by Mickey Brent
Hélène’s lips parted, but she was laughing so hard, only honking noises came out.
Cecile shook her head. “I hate to tell you, ma puce, but it looks like you’ve got some serious side effects to that drug.” She cracked her chewing gum.
Hélène opened her mouth to reassure her, releasing a fit of giggles. She pulled Cecile into a hug as tears of childish glee rolled down her cheeks, moistening the cookie crumble at her feet.
*****
After two weeks, Hélène’s efforts were finally paying off. Even now, in the middle of rush hour, she felt confident pedaling through the streets of Brussels.
I’ll just check out the neighborhood on my way home. She finally stopped at a grassy spot in Parc Cinquantenaire where teenagers were doing aerobics. I didn’t know they had classes here. Where have I been all these years? Then she saw an elderly group wearing starched white kimonos, practicing martial arts under a massive tree. They were performing slow, gracious moves with their hands.
C’est beau! Wonder what that is?
When she pedaled home, a wave of unsettling vibrations swept over her body, which was already shaking from riding over cobblestones. As the wind forced its way into her jacket, something told her these vibes stemmed from a deeper source. As they surged through her, they released physical and emotional tension stagnating inside for years.
Beaming, she filled her lungs with crisp air. She had done the unthinkable—venturing outside her comfort zone. These initial baby steps led her to unearth the world, starting with Brussels, her own city, creating a whole new field of vibrations. Without knowing it, instead of simply “turning over a new leaf,” her baby steps would become leaps. If she saw what was down the bumpy road, however, she would realize these vibrations were growing stronger, priming the soil and embedding the seeds for a radically new life.
*****
As she was riding home the next evening, Hélène came across a sign blocking her usual route. Following the detour signs, she entered an unfamiliar tree-lined street. Halfway down, she rode past a building displaying a large banner advertising “Swimming Lessons.”
She muttered under her breath, who needs swimming lessons? Then it hit her. Maybe I do? She did a U-turn. The sign read: “Piscine Palace: private swimming lessons for adults. Give us a call!” She jotted down the phone number.
Once home, she downed two glasses of water and announced to Chaussette, “Guess what Maman’s going to do, bébé?”
Before she could stop herself, Hélène grabbed the phone. “Bonsoir. Piscine Palace?”
The man on the other end embarked on a long-winded tirade extolling the virtues of learning to swim, specifically as an adult. But Hélène hardly listened. As soon as he said the word “pool,” her mind gravitated to her childhood, when she systematically cried at the poolside to escape going into the water. The last-ditch antics usually worked. Ever since she was little, she’d been terrified of pools, swimming lessons, and drowning.
As the man continued, Hélène looked at her fingers grasping the phone. Those couldn’t be hers. There really must be two of me. The real Hélène would never, ever call this number and ask for torture. She was on the verge of apologizing and hanging up when the man said, “It’s never too late.”
That’s just what Dr. Duprès said.
She remembered sitting alone on the beach, watching her classmates race each other into the frothy waves. She had felt so lonely during that high school field trip to Ostende on the Belgian coast. She was the only one in her class who couldn’t swim.
Without quite realizing how it happened, Hélène agreed to private swimming lessons at seven o’clock every morning.
“One last thing…When do I start?” She gasped. “Tomorrow?”
Hélène’s legs were tingling by the time she hung up. “What do you think of that, Chaussette?” she purred, prancing around with the feline cradled in her arms. “Maman’s going to learn to swim! Like a fishy, fishy, fishy…” she sang, then stopped abruptly.
“Maman doesn’t even have a bathing suit! Mon Dieu! And the stores are going to close!” Whisking the cat to the floor, she snatched her purse and scurried toward the garage.
Chapter Six
Sylvie did her best to keep her sneakers on flat surfaces as she jogged through the capital’s bustling streets. This was not an easy feat, with summer roadwork and throngs of schoolkids cramming the sidewalks. When she reached Avenue des Nerviens, she felt better. No more whizzing cars. In Parc Cinquantenaire, she ran straight to a grassy spot, flinging herself under her favorite pine tree. Breathing hard, she spread her legs in a futile attempt to grasp her toes.
She knew she would never be as flexible as a gymnast. An ex had told her that her body was 80 percent swimmer, 20 percent jogger, and 0 percent gymnast. Her ex was right. Certain movements, like this one, made no sense. But she knew how sore she would be if she didn’t stretch. Only five kilometers, but still…
She pushed her nose at the ground, relaxing into the challenge as the moist odor of tender grass hit her nostrils. She held her breath at the sight of a ladybug balancing on a tip of grass, contemplating its glossy red and black form. Ladybugs had always reminded Sylvie of her grandmother: remarkable, yet vulnerable.
Ever so gently, she blew her breath on the critter.
A gruff voice interrupted her bliss. “I knew I’d find you here.”
Sylvie’s heart sank. Ah non, not again. She ignored the voice and kept on blowing.
“Alors, still trying to be Superwoman? Or is it Superjock?”
Sylvie’s back muscles tightened. Moistness trickled under her arms. Before she could straighten, she knew she was cornered.
“You won’t mind if I join you,” ordered the voice. A blond woman with a synthetic smile and dangling gold earrings threw down a newspaper, which landed a foot from Sylvie’s head.
Attempting to kneel in her Chanel suit and sheer stockings, the woman grimaced at the sound of ripping nylon. “Merde!”
Sylvie swung her legs together. “En fait, I was just on my way—”
“Come on, mon lapin, I saw you. You just got here. Hard to miss all that huffing and puffing. And you’re sweating up a lake.” The woman’s eyes bored into Sylvie’s.
“Isn’t it a bit late to find out you can’t hide things from Lydia?” The blond woman placed her hand firmly on Sylvie’s shoulder. Digging her long, silver fingernails into the androgynous woman’s T-shirt, she forced her to stay put.
“So you’ve been spying on me again.” Crossing her legs, Sylvie glared at her impromptu visitor.
Lydia laughed nervously. “You wish!” She scanned the grass. “I just happened to be taking a walk in the—”
“D’accord, Lydia. You just happened to drive thirty kilometers in rush-hour traffic to come take a stroll in my neighborhood park at eight a.m. on a Tuesday morning.”
Lydia dug her fingernails deeper into Sylvie’s skin. “First of all, it’s not your park. It’s a public space. It belongs to everyone.”
“D’accord.” Sylvie shook the woman’s hand off her shoulder. “But you just happen to live in Flanders, where you have so many beaut—”
“Cut the crap. Why didn’t you return my calls?” The Chanel woman’s eyes were glistening.
Sylvie clenched her jaw. I will not let her do this to me. Not again.
Lydia’s voice quivered. “We agreed we’d be friends. But it’s been four months, and no word from you at all.” Feigning a frown, she plucked a few blades of grass. “You never answer your phone. You never seem to be at work.”
Sylvie’s nostrils flared. “I can’t take phone calls while I’m working. You know that.”
“If you can call what you do ‘working.’” Lydia rolled her eyes.
Sylvie glared at her. “Ah non, not this again. We’re not going there.”
“Never mind. I…I was worried about you. I was afraid you did something drastic, like leave Belgium for good, or something.” Lydia’s voice cracked
.
“I would’ve told you,” said Sylvie, softening her voice.
“But what if something happened to me? What if I got sick, like really sick? I could’ve died, and you—” Like a Broadway actress, Lydia brushed off imaginary tears with the back of her wrist.
“You’re a strong woman, Lydia.”
“But you don’t care anymore, n’est-ce pas? You never cared!” Lydia pouted.
Sylvie inhaled deeply to steady herself. “We agreed it was over. Remember?”
“But I trusted you, Sylvie,” burst Lydia, ripping up bits of grass around her knees.
The way she whined reminded Sylvie of a spoiled child fussing over spilled ice cream. So obnoxious. Sylvie felt her ears grow hot as her temper rose. “You trusted me? What’s this? You go off on one of your fancy business trips and you—” Her voice broke off.
“But it only happened once, and I did apologize.”
“We’re not going to go over this again, Lydia. It’s time to move on.” Sylvie could feel the sore spot in her chest, a mental bruise from the past, stabbing at her heart. “De toute façon, in case you forgot, you’re a happily married woman,” she retorted with a sneer.
“That’s not fair! Leave him out of this.”
Sylvie rose and, after a few brisk arm swings, announced firmly, “Désolée, Lydia. This time, it really is over.” She held up her sports watch. “And it’s time for me to run.”
Still perched pristinely on her newspaper, Lydia struggled to untangle her legs. “Mon lapin, wait!” But before she could move, a curt “ciao” answered her plea. As Chanel woman watched a certain white T-shirt zoom away, her former lover’s carefree attitude created havoc with her system. Her lipstick-drenched lips tightened into a scowl that she would most likely wear for the remainder of the day.
*****
That evening, soft red light cast a mysterious hue over Sylvie’s face as she lifted the last photo. With rubber tongs, she shook the black-and-white print paper. A few drops of chemicals dropped back into the tray. With the skill of a seasoned developer, she hung the wet photo next to the others suspended on a string in the improvised darkroom in her bathroom. A timer clicked in the corner, counting the seconds before Sylvie had to transfer her next batch of photos.
She relished these moments in the evening when her sole task was to obey the timer. In the quiet darkness, her thoughts came to a standstill. These precious pauses in life let her concentrate on nothing but her art.
Tonight, she hardly noticed the fatigue in her legs from her morning five-kilometer run. She stood firmly in her running shoes, her muscles obscured by the darkroom’s blackness. She hummed as she squinted at the photo dangling above her head. She could barely make out the black forms on its glossy white surface.
She drew closer to inspect the image’s contours. Needs more contrast. I should have used filter number four. The timer buzzed. As she extracted the first photo from her new batch, she stopped humming when she heard a familiar ring tone. She glanced at her backpack on the stool. Great timing, Lydia. She continued hanging the wet photos while her cell phone played its music, her neck muscles stiffening as the sounds droned on. When she finally reached for her backpack, the music stopped. Great timing, she repeated to herself, slumping against the wall.
Later that evening, Sylvie’s home phone rang. After two rings, she threw down her napkin. This is getting old. Lettuce-and-turkey sandwich in hand, she checked the number displayed.
“Ah, bonsoir, Monsieur Lasalle…You called me earlier?” She pulled on a strand of hair as she listened to her boss. “Afraid of what? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”
She hung up the phone. “Looks like we’ll be getting up early for a while, Goldie.” She handed a bit of turkey to her cat. “And I guess I’ll have to start jogging in the evenings.”
Sylvie pondered the thought while watching Goldie lick her paws. Then she chuckled. “At least that’ll keep Lydia off our backs for a couple of weeks!”
Chapter Seven
Everything seems so different in the dark, Hélène realized, inhaling the scent of fresh rain from the night. All was silent except for an occasional plane and the brittle sound of gravel crunching under her tires. Her bike light shone weakly on the ground as she rode through the slick streets.
Hélène was struggling to maintain her balance, and right before she reached the pool, she heard heavy wheels skidding on the pavement. A truck whizzed past her. The driver honked, causing her to swerve to the curb. C’est super dangereux! Hélène realized, slamming on her brakes. She vowed to buy one of those ugly fluorescent cycling vests.
The last thing I need is to get hit by one of these mad drivers before my first private swimming lesson. Dr. Duprès told me I had to exercise to reduce my cholesterol levels, but riding around Brussels at the crack of dawn every morning might be overdoing it.
*****
After Hélène’s third set of knocks on the heavy wooden door, and still no answer, she nudged it open. The lights were on. “Bonjour,” she called out, peering inside.
Already 6:50. Might as well go in.
Halfway down the hall, Hélène entered an empty room. The faint odor of fresh paint and disinfectant roused her nostrils. After glancing at the shiny pink and green walls, her eyes fell on a pair of turbo hair dryers.
Must be the locker room. She popped behind a blue plastic shower curtain adorned with baby fish. Reappearing in her new bathing suit and swim cap after an impromptu shopping spree, she shuddered at her reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent lights made her body glow. White as aspirin. Quickly covering herself with a towel, she entered a bathroom stall.
Just as she started to sit down, she heard footsteps in the locker room. There was a jingling of keys, then a light thump. Next, she heard a rustling shower curtain. She began to sweat. Sure hope I’m in the women’s. This thought made her lose the urge; she tiptoed out of the stall.
At least I’ve got some color now, she mused, staring at her flushed face in the mirror. But this swim cap is hideous. As she was tucking in her blond locks, something shiny on the counter caught her eyes.
It was a keychain sporting a silver fish with the word “Greece” etched into it, exactly like the one she had found weeks before. Before Hélène could react, she heard rustling sounds behind her. Now or never! She tiptoed over to a shower curtain, took a gulp of air, and peeked underneath. All she could see were two tan ankles. One of them was wearing a colorful bead anklet. Then she lifted her eyes. Attached to the ankles were two muscular calves. Hélène felt a rush of adrenaline. Behind the calves, she spotted an old yellow backpack. Ah, non! Five tan toes inserted themselves into a yellow and green flip-flop. Then five more toes…
Trying to outrace her pounding heart, Hélène scrambled out of the locker room before the flip-flops could catch up with her.
*****
Hélène had no idea where she was headed, but her bare feet were soaring. She had to escape. This must be it, she presumed, stumbling through an open doorway. The sharp odor of chlorine hit her nostrils—that same smell that made her stomach churn as a child. Over thirty years had passed since then, but the strong memories still haunted her—even now as she raced blindly through the empty building.
Then she heard a thud. “Aaaiiieee!” she yelped, skidding to a stop. Next came a vibrating sound: Doooiiing…doooiiing. She thought it was her body, teetering after such a violent collision. She reached down to rub her toe. It had slammed into something hard. But the sound came from something lurking in front of her nose. She ran her fingers over the offending object she had just hit. Its contours were rigid and sharp.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could just make out its form. It was a metallic sign. She squinted to read the bold print.
“Rule number one: No running around the pool.” I’ll remember that one, she thought as the pain intensified in her toe.
Hélène scanned her surroundings. Now, where am I going to hide? Except for t
iny rays of light filtering from its high windows, the pool area was completely dark. Spinning around, she spotted a large crate filled with swimming props just a few feet behind her. She ran behind it and crouched into a ball. Trying to ignore her racing heart, she squinted at the faint yellow light pouring down. At that instant, a strange thought popped into her head. Now I know why I write poetry. So I can turn into an imaginary butterfly and exit my life through a grimy window.
This thought preceded a deluge of additional early-morning reflections, each more far-fetched than the other. Finally, her imagination ran out of steam. I’m too old for this, she decided at last. Ignoring her throbbing toe, she stood. Just then, she heard a whizz, then a crackle, and a row of overhead lights popped on. Ducking down again, she noticed a hole in the bottom of the crate. She leaned her body sideways on the cold concrete floor. As she pressed her eye into the hole, she saw the fuzzy outline of a large pool. Then she gasped. The yellow and green flip-flops.
Craning her neck, Hélène’s eyes shifted upward, following the tan ankles and muscular calves, leading up to… Hélène gulped at the figure sitting on a bench. It’s her. She knew it even before she saw her face. Hélène pinched her ear to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Ouch. Sure enough, this olive-skinned individual clad in a simple yellow swimsuit was the woman from the market, the jogger, the Greek stranger, with an incredibly athletic body. Hélène’s palms began to sweat as her eyes scrutinized the mysterious woman.
Even though a swim cap hid that gorgeous dark hair, her striking body and exotic Greek nose made Hélène’s body tremble. She had never had a reaction like this just from looking at someone. Not even Marc. Not even at the beginning, when they first met. A series of thoughts ran through her mind. Why am I trembling like this? Because it’s freezing in here? Because I’m lying on this cold concrete floor? Because my toe is throbbing? Or because I’m in shock because the Greek goddess is in here, right in front of me, with such…
