“Me too,” I say, somewhat surprised by it. “I hope you have any amazing life, Matilda.” Leaning back, I make sure she hears me clearly. “I wish I was as brave as you when I was your age.”
“Really?” she asks, wiping her nose.
“Really,” I say.
The headlights of a car shine through into the room, and I see my taxi pull into the driveway. Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I grab the handle of my suitcase. “Whatever it is that you thought of at Pointe du Hoc,” I tell her, moving to the door. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do it, okay?”
“Okay.” She smiles feebly, wiping her nose again. “Bye, Charlotte.”
With a heavy heart, I walk through the front door, closing it behind me. As the taxi drives away from the B&B, the sunrise casts a soft, golden glow over the world. The promise of another beautiful day in Bayeux. A deep ache echoes through my bones.
The train is thankfully on time, so I don’t have to wait too long at the station. I take a seat by the window and pray that I’ll be able to sleep the whole way to Paris. My body and mind are exhausted, and I have a day of traveling ahead.
Closing my eyes, I try to block out the world. I’m pulled from my attempted sleep by my phone vibrating on the table. Jonah’s smiling photo looks back at me.
I turn it over, ignoring it. There’s nothing to say. Nothing I want to hear. The call ends, and soon after my phone vibrates again with a text. Even though every fiber of my being tells me not to, I turn it over and check it.
Please get off the train.
The breath catches in my throat. Looking out the window, I see him standing on the platform. He points at his phone and then presses it to his ear. Mine rings again. As reluctant as I am to do so, I answer the call.
“Get off the train,” he begs.
I shake my head. The train doors close.
“You said you’d stay.” His tone verges on desperation.
I see the anguish on his face and hate that it permeates through me.
“Where are you going? I’ll meet you there.”
The train slowly starts to move.
“Please tell me where to meet you.”
The pain tears through me like a burning rod piercing my heart. “I’m going home,” I tell him, my voice breaking. “You won’t see me again.”
“Please!” he cries into the phone. “I’m so fucking sorry. Charlotte, I love—”
I hang up, unable to bear it. Facing forward, I don’t dare glance out the window as the train leaves the station. My phone rings again. I decline the call, my anger warring with my torment. When it rings once more, my wrath momentarily takes the wheel. I unlock my phone and block Jonah’s number. Whatever excuses he has, I don’t want to hear them. I don’t ever want to talk to him again.
I am done being anyone’s fool.
26
It’s raining when the Uber drops me off outside my apartment. I hardly know what day it is, let alone the time. Lugging my suitcase up the stairs, I open the door and step inside. For a moment, I stand in the hallway, expecting something, anything to move me out of the numbness that has taken over, but it remains.
I leave the bags on the floor and head to my bedroom, collapsing onto my bed. I don’t remember when it was I last slept. I’ve reached a state of exhaustion that has my body feeling so disconnected it might as well be in a different room.
My fuzzy mind tries to recall the last bed I was in. The reminder comes to me like a cruel joke. I’m all at once back in the loft of the barn, back in Jonah’s arms.
Turning over, I curl into a ball and beg the waking world to let me go. The edges of my vision blurs. My prayer is answered not long after.
I have no idea how long I sleep for. Minutes. Hours. Days. When I wake, it’s dark outside my window. Is it tomorrow already?
Dragging myself out of bed, I go the bathroom and turn on the shower. I stand beneath the water, slowly increasing the heat, the steam filling the room. A blanket to drown out all else.
After, I dress in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, still not entirely sure what time of day it is. I retrieve my phone from my bag in the hall. The battery is dead. I don’t bother plugging it in.
Like a zombie, I amble to the kitchen. I contemplate eating, but quickly give up on the idea. Instead, I move over to the couch, turn on the TV, and lie down. My detachment persists, and I close my eyes, wondering if I’m dreaming.
When I open them again, it’s light outside. Sitting up, confused, it takes me a second to remember where I am. The realization brings no comfort. I’m home, but it doesn’t feel like it.
I get up and grab my phone, plugging it in. Staring blankly at the screen, I wonder if it’s right. Is it really 8 a.m. on a Wednesday? What day did I leave Paris?
Making myself a coffee, I try to get my tired brain to do the math. I left on Monday evening and got home around five o’clock on Tuesday morning. That means I slept over twenty-four hours.
How the hell could I still feel so tired?
Sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, I see my phone screen light up with a bunch of texts. There are three from Fiona and two from Zoe. Their messages mirror each other’s.
It’s been days, let us know you’re okay.
The last time I’d texted them was Sunday afternoon to tell them I was going to stay in France. It seems a lifetime ago. Driving back to Bayeux after finding my family. The country lanes. Jonah’s music playing as we talked about all the things we wanted to do.
I feel sick to my stomach thinking about it. All that time he was with someone else. Every word he said was a lie. My anger swells, as much at him as at myself.
How the hell did this happen again?
* * *
For three days, I stay, cocooned in my apartment. The takeout containers pile up on my kitchen counter. Leggings and t-shirts have become a second skin, partially due to their comfort, but mostly because I cannot be fucked doing laundry.
On Friday evening, I sit, staring at my TV. Careful to avoid any genre that came close to even suggesting a romance, I picked a war film. The iconic images of Apocalypse Now bring me unexpected comfort. It seems everyone in the story has lost their mind. I can’t help but relate.
My phone rings, and I’m in such a daze I pick it up out of reflex.
“Char?” Zoe’s voice comes through, panicked. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” I say, knowing I can’t ignore her anymore.
“Oh my god,” she breathes down the phone line. “I thought you were dead. Why haven’t you texted us back? We’ve been trying for days.”
“Sorry.” My tone comes off less sincere than I mean it to.
“Char, what’s going on? You sound weird.” I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. “Did something happen? Where are you?”
“I’m home.”
“Home as in Seattle?”
“What other home is there?”
Silence fills her end of the line. “Charlotte,” she says warily after a moment. “What happened?”
“He has a fiancée.”
The silence this time drags on longer. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that,” I tell her coolly. “He has a fiancée. She showed up, I’m an idiot, and then Steve had a heart attack.”
“Wait, what!?” I can almost hear the cogs of her brain working. “I’m coming over, okay?”
She doesn’t give me a chance to reply, hanging up before I can speak another word.
When my doorbell rings half an hour later, it isn’t only Zoe on my doorstep, but also Fiona. They take one look at me, exchange glances, and then pull me into a hug.
“I have wine,” Fiona says, squeezing me. “Lots of it.”
They relinquish their grip, and I move aside to let them in. Fiona puts the bag down on the kitchen counter, eyeing the pile of dishes.
“When did you get home?” Zoe asks, nearly tripping over my suitcase in the hall.
“Tuesday
morning.”
She stares at me, wide-eyed. “Why didn’t you call us sooner?”
“I haven’t really been in the mood for talking,” I mumble.
“You both have a seat,” Fiona commands. “I’ll bring the wine.”
Zoe moves the duvet from the sofa, throwing it onto the floor. “Sit,” she says with the same commanding tone.
I’m too tired to argue, so I do as she says.
Fiona brings over two glasses, handing one to me and one to Zoe. She then goes and gets hers before taking a seat on the adjacent chair.
“Can you tell us what happened?” she asks.
I take a large sip of wine, and with a sense of detachment, as though it were someone else’s story and not my own, I explain everything.
Half a glass later, they both look stunned. Needing something to do, Zoe refills our glasses and stays standing.
“That...” She stops herself, her posture rigid. “What a fucking asshole.”
I murmur in agreement.
“What did he think?” Fiona asks. “That you’d never find out about her?”
“I don’t know or care what he thought.” I down the other half of my glass.
Zoe returns to the sofa and picks up her phone. “What’s her last name?”
“Why?”
I see a determined look in her eye. “She deserves to know.”
“She probably does,” Fiona suggests. “Char said she was there.”
“We should tell her, just in case he’s lied to her like he lied to Char.”
I feel my stomach sink. “She was crying when she showed up. I figured it was because she found out.”
Zoe scrolls through her phone. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking through Jonah’s Instagram.”
“Why?” My voice sounds strained.
“Because I assume he follows her, and we could send her a message.” She keeps scrolling. “He hasn’t even posted anything. What a tool. Ah, here it is! It’s Quinn. Catriona Quinn.”
Fiona and I watch as she stares at her phone, her jaw tensing.
“What is it?” Fiona asks.
“Nothing.”
Zoe has never been a good liar. Fiona moves over, grabbing the phone. I see a flicker of fire in her eyes, which she quickly masks.
“What?” I ask, uneasy.
“Zoe’s right, it’s nothing.”
I reach over and snatch the phone from her hands. The photo is of three people on a beach. A woman, Catriona, and with his arm wrapped around her waist, Jonah. The caption at the bottom leaves me feeling numb.
A perfect day with my best friend, and the love of my life.
It was posted only weeks before I met Jonah. I hand back the phone.
“More wine,” Zoe says, quickly getting up.
Fiona moves to sit beside me. Without saying a word, she pulls me to her and holds me while I cry.
When I wake the next morning, Fiona has gone, but Zoe is still there. I smell bacon from the kitchen, and walk down the hall to find my dishes cleaned, the garbage taken out, and breakfast made.
“Good morning,” she says with a warm smile, handing me a glass of orange juice. “Fiona had to get back to Kayla, but she’s going to come over this afternoon.”
“She doesn’t have to do that,” I say, sitting at the counter. “And you didn’t have to do this.”
“Char,” Zoe says, pointing her spatula in my direction. “Let me take care of you. Now shut up and eat.”
I can’t help but laugh at her false austerity. “Yes, ma’am.”
Zoe sits down next to me with her own plate, and for a while we eat in silence. The food does wonders for my wine hangover and my fragile state of mind. When we’re done, I feel a little more alive.
“Can I ask you something?” Zoe collects our empty plates and drops them in the sink. “Last night, you mentioned that before everything happened, you’d been somewhere. A farm. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But, did you find her? Did you find Charlotte?”
For the first time in days, I feel a sense of serenity course through me. I nod, my smile unstoppable.
Her face lights up. “Tell me everything.”
* * *
Later that evening, after Zoe and Fiona have gone home, I decide to finally unpack my bags. Pulling everything out, I sort through it all, making a pile of laundry. When I find my grandmother’s photo, I freeze. In my rush to leave Bayeux, I’d grabbed the first item I could to protect the frame.
Holding it in my hand, I realize it’s Jonah’s sweater.
I sit there, clutching it, my knuckles turning white. In the six days that I’ve been home, my anger has oscillated, like a pendulum swinging the blame between us. How could he have done this to me? How could I have been so blind?
When I found out that Joel had cheated on me, it wasn’t as surprising as it probably should have been. The warning signs had always been there. At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing, choosing to believe him, to trust him. In the end, though, all I did was ignore my instincts.
I swore to myself I would never do that again.
And here I am, unable to understand how this happened. There were no warning signs this time. Nothing in my gut telling me to run the other way.
It was the opposite. I willingly fell, arms wide open.
Throwing Jonah’s sweater onto the laundry pile, I take the photo and go into my grandpa’s room. Flicking on the light, I walk over to the dresser. The two framed pictures look back at me. My parents on their wedding day, and Grandpa, age twenty, dressed in his military uniform. I make room between them and set the photo of Charlotte there.
My family.
Together at last.
In the spaces between my grief, I’m filled with gratitude. The pain of what was lost, fused with the joy of what was found.
I think about the email I got from Marie this afternoon. The detailed list of our family in France, going back generations. Among the names, those that are still living. Relatives who she informed me are second cousins, third cousins, great aunts and uncles. She had reached out to them all, she said. They were excited to meet me one day.
I promised her I’d come back as soon as I could. It’s a promise I intend to keep.
Looking at the photos of my mom and Charlotte side by side, I see how alike they were. Not only in the color of their hair, or the shape of their face, but something more. It takes me a second to notice what it is. It’s the way that they’re smiling with no hint of restraint. No sign of doubt or worry.
A snapshot of a moment of being utterly carefree.
It hits me suddenly, like a rush of blood through my veins, pushing out the darkness, breathing in the light. I’ve been so focused on only looking to the past for answers, or to the future with questions that I forgot what it was to just live now.
To take life as it’s given to you, all the shit with the good, and still lift your head, look at the camera, and fucking smile.
They did it.
The least I could do is try too.
27
Simone taps her finger against her teacup in thought. The campus café is busy for a Thursday morning, but the noise around us disappears as I wait anxiously for her reaction.
“When did you decide this?” she asks, her face giving no indication of what she’s thinking.
“It’s been evolving,” I say, not sure I can give her an exact answer. “The last couple of weeks that I’ve been home, I’ve been thinking about it more and more. But I guess in some ways I knew before I even left.”
I don’t expect the smile she gives me.
“I think you’ve made the right choice. Don’t get me wrong, you’re an amazing teacher, and we’re all going to miss you. But it was the choice I was hoping you were going to make.”
“You’re not angry, then?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “To be honest, I didn’t expect that you’d come back to work. I’m surprised you stayed as
long as you did.”
I’m taken aback at her response. “I always thought I took the job to help my grandpa. But, in some ways, I think I chose teaching because he taught. He was such a gifted teacher. I saw the way he could make a student love music. I wanted to do that for someone else.”
“And you did,” she says with sincerity. “For some of us, it’s a calling. For others, it’s a stepping stone, something to help get you to the next thing.”
“All I have to do now is figure out what that is.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“I need to play,” I tell her. “Smaller venues, nothing big like I used to. And I need to get out of Seattle.”
“Where do you think you’ll go?”
“I’m not sure. My lease is up in September, so I’ve got a little time to come up with a plan.”
“Well, whatever you do,” she says, lifting her cup to her lips, “it’ll be amazing.”
I laugh, somewhat stunned. “I was so worried you’d be upset. That I’d let you down.”
“On the contrary.” She puts the cup on the table, keeping her fingers wrapped around it. “You’ve encouraged me.”
“I have?” I can’t imagine how.
“I’ve been teaching for thirty years, Charlotte. And I’ve seen a lot of people take the easy road, choose the path of least resistance. We tell ourselves little lies to make it feel better, but at the end of the day, talent is an easy thing to squander.” Her regard of me turns pensive. “When I first heard that you were interested in teaching here I was thrilled. Your education, your experience, that was a part of it, yes, but what I was most excited about was the way you connected to the music. I’d seen you play a few months earlier.”
“You did?”
“You were at Benaroya Hall, and you played a notoriously difficult piece by Chopin.”
I smile at the recollection. “Etude op.25 No.6.”
“I sat in that audience, and like everyone else, I was blown away. So, when I heard not long after that you were looking for a position, I jumped at the chance to hire you. I thought you’d stay two semesters at most. But three years later you were still here.”
The Sea of Lost Things Page 23
