The Sea of Lost Things

by Kelly St-Laurent

  “I didn’t say that.”

  His eyes widen. “You were, weren’t you?”

  “I was...” I search for a better word. “Adept at a young age.”

  His smile broadens. “I’ve never met a child prodigy before.”

  “And you still haven’t,” I tell him, not sure how to explain it. “I simply worked hard, building on some natural talent.”

  “Uh huh,” he says, not sounding convinced. “What other superpowers are you hiding?”

  “None that I know of.” I pick up his phone and scroll through his music app, feeling his eyes on me.

  “My grandfather was a pianist,” he tells me.

  “I know. I actually saw him play once, at Carnegie Hall.”

  “No kidding.” He reaches for his coffee. “What a small world.”

  I laugh. “Your father said the exact same thing.” I realize my error too late. At the mention of his father, Jonah’s expression falls. It’s a strange and sudden shift from where they were just one day earlier. I can’t imagine what’s created this wedge between them.

  “Do you play?” I ask, hoping to divert his thoughts from whatever dark place they’ve gone.

  He puts the cup back in the holder. “Barely. I learned a little as a kid but never took to it. I’ve always preferred the guitar.”

  “Is that so?” The image of Jonah playing an acoustic isn’t entirely unwelcoming. “I’ll have to hear you play sometime.”

  “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” As if his implied meaning wasn’t clear enough, he adds a wink.

  I shake my head. “You can’t afford me.”

  His laughter is raucous, and I belatedly realize the unintended double entendre. Quickly, I select a song from one his playlists, needing to drown out my embarrassment. Hozier’s “Work Song” comes on, saving me from myself.

  Staring out the window, the green fields and blue sky go past like a scene from a film, the music providing a fitting soundtrack. I watch it play out, lulled by the beauty. It’s weird to think that less than a week ago, I was staring at these fields on a computer. They’re so much more beautiful than I could have imagined.

  Half an hour later, we exit the highway, and I see a sign for Sainte-Mère-Église. As we drive through to the heart of the town, into a square surrounded by shops and cafes, I see a large group of people gathered. Some are in military clothing, and they’re all looking up at the sky.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, putting my head out the window so I can see what they’re all staring at. There’s a loud rumble, as though the air is vibrating, and then suddenly a low flying plane passes overhead.

  “You’re gonna want to see this,” Jonah says, parking the car.

  We get out, our eyes to the heavens as another plane flies past.

  “They look old, like something from the war.”

  “They are. And look over there.” He points further out to the horizon. “Do you see them?”

  I scan the area he’s pointing at until I see it. In the distance, there are dozens of parachutes floating back down to earth.

  “They do this every D-Day,” he tells me. “To commemorate the paratroopers.”

  “Today’s D-Day?” With everything that’s been going on, I’d completely lost track of the dates.

  “I was worried we were going miss it.”

  He gives me a smile, and I’m taken aback that he planned this. I look around at all the people who’ve come together, a mix of tourists and locals. Different languages are spoken from the various passerby. There’s something moving about seeing everyone here, gathering to remember.

  “There’s something else I wanted to show you.” Jonah leads me further into the square where there’s a church. As we get closer, I see a paratrooper hanging from one of the pinnacles.

  “That isn’t real, is it?” I ask.

  “It’s a dummy,” Jonah says. “But that did happen. John Steele was his name, he was a private in the 82nd and he landed in that position, stuck on a spire. He was up there a couple of hours before the Germans took him down.”

  “Did he survive?”

  “Yeah, he escaped.”

  I stare at the mannequin, dressed in a combat uniform, his white parachute wrapped around the sharp pinnacle. It’s an incredible monument.

  “This was one of the first towns liberated,” he explains. “Unfortunately, because of a fire that night, the skies were lit up, and the paratroopers were easy targets for the Germans. But they were still able to liberate it.”

  It’s incredible to be standing here, on the very day it all happened. “Thank you,” I tell him. “This is amazing.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  After we return to the car, we continue through the town and end up on a smaller country road lined with hedges. I catch a glimpse of hay bales in a field beyond, a small farm next to it. There’s laundry hanging out to dry. Signs of life being lived.

  “It’s hard to imagine there was a war here,” I say.

  Jonah murmurs in agreement. “It’s why it’s so important that we remember.”

  When we get closer to our first town on the list, Saint-Marcouf, Jonah asks me to look up the address for the church. Sure enough, there’s one right off the main road. A few minutes later, I see a sign for it, and the words 12e et 13e siècle written in parenthesis beneath. Twelfth and thirteenth century. It’s yet another reminder of how much history this land has seen.

  We park across the road, and I follow Jonah through the gate and into the property. The exterior of the church is discolored in places, weathered from the years it has stood. A large gothic window sits above a closed wooden door.

  “It doesn’t look like anyone’s here,” I say, glancing around the graveyard.

  “Maybe not in the church. But there’s a rectory back there.”

  I follow his gaze and see a house at the other end of the property. As we approach, I wonder what we’re supposed to do. I’ve never been comfortable knocking on stranger’s doors. Luckily, Jonah doesn’t seem to suffer from the same affliction. He raises his arm and raps loudly on it three times.

  “What do we say?” I whisper, my heartbeat hastening.

  The door opens, revealing an old man, his posture slightly hunched. He peers at us over his spectacles, a wary look on his face. Jonah speaks to him in French, introducing us. I lose all ability to understand the conversation after that. They speak for a couple of minutes, and then with a thank you, Jonah moves away from the door.

  “What did he say?” I ask, catching up.

  He leads me back across the yard towards the front gate. “She didn’t live here. He said he was born in this town, and I asked if he remembered a young woman named Charlotte, who had a child nine months after the allied invasion.”

  “Do you think he would remember someone from so long ago?”

  Jonah stops and looks at me. “There are less than four hundred people living in this commune. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone.”

  “Yeah, but we’re talking about a woman who died over seventy years ago.”

  “That’s true,” he says, opening the gate for me. “But in a town like this, if an unwed woman got pregnant during a war, I think people would remember.”

  It’s a bleak thought, but I can’t argue with his logic.

  “Don’t worry,” Jonah says confidently. “There are plenty more towns to try.”

  * * *

  His words prove true. For the next few hours we travel north, stopping at six different communes, visiting every church we can find on our way. Sometimes we’re sent to someone else, an elder in the village who might remember, or someone who may have kept records of that time.

  After we visit the Notre-Dame church in Quineville, and once again come up empty, Jonah suggests we take a lunch break. We drive toward the beach and find a bar next to a war museum, with a view looking out over the ocean.

  As I sit on the patio, enjoying the smell of salt carrying along the bree
ze, I think about the imprint the war has left on this place. Not only on the land, but also in the people we’ve met. Everyone has been so kind and generous with information, sharing stories of their memories, or their loved ones who lived during that time.

  Although none have known my grandmother, I’ve been reminded of what was lost here, but also what was saved. Towns that had to rebuild, churches that were destroyed, lives that got to be lived because of the sacrifice of others.

  Jonah steps out of the restaurant with two pints. “I ordered some sandwiches and chips.” He places a beer down on the table in front of me. “That’s fries for you Americans.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  He takes a seat opposite. “You can get the next one.”

  A cool wind blows through, sending a ripple of goosebumps across my arms.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asks, his eyes trailing down from my shoulders to my hands.

  I can almost feel his gaze like a touch upon my skin. “I’m fine,” I say, my voice weaker than I want it to be. I cough lightly. “So, no luck so far.”

  “Not yet. But it’s only the first day.”

  We both have a sip of our beer. The lager is refreshing as much to my mind as my thirst. When the food arrives soon after, I take a few bites, and find the courage to ask the question that’s been plaguing me all day.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  Jonah looks up from his meal. “What?”

  “Why are you doing this? Driving me around, giving up your own time? It doesn’t make any sense.” I see his jaw tense slightly. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate it. I do. I just want to understand why.”

  He fixes his eyes on me, and I get the sudden feeling that I’m being studied. “You like being in control, don’t you?”

  “Excuse me?” I’m not sure how this has turned around on me.

  “In your life, you like being in control, right?”

  “Everyone likes being in control of their life.”

  “Yeah, but you’re not one to relinquish that, are you?”

  I don’t appreciate the judgment, especially from someone who hardly knows me. “Why don’t you stop deflecting and answer my question?”

  “Your question,” he considers. “You want to know why I offered to help?”

  “Yes.”

  He leans forward. “Maybe it’s because I wanted to get to know you more.”

  That deceptive fluttering in my stomach strikes again, that is until I see the smirk on his face. “You think you’re charming, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I know I am.”

  “Well, it doesn’t work on me.”

  It’s a lie. And he knows it. I turn my attention to my food, only stealing a glance when I no longer feel his eyes on me.

  He might be right. I do like being in control. And yet it’s the last thing I feel when I’m with him. My thoughts are clearly not my own. Because there’s no way I’d be thinking what I’m thinking, no way I’d let my mind go where it’s going.

  Back to that dream.

  To those hands.

  To the things my imagination conjured.

  Why the hell do I suddenly wish it were real?

  12

  It’s five o’clock by the time we drive away from our last town for the day. I can’t help it. I feel defeated. No matter how many times Jonah assures me that we’ll find answers, today has not boosted my confidence.

  I look at the list of towns crossed out. We went to ten of them. My doubt weighs heavy on my chest. What if I don’t ever find her? What if I’ve done all of this for nothing?

  My discouraging thoughts are interrupted when Jonah pulls into the parking lot of a hotel. I stare out the window at the three-story red brick mansion. A green awning over the front door has the words L’hotel de la Mer painted in white.

  “I thought we’d be staying in a motel or something.”

  “It’s not as fancy as it looks.”

  That turns out to be both true and false. The hotel is, in fact, very fancy, in a trapped-in-the-early-twentieth-century sort of way. The light blue carpet in every room is worn in places, and the paintings on the walls are in need of a good dusting, but the furnishings are elegant.

  Jonah checks us in and gives me a key to my room. He then leads me up to the second floor, and down a long narrow hallway, stopping at two doors near the end. I try my key, and step into a bright, airy room.

  The walls are covered in blue and white damask wallpaper, and a bedspread over the queen bed is a similar shade of blue. Aside from two bedside tables and a set of drawers in the same dark wood, there’s no other furniture. The view from the window looks out over the street, with a sliver of ocean in the distance.

  Turning back toward the hall, I see Jonah unlock his door, directly opposite. He gives me a quick smile, and then disappears inside, closing the door behind him.

  I don’t expect the loneliness that follows the quiet.

  My thoughts turn somber, back to all the places we visited. The people we spoke with. It was a trying day. Eye-opening and heartbreaking, hearing the different accounts of the war. What struck me the most was how fresh the memories were for some. You could see it in their eyes, their ordeal unaltered by the passage of time.

  What was even more surprising was Jonah and the empathy he showed to each person. The way he listened, patiently translating everything. It was a stark contrast to the man I met only days ago. His actions were entirely selfless, and yet I still can’t understand his reasons for helping me.

  Maybe it’s because I wanted to get to know you more.

  Why does that answer frighten me more than any other?

  After a quick shower, needing to wash the travel off of me, I try to figure out what to wear. We didn’t talk about what our plan was for the evening, so I have no idea how I’m supposed to dress.

  Staring at the different tops I bought with me, I figure a t-shirt is too casual. I pick up a lacy black camisole but realize it’s too dressy. Instead, I choose a sleeveless yellow peplum top. It’s comfortable and feminine, but with my dark jeans, passes as dress-casual. Going to the mirror, I run a brush through my hair then pull it up into a ponytail.

  Taking out my makeup bag, I start with foundation, planning to do a very quick look. I reach for my mascara when I see my eyeliner and decide to add just a little. This leads to mascara, blush, highlighter on my cheeks, and a soft pink lipstick. I finish off the look with blue feather earrings and a quick spray of Chanel perfume.

  Standing back, I look at my reflection, happy with how it turned out. It’s the most effort I’ve made in a while, and I feel a boost of confidence. That is until the embarrassment sets in.

  What am I doing?

  That fluttering in my stomach returns with abandon and I sit at the edge of my bed trying to get a grip on myself. This is ridiculous. I don’t like Jonah.

  I don’t.

  He’s arrogant and conceited, and has been a pain in my ass since I met him. Okay, sure he’s handsome, and he’s being unusually kind with helping me, and he’s shown a side of himself today that is surprisingly quite sweet. But let’s not forget the shit he’s pulled in the little time I’ve known him.

  There’s no way I like him.

  Frustrated, I grab my handbag and head downstairs, deciding to distract myself with a tour. A little exploration leads me to discover a laundry room, a small dining area, a large collection of tourist pamphlets, and an ice machine. Off the lobby is a sitting area, and as I turn to walk away, I notice an upright piano in the corner.

  I can’t help myself. I go over and touch my fingers to the keys, expecting it to be out of tune. It isn’t. I glance over my shoulder, not seeing anyone else around, so I take a seat on the stool.

  A familiar feeling comes over me. That sense of coming home. With my eyes closed, I can imagine my grandpa close by, watching, unable to stop himself from instructing me, even after all these years, his guidance as present as ever.

  Focus and
then forget.

  The mantra he always told me before every recital. His way of reminding me to get out of my head and play from my heart.

  Alright, Grandpa.

  I brush the keys and begin to play, the soft melancholic tune filling the room. It’s escapism at its best, being transported somewhere else, an ephemeral connection between the music and myself, lasting only as long as the song does.

  When I finish, my fingers playing the last chord, the world around me returns to my peripheral, and I notice that someone else is in the room.

  Turning around, I see Jonah leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes are on me, watching. He’s also changed clothes, the black pants and button-up olive green shirt dressier than the t-shirt and shorts he was wearing earlier. He’s shaved too, the smooth lines of his jaw prominent. I drop my gaze back to the piano.

  “What were you playing?” he asks. “I don’t think I’ve heard that before.”

  “You wouldn’t have. It’s my own.” When I look at him, I find his eyes intent upon me.

  “You wrote that?”

  “It’s called Sunflower. Not the most innovative title, but I was fourteen.”

  His gaze deepens. “You’re incredible.”

  I avert my eyes, embarrassed at his sincerity. At the way he observes me.

  “Do you think I could take you to dinner?”

  There’s something in the way he asks it that has me feeling nervous. “I owe you for lunch,” I say, trying to deflect my awkwardness.

  The intensity in his gaze doesn’t shift. “You can get lunch tomorrow. Tonight is on me.”

  I try not to read into it, but I can’t help myself. With my breath caught in my throat, I nod, and wonder all the while. Did Jonah just ask me out on a date?

  * * *

  As we walk down the street, I find myself stealing glances at him. Maybe it’s all in my head, and dinner is just dinner. Do I want it to be a date? Do I want Jonah to like me? I begin a mental pros and cons list, trying to get a handle on my conflicting emotions when I remember what he said to me at lunch.