The Sea of Lost Things

by Kelly St-Laurent

  “Maybe. But from the little I was told, my grandmother died when Mom was a baby. She didn’t know her.”

  “So, do you think your grandpa went back to find her, and found a child instead?”

  It’s hard to know what happened, but the thought fills me with an unexpected melancholy.

  Fiona puts the photo and letter back on the table. “Whatever happened, it seems he really loved her. It’s sad to think they might not have seen one another again.”

  I murmur in agreement.

  “Is that what this map is about?” she asks, looking at my computer screen. “Are you trying to find out where they met?”

  It seems embarrassing to admit it. “I guess I just wanted to see if it was possible.”

  She pulls the laptop closer and points to the satellite image of fields. “So it could be anywhere in this area. It’s not too big.”

  “A twenty-five-mile area. And with only a first name to go on, it’s not much.”

  “But it’s something, isn’t it?” The look she gives me is encouraging. “It’s not nothing.”

  “No,” I agree. “I suppose it’s not.”

  “And with a little determination...” She smiles, letting her words hang in the air.

  I figure it’ll take a whole lot more than determination. Miles and miles of unfamiliar territory, a single name to go off of, and no clue on how to even begin to start.

  It’ll take something akin to a miracle to find out who she was.

  Still. Fiona isn’t wrong.

  It’s not impossible.

  4

  For the next few days, my attempts to push the letter from my mind are unsuccessful. Without work to distract me, and far too much time on my hands, I find myself going back to it, rereading it, willing more information to appear.

  In the mornings, I drink my coffee in front of my computer, scouring through records. I’m able to learn more about the battalion my grandpa was in. I follow the routes they took, read about the battles they fought, the men they lost. It’s hard to imagine my grandpa in the middle of any of it. Harder still to imagine what it must have been like to survive.

  I go through his boxes again and again, looking for anything that might help. I can’t even find a birth certificate for my mother, nothing that tells me where she was born. It’s as though her life before coming to the States was erased.

  For three days, I pore over records and databases but come up empty. Without a last name, I can’t search for Charlotte on genealogy websites. I can’t even search for a French birth certificate for my mother. Without her mother’s maiden name, and the town of her birth, there’s no way to access one. A needle in a haystack doesn’t suffice. It’s more like I’m searching for a shell on a beach I’m not even standing on.

  A beach on an entirely different continent.

  I shut my computer in frustration. There’s a break in the clouds, and the sun shines through the window. My frustration turns to anger. Why didn’t my grandpa leave me any information about her? Why didn’t he tell me who she was? What reason could there be to keep that hidden from me?

  I sigh in exasperation and reopen my computer, not yet willing to accept defeat. The satellite image of the fields in Normandy stare back at me, an array of green and brown squares. I don’t know why the thought comes to me, but I have a sudden need to be there. To walk through them. To see them for myself.

  I zoom into the map and see the detail of roads. Clicking on one, I bring up street view. I’m suddenly transported to a hedge-lined lane. The sky above is blue with fluffy white clouds. I travel further down the road, past a paddock with horses grazing, and see a quaint farmhouse.

  It’s strange, but it feels so familiar even though I’ve never been there before. I click on another street, and another, the environment altering slightly, but the sense of familiarity remaining.

  It’s becoming blatantly obvious that I’m never going to be able to find Charlotte online. But she did exist, that much I know. She lived on one of these lanes. In one of these farmhouses. Somewhere close to a field where she saved my grandpa’s life.

  My phone lights up with a text from Zoe. She’s sent a bunch since Saturday, but I haven’t replied to any. This one, however, can’t be ignored. Staring at the screen, I read the request: Meet me at our old hangout spot at 1pm. I’ll be there even if you don’t reply.

  I can’t not go. No matter how I’m feeling, I wouldn’t do that to her. I don’t text back though. I figure she can stew a little while longer, wondering if I’ll show or not. I know the minute I see her, my anger will dissipate. I’ve always found it impossible to stay mad at her. For the moment, though, I’ll hold on to it. As petty as it is, it’s the only thing I feel like I have any control over right now.

  * * *

  I decide to walk to the restaurant. Toulouse Petit is only a mile from my apartment, and the weather’s so warm I can’t justify driving. After a quick shower, I pull my hair up into a loose ponytail and throw on a pair of jeans, black boots, and a gray t-shirt. I don’t bother with any makeup, instead putting on some sunscreen, my skin not used to the sun after a long and rainy winter.

  Turning right out of my apartment, I stop for a moment at the lookout. The glistening water lulls the boats in the harbor below. I breathe in deeply, the fresh air filling my lungs, enjoying the sense of calm that comes with it. Spring is in full effect, the trees around me finally turning green again. Life is beginning all over.

  I wonder if it works for humans also.

  As I continue down 10th Avenue, I think about Normandy, about those squares of fields. In one of them Charlotte found my grandpa. My entire existence is because of that moment. He could have died there, and my mother and I would never have been born. But it turned out differently. And because of that, I need to know who she was.

  The thought of it consumes me in a way I never expected. Less than a week ago I didn’t even know she existed. Now she’s all I can think about.

  My mind wanders as I turn down 3rd Avenue. I imagine those fields, and in them a woman who looks like my mother, who looks like me. I see her golden hair shining as it blows in the wind, just as my grandpa remembered in his letter. Her eyes were green like mine. Like my mother’s. I hold the image of her, the details blurry, but still somehow clear. As I get closer to the restaurant, that seed of an idea persists.

  What if I went there to find out who she was?

  I quickly brush it away. It’s rash and imprudent, and I’m not one to make impulsive decisions. I’m more of a pros-and-cons-list, take-a-month-to-over-analyze type of decision maker. I like things to be planned. I hate surprises. I need to have the sense of control, or at the very least, the façade of it.

  And yet, the idea won’t go away. A little voice nags at the back of my brain.

  Find her.

  But how? I couldn’t even imagine where to begin.

  The restaurant comes into view, and as I approach, I attempt to turn my thoughts to something else. Walking inside, I see Zoe sitting at a table by the window, tying her long dark hair in a thick braid. She stands when she sees me, her face awash with relief. She looks stunning, even in casual blue overalls and a white crop top.

  “You came,” she says as I cross the room to the table.

  As expected, the residual anger I held on to disappears. “Of course,” I tell her. “You asked.”

  She wraps her arms tightly around me. “I’m so, so, sosososo sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, barely able to breathe.

  She relinquishes her hold. “I should have told you right away.”

  “Yeah, you should have.”

  With a defeated nod, she sits down at the table. “You have every right to be angry at me.”

  “I know you were only trying to protect me,” I say, taking the seat opposite. “But I’m not as fragile as you and Fiona seem to think.”

  Her expression softens. “I never thought you were fragile, Char. I just didn’t want to give you any more pa
in. You’ve had enough to last you a lifetime.”

  There’s no pity in her voice, only empathy. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your texts.”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “I deserve it. I’m just glad you’re here now.”

  “Me too.”

  The server comes by and we each order the BLT sandwich without looking at the menu. It’s been our favorite since we started coming here back when we were in college. I let Zoe pick the wine, as that’s her specialty. She chooses a bottle of Pinot Noir.

  “Where’s the wine from?” I ask her after the server has left.

  “The Loire Valley in France. It’s so good. You’re going to love it.”

  She’s never given me a wine I didn’t enjoy. “Is that close to Normandy?”

  “No, it’s more central.” She looks at me curiously. “Why do you ask?”

  I contemplate brushing it off, but a part of me wants to hear what she thinks. So I tell her. All of it. Well, at least the little that I’ve learned so far.

  “Shit,” she says, a couple of minutes later. “That’s amazing.”

  “Not so amazing, considering I don’t have much to go on.”

  “No, don’t you see?” She leans her elbows on the table. “It’s like he wanted you to find her.”

  I glance at her, doubtful. “Then why didn’t he just tell me?”

  “I don’t know, but he kept the letter, didn’t he? Of all the things he brought with him when he moved in with you, he made sure to bring the letter.”

  “Maybe he forgot it was in there. His memory wasn’t great at the end.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  The server returns with the wine, giving me a moment to think. When she leaves, Zoe waits on me to answer.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to find her online, but it’s impossible.”

  She purses her lips in consideration. “Is there any way to know exactly where your grandpa landed on D-Day?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know how. A lot of soldiers missed their drop zone and had to find their way back to their battalions. Unless he wrote about his personal experiences somewhere, or there was someone I could ask who was there, I can’t see how I’d find that out.”

  “But what about the men he served with? They might remember.”

  I shake my head. “None of them are alive anymore. He went to each of their funerals. The last was a couple years ago.”

  Zoe absentmindedly swirls the glass of wine in her hand. “What about the museums?” she asks after a moment.

  “Museums?”

  “Yeah, there are war museums on the Normandy beaches. Pierre and I visited them during our honeymoon. There’s so much information in there.”

  “You think I should email them?”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  I don’t know why, but I get the feeling she’s reading my mind. “This is going to sound really strange,” I say, and take a sip of my wine for courage, “but I think I want to go.”

  Her lips curl up into a smile. “You should.”

  “It’s crazy though. Imprudent.”

  “Yeah, and the fact that you’re even considering it means something. This is you we’re talking about. You wouldn’t be thinking about this if it didn’t matter.”

  She’s right. But my hesitation remains. “I can’t just up and go to France.”

  “Why not? Is there something vitally important keeping you here?”

  I open my mouth to respond and promptly close it.

  “Char, you put everything on hold to help your grandpa. It’s beyond admirable. But isn’t it time you start doing things that make you happy? You don’t have any work lined up for the summer. You’re wonderfully unattached and free. And of course, there’s the fact that you’re financially, shall we say independent?”

  I smile at her choice of words. The one benefit of being the only person left alive in your family is that you inherit everything. The money from both my parents’, and my grandpa’s houses, all their life savings and assets. It all transferred to me. By the time I turned twenty-one I had more in my bank account than my friends combined.

  I don’t usually talk about it, let alone think about it. It’s money I would give back in a heartbeat if I could see my family again. But Zoe’s right. I can make a hundred excuses why I shouldn’t go, but finances aren’t one of them.

  “Let’s say I went.” I can’t believe I’m entertaining the idea. “How would I even begin? Where would I stay? I don’t know anything about the area.”

  “Bayeux.” She says like it’s the answer to every question.

  “What’s Bayeux?”

  “It’s a township in Normandy. It’s beyond beautiful. There’s a cathedral and cobblestone streets, and an incredible market you have to try. But it’s also a central spot between all the landing beaches.”

  I pull out my phone and do a quick search. The images that come up are idyllic. Picturesque stone houses, a mill, and lots of mentions of a tapestry I assume is famous in the area. I look at where it is on the map and see what she means about its location.

  “It’s really easy to get to from Paris,” Zoe adds. “You only have to take one train, and it’s maybe two hours away.”

  “This is crazy,” I say, putting my phone on the table.

  “I know.” There’s a giddiness in her voice. “That’s why you have to do it.”

  Our meals arrive, and as I take the first few bites, I can’t let go of the idea. “Don’t I need a visa?”

  She hits the bottom of the ketchup bottle to encourage the contents along. “Is your passport up to date?”

  “Yeah, I renewed it last year.”

  “Then you’re good. You can travel there for three months.”

  “I don’t need three months,” I tell her, shocked at the thought. “If I do this, and that’s a big if, then it’ll be for a couple of weeks only.”

  She shrugs and takes a bite of her sandwich. “You get three months either way.”

  * * *

  I’m not sure if it’s the bottle of wine we drank at lunch, or the two glasses I had when I got home, but I sit on the couch staring at my computer. Confirmation for my purchase of a plane ticket to Paris stares back at me. The panic sets in immediately.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. What have I done?”

  I send a group text to Fiona and Zoe, hoping they’ll talk me out of it. Their responses are fast and enthusiastic.

  Ah, I’m so jealous, writes Fiona.

  Yes! This is going to be amazing, Zoe types next.

  The conversation goes back and forth between them for a while, with Fiona happy that we’ve made up. I cut back in, trying to bring the focus to the issue at hand.

  This is a mistake.

  I immediately receive a slew of responses telling me it’s not. Then Zoe sends me the name of the B&B she mentioned at lunch. I get up and pour myself another glass of courage. When I return, she’s texted more information about it. I follow the link, which brings up a website for Chambres d’hôtes Coeur de Loup.

  The place looks charming. A two-story white stone house with teal green shutters and foliage covering the lower level. The photos of the interior show enchanting eighteenth century décor, as well as a large back garden.

  On their accommodation page, I type in the dates, and figure if there’s no availability then it’s a sign. It comes back right away giving me a selection of rooms to choose from. With a sigh, I scroll through until I see one that catches my eye. The bedroom is similar to the others, with a queen bed, eighteenth century furnishings, and an en suite, but it’s the view that stops me. Large windows open out over the back garden.

  All of a sudden I feel like I’m there. Like I’m supposed to be there. I complete the reservation without a second thought. Afterwards, I text Zoe and Fiona.

  I booked the B&B. My flight leaves at 3 p.m. this Saturday.

  I can barely take in their e
xcited replies. The panic returns with the realization of what I’ve just done. I’m going to France.

  In three days.

  A rational thought pushes through my anxious ones. I need to start figuring out a plan. I need to start a list. I grab a pen and my notebook and begin to furiously scribble down every question, thought, and thing to do popping into my head.

  When I’m done, I stare at the list and take a deep breath.

  There’s no turning back now.

  5

  “You have your passport, right?” Fiona asks for the second time.

  I check my bag again as much for her peace of mind as my own. “I have everything. Passport, wallet, phone, charger, currency, Kindle, tissues.”

  “I hope you have room.” Zoe pulls a square-shaped present wrapped in metallic red paper from her bag and hands it to me. “‘Because we got you something.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say, taking it from her. With a smile, I tear at the paper, and find a French phrasebook inside.

  Zoe laughs. “We know how bad you are at French.”

  “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “You’re gonna have data, right?” Fiona asks. “So we can keep in touch, and you can let us know when you’ve landed?”

  There are tears in her eyes, a reaction I wasn’t expecting. “I’ll be in contact constantly. I promise.”

  They both pull me into a hug. For a fleeting second I wonder if I should just cancel the whole trip. It’s a ridiculous idea, dropping everything and going to France. But when they release their hold on me, their faces encouraging, I know I can’t back down.

  “You’re going to have an amazing time,” Zoe tells me. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  Fiona wipes a tear from her cheek. “I’m gonna miss you.”

  “It’s only two weeks,” I tell her. “I’ll be back on June 15th.” I try to fight back my own tears, knowing if I don’t leave now I never will. “I should get going.”