Up until last week, I didn’t speak French at all. Now I spoke it like a Parisian.
The woman, Eve, did more than just give us the address. She called the care home and told them to be expecting Madame Fournier’s great-niece. Then she made us a wonderful pot of coffee.
As we left the building and walked up the street, Mickey unfurled the map that Eve had drawn for us. “Who said French people aren’t nice.”
“She was friendly, wasn’t she?” I studied my iPhone, which was on a crazy roaming data plan so I could get Luke’s messages, but he hadn’t left any.
“Hey, I didn’t know you spoke French,” said Mickey. “And with no American accent.”
“My tumor must be Parisian.”
I swear I heard him snort.
“So, are we going to stick Madame Fournier with a pin?” Mickey was still reading the map as we walked up the hill toward a newer complex that Eve had described to us. “You do have a plan for getting blood from this poor woman, don’t you?”
“I’m thinking,” I snapped.
“Don’t be pissy with me,” said Mickey. “You have about five minutes to figure it out.”
The Challans Center for Aging could have been located in Topeka. All of the French charm was lost the minute we stepped through the doors. It seemed as though all assisted living communities in the world look the same: dusty-pink Chippendale sofas with floral pillows and cherry end tables covered with a thick glass protector. A French version of the Carpenters’ “Close to You” played softly while file drawers banged open and closed. There was a sign-in sheet. I’d noticed the French were sticklers for procedures of any kind, and the distantly pleasant concierge made it clear we weren’t going anywhere until we had properly signed in and checked to make sure all the fields were properly completed. In protest of rules, Mickey signed his name “Lorenzo Lamas” and handed me the pen in a challenge to be equally creative. I signed my name as “Dorothy Hamill.” Mickey and I did this sometimes with our name badges at conferences to fuck with people. The concierge checked to see that there was, indeed, something in the form field for “nom” and “visite.” The bored woman pointed us toward a hallway and said, “Quatre gauche.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fourth room on the left.”
The hallway smelled of pee, face cream, and some kind of unappetizing cooked food that I could remotely identify as carrots. It was a disgusting combination. The place my grandmother had died in smelled like this. The cleaner they used to cover up the pee smell only ended up magnifying the odors.
In the fourth room, a nurse stood over an old woman in a chair, drawing blood from her left arm. Mickey turned to me with wild pony eyes. “Get that vial,” he whispered under his breath.
I walked into the room while Mickey stood back near the nurse’s cart. If the cart was left out while the nurse went to the next room, then Mickey could just swipe the vial. All of this was said without words—I had looked at the nurse’s cart and Mickey nodded. “Don’t fuck it up,” I whispered. “Get the right vial.”
“Get your brain-tumored ass in there, Dorothy Hamill.”
I smiled at the nurse as she approached, stripping off her latex gloves. “You must be the relative?”
“Yes,” I said. “I came all the way from the United States. Doing a bit of genealogy.” I looked down at the blood vial. “Is Great-Aunt Marielle all right? You’re drawing blood?”
“Diabetes,” she said, “with some kidney issues. I hope you aren’t planning on talking to her. Her dementia has gotten worse. That’s why she moved from her apartment. Some days are better than others, but…” She looked over at Marielle Fournier. “Sadly, today is not one of those days.”
I considered that French health privacy laws must be more relaxed than those in the US because I couldn’t believe the information this nurse was providing me without much provocation. Something was odd here. Then I remembered that Eve had been so kind to us as well. The nurse looked puzzled, and I realized I’d seen this look before—on Senator Heathcote’s face when I’d suggested that he tell us about his nomination for VP. I had a hunch.
“There is something on your shirt.” I pointed, starting with something simple. “Here, I’ll hold the vial while you get it.”
Mickey stood in the doorway, eyes widening.
The nurse handed me the vial without hesitation and began brushing her shirt at nothing. “Oh dear,” she said. “What have I gotten on this shirt.”
“Dunno. It looks like dirt,” I suggested, pointing to her perfectly clean white button-down. “Perhaps you should go and wash it off right now.”
“I’ll do that,” said the woman, hurrying down the hall. “Merci.”
I gave her a little salute and a smile.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Mickey. “That was brilliant.”
“Wait,” I said. I walked into Marielle Fournier’s room and saw the woman looking out the window. She did not look like Delphine in any way; nor did she resemble Michel Busson. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but the woman noticed me and smiled.
“Madame Fournier.” I leaned down. “I am a blood relative of yours.”
The woman’s face was kind but bland, and I felt a pang of guilt for what I was doing.
“The soup was good,” said Marielle, hopefully.
“Yes,” I said. “The soup was good today! May I ask you something?”
The woman blinked and nothing more.
“It’s important if you can remember, okay?”
“Hurry up,” hissed Mickey, who was on lookout.
I held my hand out to shush him, and he folded his arms indignantly. I turned back to Marielle and crouched down beside her.
She looked at my face and touched it. “I’ve seen you before.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Marielle Fournier shook her head back at me. “Yes. You’re the girl from the painting in the attic. It was covered by an old cloth and I was told not to look at it, but I did. It was burned on the edges. It was you.” She thought for a moment. “But that’s not possible, is it?”
I remembered Michel Busson taking that painting with him, the earlier version of Juliet that the maid had tried to burn in the fire. It had not been the final version of the painting. That one had been taken by Juliet’s mother. “Oui,” I said. “C’est possible, Marielle. Tell me, did your mother talk about her childhood at all? Was she happy as a child?”
“Oh no,” said Marielle. “Mother had a terrible childhood. Grandfather Michel was a bastard.” The woman motioned for me to come closer. “The soup was wonderful. Mother liked soup.”
“Was Grandfather Michel terrible to your grandmother?”
Marielle looked out in the distance like she was trying to retrieve an image. “I believe he was.” She looked at me. “But I can’t be sure anymore.”
I smiled. “You get some rest, Marielle.” My heart sank again at the thought of Delphine miserable. She had been a delightful child. The spell Juliet’s mother had cast had ruined everyone’s life. I touched her on the shoulder and I could feel heat emanating from my right hand. I lifted my hand and studied it, even touching it with my other hand, but it was cold to the touch. I shook my head. Now I was feeling things. But once again, I placed my fingers and then flat palm on Marielle and she gazed up at me. Her focus become more intense, like a lover’s.