“I’m… glad you, well, it’s been a long time.”
She wrapped her arms tighter. “Your secret’s safe.” A pause. The beginnings of a smile. “Did you know your Facebook fan page has over four hundred thousand fans?”
“Didn’t know that I had a Facebook page.”
“Well, you do.”
“You have one?”
A nod.
“How many fans do you have?”
“You mean before the ship caught fire in the gulf?”
“Yes.”
“A little over twenty million.”
It was almost evening. Darkness had fallen. Her giddiness reminded me of grammar school show-and-tell. The questions I thought would follow, the how-comes and what-happeneds I was prepared to dodge, did not.
Her dealings with me reminded me of the kid who forever shook the presents under the tree, even hefting their weight and holding them up to the light but never tearing at the paper or pulling back the cardboard because she’d been let down too many times—the gift never measuring up to her hopes. Unsure of the contents, and afraid of one more disappointment, she stood content to just pick at the edges of my wrapping. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. When she finally dove beneath the surface, she did so tenderly. “You didn’t like the world you were living in so you checked out, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“The pain outweighed the joy.”
She wrapped her arms tighter about my book. “Given your gift, some might accuse you of being rather selfish.”
I nodded. “I didn’t used to be.”
“What if the world needs your gift?”
“I’m still wrestling with that.”
“Your honesty is disarming.”
“I’m aiming for honest. That’s all.”
“I know the world looks at me and thinks, ‘all together,’ but what if I’m not? I’m on display for all the world to see and show them this perfect image, so what… so a bunch of people can make money off their wanting to be like me. But those girls… they shouldn’t want to be me. I want to tell them all that the guys… once they’ve had you, all they want to do is brag that they did. They want to know they conquered me. But so what? What have they gained? Certainly not my heart. And more importantly, what, or what else, have they lost? Have I lost? Is there a limit? I mean, to how much we can lose?” Finally, she got to the question she really wanted to ask. Her pupil filled the corner of her eye. “Do you think your checking out pissed off God?”
“You should ask Steady that question.”
“I’m not asking Steady. I’m asking you.”
The truth was tough to come by. I whispered, “I don’t think I pissed Him off as much as I broke His heart.”
“How do you know?”
“ ’Cause it took me a long time to stop crying.” I stared out the window, finally speaking softly. “Stories order the pieces. They begin as seismic shifts, then they surface, becoming ripples that lap upon foreign shores. They are the echoes that resonate in this world and the next.”
She stood next to me at the window, studying the same stars. My book still clutched to her chest. “You think God reads this?”
A tear climbed down my face. “I hope so.” I stared at her. “I wrote it for one of His angels.”
She tapped the book. “I want to say something to you but when it comes to things that matter, I’m a lot better when someone else writes the words.” An honest smile. “I want you to know—” She squeezed the book tighter, then shook her head and offered her hand.
I took it.
She walked me the length of the house to a room I’d not seen. She pushed open two tall doors leading into a cavernous ballroom of sorts. The ceilings must have been twenty feet high. Four crystal chandeliers the size of her Mini Cooper. Fireplace large enough to sleep in. Floor to ceiling windows with floor to ceiling curtains. Black-and-white marble floor. Each stone was eighteen inches square. A long Steinway sat angled in a far corner. She opened a door, clicked several buttons lighting what looked like a sound system built for NASA, and then began slowly walking the perimeter of the room. The music began playing from more surround speakers than I could count. She eyed the speakers.
“ ‘The Waltz of the Flowers.’ ” She walked into a memory and twirled once in the corner. She spoke without looking at me. “The countess had been a dancer before the war. She loved to dance.” She walked to a curtain and pulled it around her leg much like a matador. “I used to hide and watch the highest of society turn and twirl out here. I’d imagine myself getting asked by the most handsome of eligible men who would lead me to the floor and then every few minutes another man would tap my partner on the shoulder. By night’s end, I’d danced with them all.”
She turned to the piano. “The countess taught me. Said I was ‘a natural.’ Told me I could play Vienna. Melbourne.” She twirled in the middle. “Some of my fondest memories took place here.” The music ended. Another piece began. She pointed again. “Pachelbel.” She walked to the piano, sat, and played along. Midway through, she stopped and set her fingers in her lap. She surveyed the room. “My memories of this room are like”—a glance at me—“reading your story—taking half a deep breath. Always breathing in. Never breathing out.”
She walked to the middle of the room, studying the floor and dancing with a partner who was not there. She raised her arms and danced beautifully, resting her hands on the shoulders of a memory. She spoke as she danced. “It was the first time the countess had ever invited me to a social gathering. Often people would play, there would be dancing, maybe someone would sing… the wine sparkled, the women sparkled, men laughed, a grand evening.” Another twirl. Another turn. “I was almost fifteen. She had paid to have a dress made that fit me just…” She trailed off. “She did my hair. My father sat back in amazement as she transformed me before his eyes. She had invited all of Langeais. Said she wanted to make sure I had ‘options.’ ” Arms extended, another twirl. “I danced with every boy. Went to school with many of them but few had noticed me until that night. It was, without a doubt, the best night of my life. My own fairy tale…” She trailed off. “I woke the next morning with blisters on my heel. I returned to school and found that six boys were vying for my attention, which I freely gave. I’d never known such…” The dance slowed. “For a few weeks, I lived in an enchanted place. I was so happy. Of the six, I liked one more than the rest and to my great pleasure, he had promised that he liked me.” A change in the music. “Mozart.” Her tone changed again. The memory both fond and growing cold. “We went on walks, ate ice cream, dinner in town, cappuccinos after school. I fell so hard, so fast, so… We made it all the way to May… and I finally… gave in.” The dance stopped. Her voice turned cold. She crossed her arms, and stared at the floor. Cold and alone. “My father had warned me. Begged me. Tried to—” She shook her head. “He, the boy, led me into the caves. I willingly followed. We were—exploring.” Her tone dropped lower. “When he was finished, he left without so much as a word.” She stared up, tears falling down. “May fifth, 1992.” She walked to a window and stared into the night. “At school the next day, word had spread. All eyes were on me. I learned I’d been the subject of a wager. A wager placed that night of the dance—here in this room. While I thought they were fighting over me, they were placing bets. Each boy put in some amount of money, which the winner ‘won’ as soon as he—” She didn’t finish the sentence. “My ‘conqueror’ was quite proud of himself. I was told he bought himself a new watch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The night was dark. No moon. She walked out of the ballroom and to the front door. I followed. She wrapped herself in a scarf, put glasses on her face, and looked at me. She was trembling. No disguise. Woman laid bare. She had no script for this role. No exit stage left. She asked. “Will you walk with me—please?”
The tortured look on her face told me this was the reason we’d come to
France. “Yes.”
We walked down the drive, past the old church and into Langeais, and started up the hill on the far side.
We followed dark streets, turning left and right, following no apparent pattern until I saw the signs that led to the convent. The large iron sign said that the Lady Mary Convent had been built several centuries prior. It started out as caves in the high walls above the river. Napoleon had lived here for a time. Later he sent prisoners here. The nuns took over after that. The buildings grew out from the cave and had been added onto several times. The complex was quite large. Orphanage. School. Indigent hospital.
We turned one last corner and the single light above the doors to the convent shone orange in the distance. She stumbled and I caught her. She was leaning heavier now. As if a gut-level ache had returned. Two oaken doors faced us. The door on the right was a large wooden door that had seen centuries of traffic. Maybe twelve feet, crossed with iron straps, a large knob. Whoever opened it would have to put their weight into it. The second door sat to the left. It was maybe five feet tall and more like a revolving, two-sided lazy Susan than an actual swinging door. The door revolved, or spun on an axis. A shelf had been built into the side facing us. The only way to get inside was to sit on that shelf while someone on the inside rotated the door. The wall on the right curved around the axis of the door making it impossible to see inside while the door was turning. The walls seemed to protect each side from the eyes on the other side. I ran my finger along the shelf. It was well worn and just large enough for a laundry basket.
She was clinging to me. Leaning heavily. Hiding behind me as we approached. She said, “Father was so ashamed, as was the countess. In America, it may not have been such a big deal, but this small village was not America, and everybody knew. The countess was of another generation, and because she’d done so much, had introduced me to everyone she knew… Feeling disgraced and ashamed, she fired him and told him to get off her property. I wanted to talk to her, to explain, but she wouldn’t see me so I dropped out of school and we lived in a rented house in the country not far from here. Father worked three jobs, contracted pneumonia, and died three months before the baby was born. Six months pregnant, I didn’t have enough money to bury him, so I snuck into the countess’s house, and stole whatever I could find. I lived alone for three months, and then my water broke. I thought I could deliver at home, but—” She shook her head. “I made my way to the hospital, collapsed in the emergency room, and delivered a few hours later. Given the difficult delivery and the fact that I was a young girl with no family, they kept me a few days trying to figure out what to do with me. Four days after delivery, I walked out of the hospital, and wandered around town until almost midnight. Finally, I walked down here, wrapped him in a blanket I’d made, and placed him on that shelf. I had a piece of paper from the hospital that wasn’t a birth certificate but more like a statement of live birth. It had his name, date of birth, weight… I tore off the section that gave my name and stuffed the statement inside his blanket. Then I rang that bell and walked to the shadows. The door turned from the inside, counterclockwise. Sometimes, when I hear a door squeak, I—The door turned and I watched my son disappear. He was crying and reaching upward. I remember my milk was letting down and I didn’t have a nursing bra. The door closed as my milk trickled down my stomach. That was March first, 1993.” She paused, closing her eyes. “I walked to the train station, rode the train to Paris, used some of the money I’d stolen from the countess to buy a ticket to the U.S., landed in New York with the passport my father had given me for my twelfth birthday, bought one last ticket to Miami—because it was cheap—and walked off the plane with three dollars, one severely crossed eye, and the name of Katie Quinn. I lied about my age, my history… I lied about everything. I took three jobs, saved up enough money to straighten my eye, and then did the only thing I knew to do to help ease the pain… to help me pretend that I wasn’t who I was.” She looked at me. “I walked up on a local stage, pointed my voice and talent at the back row, and acted my way out of the hole I’d dug. It took a few years, but when I had enough money, I moved to L.A. I got a lucky break. An independent film that turned out to be the role of a lifetime. My career took off. I could do nothing wrong. I could barely keep up with it all. Everybody wanted me.” She turned again to the door. “Quinn. Quinn was my son’s name.
“I was twenty-two when I was able to come back here the first time. He was seven years old. I saw him once, out with some children in the village. He looked happy. Had my eyes.” A pause. “For the next three years, I came back here every chance I had, always hoping to learn something about him, or better yet to see him again. I couldn’t be Katie Quinn, so I became other people who had reasons to interact with the people around him. I almost touched him once. He sipped water from a fountain next to me where I was spying.” A pause. “Given what I’d done, I couldn’t bring myself to claim him. I thought he was better off… I blamed the exposure of the paparazzi. The truth is I was ashamed and afraid of the consequences, of what people would think. Any strength I had was an act. I wasn’t the person I pretended to be. Katie Quinn was just another role. But I had time to make it right. Or—thought I had time…” She closed her eyes and stood behind me. Speaking over my shoulder. “One day, he stopped appearing in the playground so I hired an investigator.” Her voice cracked. Her finger trembled. She held the rising wave at bay. “I know when—I just don’t know how.” She stared at the door. “I’ve been here a hundred times. Stood right here, but I’ve never rung that bell.” She held my hand and looked at me.
I walked to the bell and softly rang it. She followed behind, wrapping her face in the scarf and putting her glasses on. When no one answered after five minutes, I rang it again. This time louder. Moments later, we heard shuffling behind the door to our right where people entered and exited the convent.
The huge door opened and an older woman, maybe in her late seventies, stepped out. She wore a habit and the residue of deep, content, now disturbed sleep. She was tall and slender—not what I was expecting. She looked at me. “Puis-je vous aider?”
Katie hid her face behind my shoulder, her arm hooked inside mine. I answered, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak—”
She stepped closer. Her voice was kind. Not bothered. “I speak English.”
I stepped into the light. “Ma’am, a long time ago a boy was dropped off at this door here. I’d like to know what happened to him.”
She stared at me. “Please understand, we don’t give out that information.”
“I realize that, but if I could give you a date and time, could you just tell me anything?”
“You have a date?”
“March first, 1993. About this time of night.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
She stared at me, then Katie. She stared at Katie a long time. The corners of her eyes rolled down. Empathy without words. Katie turned, hiding more of her face. The woman half bowed and said, “Please, follow me.”
We followed her inside, where she leaned against the door and locked it behind us. We walked down a long arch-covered path lined with large, well-worn wooden doors. She touched one of the doors and waved at the others, speaking softly. “Our school.”
We crossed through a courtyard, then began climbing a long series of winding steps numbering more than a hundred. When we reached the top, the steps ended beneath towering trees with leaves the size of a sheet of paper and carpet like grass. She took off her shoes, and held open an iron gate, motioning us to follow. We slipped off our shoes and stepped through the gate, following her through the grass.
The grass of the cemetery.
Katie wrapped her arms around herself and her steps slowed. We weaved between several tombstones. Some old. Some not. The woman opened another gate, this one smaller, and led us through. A glance around told me that this portion was for smaller people. The length of the graves was less, as was the space between the stones. The color left Katie
’s face.
Finally, our guide stopped, clicked on a flashlight, and shined it in a section of grass beneath us. The grass was green and had been freshly cut. The yard was immaculate, empty of cuttings. Each stone perfectly manicured. She spoke softly. “I had only been here a few years. I was in the chapel when I heard the bell.” I looked at her in disbelief. She stared at the stone and told the story as it returned. “I pulled the rope, turning the door. This beautiful baby boy appeared, wrapped in what looked like a handmade blanket. I picked him up and the certificate of live birth had been tucked alongside his chest.” She motioned with her fingers. “The name of the mother had been torn off.” She stared upward. “He would be almost twenty now.” The words “would be” echoed off the underside of the trees. Katie stepped up alongside me, looking down. The woman paused, choosing her words. “I took him in. Fed him. We—all of us—raised him along with the others.” She shook her head, a slight smile. “He had the most beautiful aqua-blue eyes I’d ever seen. Almost not natural—” She brushed off the top of the stone with her palm. “He was fine until the age of two when he developed asthma. A rather severe case. There were times when”—she touched her throat with her hand—“his throat would swell up, and his lungs would spasm, rendering him unable to breathe.” She fell quiet. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Katie’s hands had begun shaking. The woman continued, “I moved him into my room, so I could keep an eye on him. We tried everything. I tried everything. Doctors, medicines, remedies. I used to lie awake nights asking God why he didn’t let this poor child breathe. Why he didn’t pour air into his life. Open his throat. Open his lungs. I’d never seen a child suffer the way he suffered. As he got older, he fell in love with football. Or, soccer as you call it. Reluctantly, I let him play. He was sick a lot. Often, pneumonia. So, he played little.”