We hug one more time, and then with a wave, I walk briskly into the airport, careful not to look back. One glance at them and any feeble hold I have on my emotions will disappear.
Taking out my passport, I find an open kiosk, and begin the check-in process. After my baggage tags and boarding pass are printed, I head to the baggage drop-off. It’s much quicker than expected, and five minutes later I’m in the line-up at security.
Once I’ve reached the other side, my anxiety begins to ebb. I decide to kill time with shopping and head to the nearest duty-free. I’m not sure what it is about flying, but I suddenly become a consumer of magazines I would never normally read. By the time I leave the shop, I’ve bought InStyle, Vanity Fair, People, and The New Yorker. I also have water, chocolate, and a bag of Jolly Ranchers.
My stomach is in knots when I reach the boarding area. It’s not the flying that has me anxious. I’ve never been a nervous flyer. It’s the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing thoughts that keep running through my brain at full speed.
This is by far the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. It’s beyond rash. I’m about to get on a plane and fly to a country I’ve never been to before, in the hopes of finding out who my maternal grandmother was. And all I have is her first name and a general area of where she could be from.
I take the notebook from my handbag and look over the list I wrote down.
Visit the museums at the Landing Beaches for information about where Grandpa may have landed.
Search area for anyone who might have information on Charlotte.
Find out Charlotte’s full name.
Find out where Charlotte lived.
Find out where my mother was born.
Find out what happened.
* * *
It’s not exactly a detailed list. In fact, aside from the first two points, it’s not even a list of things to do. I don’t think I could be less prepared. Over the last couple of days, I tried to think of everything I could to narrow down where to look, but it’s impossible. Grandpa came in by air and could have landed anywhere in that almost twenty-five-mile area. And who knows how close the barn was to where she found him.
Taking out my phone, I bring up the folder where I’ve been keeping any information I’ve uncovered. I already knew Grandpa was a paratrooper in the 3rd battalion of the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment. I’ve come to learn it was also known as the five-o-deuces. They were assigned Drop Zone A on D-Day, which was an area by Utah Beach. The graphic showing the various landings depicts what I can only imagine was chaos.
On the black and white image, the 3rd battalion landings are shown by white circles, which are scattered across the map. Enemy resistance is depicted by curved black lines, and the advance of the battalions by black arrows.
It’s hard to imagine what it looked like in reality, the skies alight with fire, the sounds of artillery filling the air. And all across the region, in the cover of darkness, men jumped from aircraft to their unknown fates on the ground below.
I wonder what they felt, taking that leap, not knowing what would come. I pull up the satellite image of the fields. Grandpa landed somewhere in one of them. Shot and left for dead.
He was twenty-one years old.
It’s a fear I can’t fathom, a bravery I’m not sure I possess. It’s that thought I cling to that pushes me forward. If he had the courage to do such a thing, then the least I can do is go there and find out the truth.
* * *
I have no idea what day it is, let alone the time when I land in Paris. In a state between awake and asleep, I meander through customs, retrieve my luggage, and walk out into the blaring sun. Shielding my eyes from the glare, I follow the signs to the taxi stand and wait in line.
When it’s my turn, a driver helps me with my bags and I get into the back seat. He asks me something in French, and I reply in English, giving him what I hope is the correct pronunciation of Saint Lazare train station.
The driver doesn’t attempt to speak to me again, which is a relief, to be honest. I don’t like making small talk in taxis. It’s an awkward exchange of information with someone you’re most likely never going to see again.
For most of the half hour trip, the highway bypasses suburbs and areas rarely depicted in the Hollywood version of Paris. As we get closer, though, the buildings become older, and the Paris I always imagined comes into view. I stare out the window in wonder at the boutiques and parks. The rows of white-stone buildings curve with the streets, each of them unique in structure. Even the roads are different, cobblestone like something from a time long since passed.
A surreal feeling takes root, and with it an unanticipated excitement. I’m in Paris. I woke up in Seattle, but now I’m in Paris.
I wish I’d booked a couple of days to explore at the start of the trip, rather than the end. There’s so much I want to see, so many places I’ve dreamed of visiting. For the moment, however, my focus is on getting to Bayeux.
After the taxi drops me off at the station, I work my way through the crowds into the large, nineteenth century building. Inside, I figure out which platform my train is leaving from, and seeing I still have fifteen minutes before departure, I make a beeline for the first café I see.
With an Americano in hand, I head to the train, only breathing easy again once I’m onboard. My phone tells me the local time is 11:30 a.m. That means it’s 3:30 a.m. in Seattle, which explains my exhaustion.
I’ve never been able to sleep on planes. I remember when I was eight, Grandpa took me on a trip to Australia, and I was awake the entire flight. I’d always chalked it up to excitement, but as I got older, the terrible habit continued. Trains, however, have never been a problem for me. Within ten minutes of leaving the station, my coffee is long forgotten in place of sleep.
When I wake it’s with a jolt and that sunken feeling that comes with not recognizing where you are. The Americano sits cold on the table in front of me. I quickly grab my phone to check the time and with relief see that I’ve only slept an hour and a half.
If the schedule is right, we should be arriving in Bayeux in less than an hour. I consider trying to sleep more, but my mind is too occupied. The world beyond the window is a sea of green fields and blue sky. I find myself wondering if Normandy will look the same. The yearning to be there, to see it for myself only gets stronger as I get closer.
I pull out the headphones from my bag and select Billie Holiday from my playlist. The “Very Thought of You” comes on through shuffle. The coincidence is not lost on me, and I smile as I watch the tapestry pass by. It’s a strange feeling that comes over me, but I sense my grandpa near, as though I could turn and find him sitting next to me. Closing my eyes, I will it to stay.
I’m not much of the praying type, but I ask that he guide me to answers. To help me know where to look. The task weighs heavy on my shoulders, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to find the truth. Somewhere, somehow, I’m going to find out what happened.
* * *
When I step out of Bayeux station, there isn’t much around in terms of buildings. Aside from a café on the corner with the name Hotel de Gare painted across the terracotta brick, and a small shop advertising calvados, the area is quiet. A lone taxi sits in the taxi bay, and I head over, hoping they’re not already taken. As I near, the driver steps out and gives me a warm smile.
“Are you free?” I ask.
“Oui,” he responds.
I take it as a sign that he at least understands English. “I need to get to the Coeur de Loup B&B on Rue Saint-Loup.”
“That is no problem,” he says, the words sounding melodic with his accent. He takes my bag and puts it in the trunk while I get into the back seat.
As we drive down the road, I try to get a sense of the place. It’s lush and green, not entirely rural, but not quite suburban either. The buildings we pass are nothing like I’ve ever seen in America. My lack of architectural knowledge, however, has me stumped on how old they could be. I decide to f
orgo my disinclination for small talk and ask the taxi driver.
“Bayeux is very old,” he says. “It has its origins in the days of the Romans. The old town, where you are staying, was once a medieval village.”
“Wow, I had no idea. And these houses along the streets here?”
“Many of them were built during the renaissance. In the heart of the city, however, there are still half-timbered houses, which date back to the fourteenth century.”
It’s hard to imagine the lives such buildings have seen. “We don’t have anything like this back home in America.”
“No,” he agrees. “America, in many ways, is still a young country.”
We drive down a tree-lined street past a large cemetery. Neat rows of white headstones go back as far as I can see.
“This is cimetière militaire britannique de Bayeux,” he explains.
As bad as my French is, I gather that it translates to a British war cemetery. I make a mental note to come back and visit. The taxi turns down a smaller street, and then another. Finally, he turns onto Rue Saint-Loup. The rows of houses come right up onto the street, and I can’t help but think of Beauty and the Beast, half-expecting someone to stick their head out of one of the windows and start singing.
We come to a park outside a fenced property. The large white stone wall makes it impossible to see the other side. The entryway is barred by a teal metal gate. Aside from a small plaque designating it Chambres d’hôtes Coeur de Loup, I wouldn’t have any idea that there was a property behind it.
I pay the driver, and he takes my bags out of the trunk for me. After I thank him, I watch as he gets back into the car and drives off, leaving me alone. Staring at the looming gate, I have no idea how I’m supposed to get inside.
Crossing the street, I wonder if I should knock. It seems a dramatic action on such a large door. There is a knocker on it though, so I figure I’m meant to, and go to use it, when I notice the gate is ajar. With a slight push, it opens easily.
Stepping through, I come into an enchanting courtyard. A cobblestone driveway leads up to a few steps and a wooden front door. The manor is like something out of an Austen novel. The lower level of the cream painted stone is covered in green foliage, and the windows of the second floor are framed with teal shutters, the same color as the front gate.
I pull my suitcase along the uneven ground and am halfway up the steps when the front door flings open. A middle-aged woman with shoulder-length curly red hair looks at me with a welcoming smile.
“You must be Charlotte,” she says, her British accent proper.
“I am.” I return her smile.
“Come.” She motions enthusiastically. “We weren’t sure what time you’d arrive and have been eagerly awaiting you.”
She turns, her long, forest green velvet dress swishing with her movements. I follow her inside and stare around in awe. I’m not sure what it was I was expecting, but my imagination would never have been able to do it justice.
The foyer is painted a pastel yellow. A sweeping, wooden staircase leads up to the second floor, a runner of burgundy carpet cascading down it. On every fourth step is a copper candelabra.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” the woman tells me, and then laughs. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Jane. Jane Emmerson. My husband, Steve, and I own the place.”
I put my handbag down next to my suitcase. “It’s lovely to meet you, Jane.”
There’s something about her energy that I find captivating. I assume she’s in her early sixties, but there’s a youthful vibrancy about the way she moves.
“So, this is the entrance,” she says with a flourish. “And just off here on the left is the breakfast room.”
I glance inside and see mint-colored walls, a large antique dining table, and a statue of Beethoven in the corner.
“And over here,” she says, indicating the room opposite, “is the parlor.”
A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling. The walls are cream and framed with wood detailing. A coffee table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by a dark blue sofa and matching chairs. There’s a fireplace opposite, a large mirror above it reaching to the ceiling. The floors are wooden but a Persian rug sits beneath the coffee table.
If it weren’t for the more modern furnishings of the lamps and a television in the corner, you could almost believe you’d stepped back in time.
“It’s so beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she says proudly. “You should have seen it when we bought it five years ago. It was in a state of disrepair. I didn’t want to modernize it much though. Houses like this have character, and it’s always best to let them do the talking, don’t you think?”
I murmur in agreement. “Are there many others staying?”
“Tonight it’s just you. And Steve and I, of course. We have a gentleman arriving tomorrow morning. Next week we have quite a few guests booked. June and July are our busiest times. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
I follow her back into the foyer, and we walk past the stairs into a large country-style kitchen.
“You are welcome to use anything you want in here,” she tells me. “And this door here leads you out into the backyard.”
I look through, and see a table and chairs on the grass, surrounded by a garden. There’s a wildness to the flowers, even though they’re clearly well-maintained. The whole place is so charming that I find myself speechless.
“Now you are a lucky sausage,” Jane says, leading me back out into the foyer where she picks up my bags and heads up the stairs. “Your bedroom overlooks the garden.”
When we reach the second floor, a hall stretches out before us. The runner of burgundy carpet from the stairs continues all the way down. Light streaming in from the open windows bounces off the pale yellow walls, giving the place a bright and cozy feel.
Jane stops at the first door on the right and unlocks it with a key that looks like something out of a fairytale. She pushes the door open and lets me go in first. The room has its own little foyer with a cupboard, a chair, and a window looking out over the garden.
“This door here,” she says, opening the one adjacent to the window, “is your bathroom.”
A peek inside shows modern amenities, the shower, toilet, and basin white and pristine. The smell of lavender fills the air, and I see a small vase of the flowers sitting on the basin shelf.
In the bedroom, natural light spills through from a large window opposite the bed. The walls are a soft peach color and a chandelier hangs from the ceiling. I reach down and touch the quilt on the bed as my eyes go to the unique fireplace. The white marble mantel is carved with an intricate floral design.
“It’s from the seventeenth century,” Jane says, following my gaze. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“It’s absolutely beautiful. The whole place is.”
Jane’s smile broadens. “Here are your keys. This one is for the room, and this smaller one is for the front door.” She places them down on the bed and then takes a quick look around. “Towels and extra linens are in the cupboard by the fireplace. Do you have any plans for this evening?”
“No, I don’t.”
My answer seems to please her. “Would you like to have dinner with Steve and I?”
It’s an unexpected invitation, but not unwelcome. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
“Wonderful. Do you have any allergies?”
I shake my head. “No, I eat anything.”
“Excellent, well I’ll leave you to settle in. We’ll eat around seven.” She walks over to the door and stops. “Oh, by the way, if you want to visit the town, it’s a five-minute walk. Just turn left out the door and the street will lead you down to the cathedral.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles and leaves, closing the door behind her. I grab my bags from the foyer and bring them into the bedroom, placing them on the bed. Looking around, I take it all in, familiarizing myself with the space that wil
l be my home for the next two weeks.
Taking out my phone, I text Fiona and Zoe to let them know I’ve arrived safely. A breeze comes in through the window, and as I move closer, distant birdsong carries on the wind. The oddest feeling comes over me. A sort of déjà vu. A sense of being exactly where I’m meant to be.
Or already have been.
I’m not sure which.
6
I hate looking like a tourist, my camera at the ready, but I can’t help it. With every turn of a corner there’s something I want to take a photo of. After following Jane’s directions, a five-minute walk down the road led me to Bayeux Cathedral. The stunning church looms above the town with its Gothic spires reaching to the skies. In awe, I probably stared up at it for a full minute before realizing I was standing in the middle of the road.
Down every cobblestone street there is something enchanting to be found. In one of the lanes behind the church I came upon an old mill. I think I took at least twenty photos, captivated by how much it seemed untouched by modernity, a snapshot of something from a bygone era.
With no destination in mind, I was surprised when I stumbled out into a main shopping street that runs through the heart of the town, lined with twenty-first century restaurants, cafes, and boutiques that are all housed inside buildings, some of which are over three hundred years old. My favorite are the half-timbered houses with the exposed cross-beams. They remind me of something from the tales of the Grimm brothers. It’s hard to believe they’ve survived all that’s happened since their construction.
After stopping at a café, my coffee and I choose a quieter street and follow it all the way down until it leads back to the cathedral. As I retrace my path to the B&B, I notice a wine shop and stop to buy a couple of bottles to go with dinner.
The older man behind the counter greets me in French, and I smile sheepishly as I say hello. He turns out to not only be proficient in English, but also a connoisseur of all things alcohol-related. By the time I’ve left I’ve purchased a bottle of red from the Côtes du Rhône region, and a bottle of Calvados, which he told me is a cider brandy specific to Normandy.
The Sea of Lost Things Page 5
