gas stove. When he rejoined his mother and her in the kitchen, she still hadn’t figured out how to turn the stove on.

“Let me,” he said, back in the present. “At least that’s one thing we know about you, you can’t use a stove for the life of you.” He winked and tugged at a loose strand of her hair.

“I can’t get the knobs to work right,” she said, eyes narrowing at the stove. “Show me again, so I can master this ridiculous machine.” She pointed her finger accusingly at it. The way she acted made a huge smirk tug at his lips.

Pierre started to show her again, standing behind her. He moved her hands to push the knob in with the right tension while twisting it at the right moment until the flames licked the pan of water. Touching her skin made his hands feel as though static electricity flowed between their two bodies.

“With your help, I can do it.” She humphed.

Pierre still stood behind Félicité; she leaned into his body. The flames rose bright and hot like his growing feelings for her. He stared at them, entranced by their flickering beauty. 

He stepped away from her, heat inside him scorching his pounding chest. “I don’t think I’ll let you anywhere near the television, computer, or my new cell. You’ll break them for sure.” He pointed to each item in the flat as he spoke, finishing by tapping his hand on his right pant pocket where his phone was nestled.

“You give me a hard time, but one of these days I will prove you wrong, Pierre.” Félicité’s finger waved menacingly in the air. Her hair fell out of a bun, swirling down her back; it made her all the more tempting.

“In that case, I might have to keep you around, so you can cook for me all the time,” he joked. But it didn’t feel like it was a joke at all, he wanted her to stick around. He inched toward her, unable to hold back anymore.

Am I really going to let this happen? I shouldn’t let it happen
, he thought as he found her in his arms. His hand rose from her back, to her neck, and then cupped her cheek. He could feel her heart beating fast through the contact of their bodies.

With hesitance, his head inched closer to Félicité’s beautiful face. Their eyes closed when his lips found hers. He merely brushed her mouth, still unsure if he should let this happen. His face drew back, throat stinging with ache for her. Kissing her felt like he was making her a permanent part of his life. He opened his eyes and saw her inviting, tempting him back. His heart beckoned him to forget his fear and surrender to the happiness he never thought he could have. Then gently, slowly, he caressed her again until their lips moved in perfect fluidity with each other.

After a minute, Pierre pulled away from the kiss. “Félicité, I have to tell you something.” He hesitated.

“Yes?” she breathed out—the sweet mint scent of her breath intoxicated him. A sparkle danced in her ocean-colored eyes.

“Félicité,” he paused, smelling a lock of her hair. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“I think I love you, too,” she said, a wide grin lighting her face.

Their lips connected again, only this time with more urgency. He pushed her back until she was crushed against the wall. Her hands ran through his messy hair, and he held her at the waist, kneading his fingers into her skin. He wanted to feel as close to her as he possibly could, but even that didn’t help. And it felt amazing to kiss someone he
really
liked—loved. Luc was spot on right.

Hélène’s bedroom door squeaked open; she stumbled out into the hallway. Instantly, they jumped from each other’s arms, trying to look like nothing had happened. Anger rose in the pit of Pierre’s stomach for his mom ruining such a good—
amazing
—moment. And seeing Félicité across from him only made him want her all the more.

Hélène looked between them. Now it was going to happen, his mom was going to kick Félicité out. “Has it been a good morning so far, guys?” She laughed but with somewhat of a tense expression shrouding her face. She yawned, and headed into the bathroom.

He rushed over to Félicité again, taking her in his arms once more to kiss her. Between kisses, in a hushed tone, he said, “I can’t believe you’re in my life.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Hélène made a lot of clattering noise as she left the bathroom as if she knew exactly what they were doing. Again, they separated, acting cool and reserved, both smiling at each other.