The Sea of Lost Things

by Kelly St-Laurent

  He takes a step toward me, getting much closer. “Considering I was doing you the favor, I think we’re even. Though I did waste a whole afternoon. So maybe you owe me.”

  I can tell that he means to make me nervous. “You have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?” I see a crack appear in his resolve, and it gives me the confidence to continue. “Since we seem to have a mutual dislike for one another, how about from this point on, we just stay out of each other’s way?”

  He lifts an incredulous brow.

  “Good morning, you two.”

  We turn to see Jane walking in from the garden. She pulls off her straw sun hat and dirt-stained apron, putting them on a nearby chair. I use the opportunity to move away from Jonah.

  “How’d you sleep?” she asks me, setting her bucket of garden tools on the counter.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  She fills the kettle with water and looks at her son. “You went for a run?”

  “Just to the market and back.” Jonah takes a cup and tea bag from the pantry and hands them to his mother.

  “So, what’s on the agenda today, Charlotte?” Jane asks, putting the kettle on the burner.

  “I was thinking of going to visit Utah. I found a bus that will take me to Carentan, but nothing to the actual beach.”

  She looks at me sympathetically. “There’s no public transport all the way to Utah, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing?”

  She shakes her head. “You need a car to get out that way.”

  I try not to show my disappointment. It throws a large wrench in my plans. “I looked up all the local car rental places last night and not one of them have any automatics available.”

  “It’s not easy to rent an automatic in France.” Jane says. “Manual transmission has always been favored.”

  I groan internally.

  “It’s a shame you never learned to drive manual,” Jonah says smugly, leaning against the counter.

  I glare at him, though I’m starting to agree.

  He keeps his eyes on me, his expression self-satisfied. Then all at once it shifts, turning sincere. “I’ll take you.”

  I nearly choke on my coffee. “What?”

  “I’ll drive you to Utah.”

  “Oh, that’s so kind of you, Jonah.” Jane looks adoringly at her son.

  I feel no such inclination. “It’s okay. I’ll find my own way.”

  “I don’t see how.” He says it so casually, which only irritates me further. Whatever his intentions for this false benevolence, I don’t want any part of it. I see Jane looking at me, her eyes bright with encouragement.

  Fuck.

  “We’ll leave in half an hour,” Jonah tells me, and before I can offer a rebuke, he exits the room.

  “Isn’t that serendipitous?” Jane says, making herself a cup of tea.

  I can think of a hundred other words for it, none of them close to favorable. “I suppose I should go get ready, then.”

  * * *

  In the safety of my room I try to think of any excuse I can to get out of the predicament I find myself in. Why the hell did he offer to take me? What’s in this for him? After changing into jeans and an apricot sleeveless blouse, I stare at myself in the mirror, needing a pep talk.

  Maybe he’s genuinely trying to be kind.

  I let that roll around in my mind for all of three seconds.

  No, there’s got to be something else to it. French braiding my hair, I ponder all the nefarious reasons he could have for acting chivalrous. I’ve only known Jonah a brief while, but it’s long enough to know it’s his interests he puts first.

  Frustrated, I put on my white sandals and grab my notebook, throwing it in my bag. Jane is waiting in the foyer when I get downstairs.

  “For the trip,” she says, handing me a brown paper bag. “Just some croissants, if you get hungry.”

  I give her a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

  “Have a fantastic day.”

  My smile disappears the minute I step out the front door. Like a repeat nightmare, I get into the passenger seat of the Audi, half expecting Jonah to zoom out of the driveway like he did the night before. Instead, he waits until I have my seatbelt on before putting the car into reverse.

  With his hand on the back of my seat, he checks the rear window, his face close to my own. I notice he’s had a shower, a faint citrus scent coming from his wet hair. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a light blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. My mind deceptively brings up the memory of him shirtless in the kitchen, and I quickly glance ahead.

  As he readjusts his position, I feel his eyes on me. “What’s in the bag?” he asks, taking aviator sunglasses from the center console and putting them on.

  I stuff the pastries inside my handbag. “Nothing.”

  He shifts the car into gear, and we slowly edge out of the driveway and into the street. I don’t recognize the music that comes through the speakers, but I like the tune. I let my gaze drift out the window, enjoying the warmth of the sun streaming in.

  It’s only about ten minutes later that I realize we’re heading in the wrong direction. Taking out my phone, I pull up Google Maps, and sure enough the little blue GPS ball is going east not west. “Isn’t Utah the other way?”

  “Yep.”

  I stare at him and see a smug smile on his lips. “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “We’re not going to Utah.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He stops at a crossroad and checks each way before carrying on straight. “I’m going to take you somewhere else.”

  I can barely get the words out. “I don’t want to go anywhere else. I want to go to Utah.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Jonah.” My voice is strained. “I want to go to Utah.”

  “It’ll still be there after.”

  This time my voice is clear and strong. “Jonah!”

  He sighs heavily and pulls the car over to the side of the road. Putting it in neutral, he takes his glasses off and looks at me. “Can I ask you something?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Did you consider any of the other beaches when you planned your trip here?”

  I don’t feel like going into the details of my reasons for coming to Normandy, so I stay quiet.

  “I get that you want to go to Utah. And I’ll take you there. If that’s what you really want to do right now, I’ll turn back. But I think there’s something else you should see before you go.”

  “What?”

  “Just trust me.”

  I can’t help but scoff. “Trust you? You’ve done nothing but antagonize me since the moment we met.”

  He scrunches his brow. “How have I antagonized you?”

  “Have you forgotten what happened last night?”

  “I told you, that wasn’t deliberate.”

  I look out the windshield at the cars passing by. “Where is it you want to take me?”

  “Somewhere important. Something you need to see.”

  It’s clear he’s not going to offer up more information. I could argue, demand that he turns the car around. But for reasons I’m not entirely sure I understand, I don’t. Instead, I keep my eyes fixed in front of me. “Fine.”

  We pull back onto the road, and I take out the brown paper bag, tearing off a large chunk of croissant.

  “Is there enough for me?” Jonah asks, eyeing the pastry.

  “No,” I lie, my anger simmering. I have no idea why he’s decided to fuck with my plans, but it doesn’t surprise me. Jonah has proven his arrogance to me more than enough in the little time I’ve known him. Wherever it is he wants to take me, I can only guess it’s for his benefit.

  Half an hour later, the road takes a turn and I see a stretch of white sand and crystal water out Jonah’s window. The surrounding area is flat and rural, giving the sky the appearance of extending on forever. Soft white clouds gather at the horizon, but above is only a canvas of blue.

  “This is Sword Bea
ch,” Jonah says, turning down the music. “One of the beaches where the British landed.”

  There’s such a tranquility over the place, I can’t imagine it under any other circumstances. With warships. Soldiers. Artillery. “Is that what you wanted me to see?”

  “No.”

  The road cuts through a quaint seaside town, expanding into a suburban area, and finally a shop-lined street. We turn right and head south for a few minutes. The road takes us further away from the beach, which confuses me more. I’m about to question it when Jonah takes the next exit.

  “Do you see that bridge up ahead?” he asks not long after.

  I peer into the distance and strain my eyes to make out the shape. As we get closer, the white steel frame comes into view. A sign just before it has the words Pegasus Bridge beneath an image of the mythical creature.

  “You wanted me to see a bridge?”

  There’s nothing remarkable about it. It’s not even that big. I expect us to cross it, but instead Jonah pulls into a parking spot and puts on the brake.

  “You don’t know what that is, do you?”

  I’m in no mood for his condescension. “It’s a bridge. And by the look of it, it’s called Pegasus.”

  He smiles to himself, clearly expecting such an answer. “Have you ever heard of Operation Deadstick?”

  “No,” I say dismissively, wanting whatever this is to be over.

  “Yeah, I figured. Well, Operation Deadstick was an assault on this very bridge by the British 6th Airborne Infantry Division.” He repositions his body to face me. “What you’re looking at is the site of the very first attack on D-Day. It was here that the first allied units landed. And it was the first victory. British soldiers came in by gliders, navigating the dark with nothing but a compass and a watch, and within minutes of landing completed their objective of capturing the bridge from the Nazis.”

  I look out at the unassuming bridge with newfound respect. “That’s impressive.”

  Jonah starts the car. “People forget,” he says solemnly, pulling back out onto the road, “that it wasn’t only the Americans who lost their lives in Normandy.”

  As we cross over the bridge, he tells me about D-Company, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, about how they were led by Commander John Howard, arriving in Horsa gliders in the early hours of June 6th, 1944. He explains how vital the mission was to capture the bridge, how it allowed the only way east for the British forces who were landing at Sword Beach, saving them from being trapped by the Germans.

  We continue down a small road until we come to a section of intersecting streets with a large church situated in the middle. As we drive around it, I notice that the grounds are a graveyard. Jonah turns into a parking lot and cuts the ignition.

  “Come with me,” he says, getting out.

  I follow as he crosses the street towards a cemetery next to the church. Unlike most of the gravestones in the neighboring grounds, these are white, and positioned in neat rows, the color in striking contrast to the green grass. On the brick wall by the entrance, the words Ranville War Cemetery are engraved in cement.

  Jonah opens the gate for me, and I step inside. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, leading me past a large monument in the shape of a cross, only stopping when he reaches a specific headstone.

  I come to stand beside him and read the inscription. Lieutenant W.B Harlow. Glider Pilot Regiment. Army Air Corps. 6th June 1944. Age 28.

  “My mum’s uncle,” Jonah says quietly. I let out a low exhale, everything beginning to make sense. So, this is what he wanted me to see. “He survived the landing, and the attack on the bridge, but he was shot as they advanced further inland.”

  There are thousands of identical tombstones in the cemetery, only the engravings differentiating them. I wonder how many of the living visit. How many remember.

  “Lieutenant W.B Harlow.” I speak the name out loud. “Thank you for your bravery.”

  Jonah’s lip curls up into a small smile. He reaches forward and touches the stone. “We will never forget.”

  I let him have a moment and walk down another row. Most of the stones are for British soldiers, but as I continue through other sections, I see some for Canadians and even one for a New Zealander. Further on, I find an area for German soldiers. The plots are as well-kept as the others, with bright purple flowers planted between them.

  It’s a solemn reminder that in the end we are no different.

  When Jonah finds me a while later, I’m in front of a tombstone that’s distinctive from the others. There are tiny wooden crosses at its base which is decorated with poppies. The inscription reads: Lieutenant H.D Brotheridge. The Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Inf. Airborne. 6th June 1944. Age 29.

  “What does that say?” I ask Jonah, pointing to the French sign behind the headstone.

  “In recognition of the first fallen English soldier at Benouville Bridge on June 6, 1944.”

  I turn to him in surprise. “He was the first English soldier to die on D-Day?”

  “Many believe he was the first allied soldier to die.”

  My words fail me. “He was only two years younger than I am.”

  Jonah looks at me, his expression pensive. “The first time I came here was five years ago. I was twenty-eight, the same age as my mum’s uncle when he died. So many young lives cut short because of a war. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “No,” I agree.

  I think of my grandpa, of the friends he lost. I wonder where they’re buried. Where he would have been laid to rest had he died that day in the field. Slowly, we make our way out of Ranville cemetery and back to the car. Jonah goes to get in, but I hesitate.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, holding his door open.

  I make myself look at him. “I’m grateful that you shared this with me. But you didn’t have to go about it the way you did. You could have just told me.”

  A shadow of regret crosses his face.

  “I see how important this was to you, but I need you to understand that getting to Utah is important to me. It’s the reason I’m here. It’s...” I stop myself from saying too much.

  “It’s what?” he questions.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s just important.”

  His gaze lingers on me. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  His tone is nothing but earnest, which surprises me a little.

  “You still want to go to Utah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then get in, and I’ll take you there.”

  He waits for me to move, only getting into the car once I have. As we drive away from the cemetery, I take the half-eaten croissant out, consider it a moment, and then pull out the other, handing it to him.

  “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he asks, taking it.

  I give him a look I hope conveys my message. “Not even close.”

  We travel for a little while in comfortable silence, Jonah’s playlist, which is mainly Brit rock, a good companion to the rolling countryside beyond the window.

  “So, you’re from Seattle, right?” Jonah asks, changing lanes on the highway.

  “I was born in Oregon, but we moved to Seattle when I was six.”

  “I’ve only been to the States once,” he says, flipping his visor down from the glaring sun. “Dad said you’re a pianist.”

  “I was.”

  He glances at me briefly. “Was?”

  “I teach music now, at a university.”

  “Wow, you must know your shit.”

  I laugh at his phrasing. “Yeah, I guess so. What about you? What do you do?”

  “I own a pub in London, but I’m a user interface designer by trade.” He checks his blind spot and changes lanes again, getting ahead of an RV.

  “What does a user interface designer do?” I ask.

  “Responsive web design.”

  That offers no clarity.

  “I design websites and apps, and make sure they work on different devices,”
he explains.

  I look at him and see that he’s smiling. He’s handsome, and he knows it, too. I’m sure many have fallen prey to that smile. I direct my eyes forward. “Are you in France just to visit your parents?”

  “I come here a few times throughout the year, and usually stay for a month in the summer, but this time I’m staying a little longer to help out at the house. They have to go back to London for a wedding, so I’m going to take care of the place while they’re gone.”

  I can’t help myself. “And will you be showing all the guests the same kindness you’ve shown me?” I steal a glance and find him smirking.

  “Most of our guests have a plan when they get here. They don’t tend to need a chaperone.”

  He would think of himself that way, wouldn’t he? “You’re the one who offered, god help me.”

  “You know,” he says playfully, “a thank you can go a long way.”

  “I’ll thank you if we ever get to where you were supposed to take me in the first place.”

  He laughs, and then takes the next exit. “Where is it you want to go? Let me guess, the beach and the museum?”

  “The museum first,” I tell him.

  I swear he rolls his eyes.

  9

  I expect Jonah to drop me off, so I’m a little surprised when he parks the car and offers to come in with me. After purchasing our tickets, we walk through the collection, taking our time looking at the carefully curated items from daily life in the war.

  It’s clearly not his first visit to the museum. As we move through the sections, he points out different objects, explaining them to me with expert knowledge.

  “Did you study World War history or something?” I ask after he finishes telling me about the LVT-2 Water Buffalo, an amphibious landing craft on display.

  “No, I’ve just always liked reading about it since I was a kid.”

  It’s yet another layer revealing a side of him that I wasn’t anticipating.

  “There’s a B26 through here,” Jonah says, an almost childlike excitement in his voice.

  I have no idea what a B26 is but follow him through to a large glass-ceilinged hangar. Inside is an enormous olive green plane, the name ‘Dinah Might’ painted in yellow by the nose.