by Seth Patrick
“Sorry I was asleep when you came in,” she said. “How was your night?”
He grimaced. “There was a fire. You remember Michel Costa?”
“The teacher? Of course.”
“His house was destroyed. Arson.”
Her face fell. “Was he…?”
“There was nobody inside,” said Thomas. “And he was nowhere to be found. But not long after I got up this morning, there was a call. He’d”—he paused, just for a moment—“fallen from the dam.” Thomas looked to the floor. “We, uh, don’t think anyone else was involved.”
Jumped. She knew that was what he’d meant to say. But there would be no talk of such things, not in this house. He was always looking out for her.
• • •
When they got to the empty church, Father Jean-François was as warm as ever. They talked through their options for the ceremony, Chloé sitting a few pews back, playing video games with the sound turned down.
Thomas did all the talking; Adèle found it difficult to pay full attention. She kept thinking about that day ten years ago, when she’d been left waiting in this very church. She kept looking at where she’d stood; she could even remember exactly where the flowers had fallen.
“If you decide by Thursday,” said Father Jean-François, “we can include the texts.”
“Thursday is fine,” said Thomas. He turned to Adèle. “You’ll have time to think it over.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t really like any of them.” She could see Thomas and the priest share a concerned look.
“It’s OK,” said Thomas, giving her hand a squeeze. “We can work something out.” His phone rang. He took it out and glanced at it. “Work,” he said. “Sorry.”
He left the church to take the call.
“Mum,” said Chloé. “I need the bathroom.”
“There are bathrooms through there,” said Father Jean-François as Thomas rushed back in.
“I have to go,” said Thomas. “Emergency. Will you be OK without me?”
Adèle saw the look on his face—she could tell this was something serious. She stood and put her hand on his arm. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll fill you in on everything later.” He nodded, apologizing again as he hurried away.
She looked at Father Jean-François. “It’s been a busy day for him,” she said. “There was a fire last night, and then this morning… Did you hear about Monsieur Costa?”
“Yes,” said Father Jean-François, grim. “I heard. And whatever has called Thomas away, I’m sure I’ll be told promptly, if it’s serious enough. Sometimes it seems that to be a priest is to be a conduit for bad news.” He caught himself and gave her an awkward smile that was part wince. “Back to business. Were there any of the texts that appealed more than others? I’m sure I could find some you’d like.”
“I don’t know. Nothing stood out.”
“Well, in that case, maybe we could sing more hymns?”
She shrugged, finding it difficult to raise any enthusiasm. “That might be better.” He looked at her, smiling kindly, saying nothing. “What?” she said.
“I get the sense you don’t trust me anymore.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I know you, Adèle,” he said. “Something’s wrong and you won’t tell me.”
She nodded, and he waited for her to get her thoughts in order. “Last night,” she said, “I thought Simon came back.” There was no judgment in the priest’s eyes, only concern. “It felt so real. He talked to me. Shouted, even. It hadn’t happened to me in years. I thought it would never happen again. I thought I was cured, but…” She stopped and shook her head.
“You know, Adèle, a parishioner came to see me yesterday. She was devastated because she’d spoken to her husband who’d been dead for twenty years. She told me that it was as if he’d reappeared in the flesh. As if he had come back.”
“You think that’s possible?”
He shook his head, smiling. “The people we have loved carry on living within us. It’s common for us to see them again, to imagine them talking to us. And it can feel just as real as you and I talking now, because we miss them so much. We want them to be here. It’s normal for Simon to be on your mind, so close to your wedding day. But you mustn’t worry. Marrying Thomas won’t stop you thinking about Simon, but that’s OK. Once you accept that, you’ll find peace. It’s very important to be at peace with our ghosts. Contrary to what people think, they mean us no harm.”
Adèle nodded, trying to absorb what he was telling her. She hoped he was right. “And if I see him again?”
“Don’t turn him away,” he said. “Talk to him.”
There was a sudden, deep thump from the structure of the church, followed by a long, watery rumble. Father Jean-François looked up with a resigned expression. “The plumbing’s been acting up all morning,” he said.
Then Adèle heard Chloé shout for her, fear in the girl’s voice. They ran through to the bathroom to find Chloé standing in front of a row of sinks. She looked toward her mother with terrified eyes. Adèle went to her and took her in her arms, staring at the sinks.
In each, dirty water was rising slowly from the open drain as the room filled with the smell of decay.
13
Alain Hubert hadn’t liked the look of the guy from the moment he came in.
The diner Alain ran was as brightly cheesy as the food it served, fifties-America themed, with the building mocked up to look like an aluminum railway car, albeit about three times as wide as the real thing. It was on the edge of town, the last eatery on the road south, and most mornings, the place was quiet enough for him to run it alone, extra staff starting shortly before the lunchtime rush.
This morning, the diner’s only customer was the strange woman who’d been waiting at the door when he’d opened up. She’d then muttered endlessly about the prices, accusing him of trying to mug his customers, before finally ordering a big plate of food.
The comment about mugging stung him, although the woman couldn’t have known about his less-than-savory past. It had been a long time since Alain had given up that kind of thing.
“You’re not homeless?” he said, noting the old clothes she was wearing and her sour demeanor.
She gave him a curious look, then sighed and disdainfully handed him a fifty-euro note. “Toy money,” she said, shaking her head. “What was wrong with the franc?”
It was the kind of comment he expected from older customers, but she looked to be in her midforties. Homeless or not, there was something about her he just didn’t like, but she seemed clean enough and she had cash. Alain settled on eccentric. He hoped she didn’t plan on becoming a regular customer.
Saturday was normally deserted until eleven, giving him time to get his head around the weekly stock reorder, but so far he’d hardly even gotten started on it. It meant he would probably have to stay late to get it done, so by the time the ruffled guy in the suit came in, Alain was already in a bad mood.
The man came over. “Hello.”
Alain looked him up and down. Young guy, unruly black hair, good-looking and confident. It made Alain dislike him even more.
“Yes?”
“What will this get me?” He held out some loose change.
Alain doubted there was more than forty cents there. He sneered. “Get lost.”
“Just a piece of bread? I’m starving.”
Something about the man bothered him. Smug, sure, but that wasn’t all. He smelled of trouble, and Alain wanted him out. “I said get lost.” They locked eyes for a moment, but the man shrugged. He didn’t look pleased, of course, but Alain was happy he’d gotten the message.
As the guy turned and took a step toward the door, Alain went behind the counter, turning his back on him as he did so.
Big mistake.
Alain felt the
glass hit the back of his head. He fell to the floor, and the next thing he felt was the bastard’s fists impacting his face. Two, three times, the guy’s eyes on fire, lost in his rage.
“Please,” Alain managed, and his attacker stared, as if realizing what he was doing. There was an instant of shame on his face before he stood and backed off, then made for the door. Alain got up slowly, just catching sight of the guy sauntering off down the road as though nothing had happened.
He looked over to the woman, who was still sitting, eating. “You saw that?” he said. She shrugged, completely uninterested. He called an ambulance. By the time they came, the woman had gone.
The police got there a few minutes after the ambulance, long enough for Alain to work out what had made him so uneasy when the guy who’d attacked him had first come through the door.
There had been something feral in those eyes. The anger was already there, just waiting for an excuse to explode. Alain had known more than his fair share of people like that in the past. Hell, the desire to get away from that kind of company was why he’d finally gotten his act together.
A guy like that was always bad news. There was no telling what he was capable of.
14
Léna woke. It had been a long night, and she hadn’t fallen asleep until close to dawn.
A long night.
Her parents had run upstairs the moment they’d heard the screaming, hers and Camille’s. Her mum had held Camille and offered her hand to Léna, and all of them had cried and cried, until Léna had insisted on explanations. Camille had woken in the mountain, she was told. Camille had walked home. Camille was back, and prayers had been answered.
Léna listened and found herself growing colder with every word, colder and more frightened.
Camille’s distressed eyes were trained on her the whole time. “What happened to Léna?” Camille asked, and it took Léna a moment to realize she was talking about how old she looked. She doesn’t know, Léna thought. She thinks it’s still four years ago. She doesn’t know what happened to the bus.
Léna could see it in her father’s face too, and in her mother’s: the news had to be broken to her. They went to her mum’s room, to a drawer where all the photo albums were kept. Alongside them was another book of memories—morbid, Léna had always thought, to keep what amounted to a scrapbook of the accident, of the memorial service, but her mother’s mental state had hardly been even at the time. Or since.
She watched Camille hear how most of their friends had died, how she had died. Léna watched the terror grow on her dead sister’s face.
And she felt nothing. Only unease. Watching, and wondering what it was that sat in tears a few feet away.
Léna had excused herself, run to her room, and gone to bed fully clothed and unable to stop shivering. Sleep had come eventually, and when she had woken, the urge to stay in her room was overwhelming.
But she couldn’t stay there forever. At last, Léna got up and ventured out to the landing. She opened the bathroom door and managed not to jump when she saw Camille standing in front of the mirror, staring at her own reflection.
“Sorry,” Léna said, backing out.
“Wait,” said Camille. “Do I scare you?”
She lied. “No.”
“I scare myself,” said Camille. She took a step toward Léna. “What happened to me?” Another step. Camille went to embrace her, to put her head on Léna’s shoulder. It was too much. Léna moved back and closed the door, breathing hard. She went to her room and sat, distressed, on her bed for over an hour, until she couldn’t sit anymore. Then she went downstairs to find that her parents and Camille were having breakfast around the table.
“Anyone want a yogurt?” asked her mum, overly bright, fussing. “Want some tea, Camille?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Léna watched, frustration growing. Her mum saw the look in her eye and gave her a forced smile.
“Léna…do you want some coffee, maybe?”
Léna shook her head and took out a cigarette, enjoying the disapproving look her dad gave her. Disapproving but silent. Let them shout at me, she thought, and I’ll damn well shout back. “So is this your plan?” she said.
Her mum looked wary. “What do you mean?”
“Pretend everything is normal?”
“No,” her dad said wearily. “Nothing is normal. But this”—he gestured toward her—“this isn’t helping.”
Léna could feel everything bubble up inside her. “You’re both crazy,” she said. “How do we even know it’s her? She might be an impostor.”
“Stop it, Léna,” said her mum, suddenly looking on the verge of tears.
“What? It happens. People pose as someone else.”
Camille stood and shouted back, “Who else would I be?”
Léna scowled at her. “You’re someone who read about the accident and realized you look like her. So you came here to see what you could get.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” said her mum.
“I’m being ridiculous? I tell you who she can’t be, Mum. She can’t be Camille. That’s ridiculous.”
“How do you think I feel?” said Camille. “Put yourself in my place.”
“I don’t care how you feel,” said Léna. “You’re a fucking liar.”
Her dad stood and, glaring at her, yelled, “That’s enough!”
She glared back for a moment, then walked out, making sure to slam the door hard. She stood in the driveway, fuming. After a few seconds, her father came out too.
“Why are you taking it out on her?” he said.
“My God! Doesn’t anyone realize what’s going on here? Camille can’t just come back like this. It’s not possible.” She looked at her dad, loading her voice with as much sarcasm as she could muster. “Is it like baby Jesus? She died and was resurrected?”
“Please, Léna.” He looked around at the neighboring houses. “People will hear.”
“What? You think you can hide her?” The look of near shame on his face told her that was exactly what he’d been thinking. “If you think it’s so fucking great, why not shout about it?” she said, flinging her arms around and raising her voice. “We should throw a big party to celebrate.”
Her dad took hold of her. “I said that’s enough!”
“Or what? Will you hit me?”
It was a low blow. Her father’s face fell. He took a long breath before looking up at her, almost despairing. “I don’t know how this has happened, but your sister needs you.”
“My sister died,” said Léna. “Do you understand? She’s dead. And while that thing is in the house…I won’t be.”
She started walking.
• • •
Claire was in the kitchen alone when Jérôme came back in.
“Where’s Camille?” he asked.
“She’s gone to her room. She wants to be left on her own. Maybe she can get some sleep. Where’s Léna?”
“She’s gone out,” he said, resigned. “She needs some time. Please try not to worry—she’ll come home later. I think I’ll go back to my apartment and change, if you’ll be OK? I’ll be back soon.”
She nodded, then thought of something. “Jérôme? What if you brought some of your things here? For Camille’s sake?”
Jérôme raised an eyebrow. “What would Pierre think?” She shook her head, scolding. There was no need for that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll see you later. And really, don’t worry about Léna.”
“I’ll try,” she said. She saw his eyes flick upward toward Camille’s room, but she stopped herself commenting on it. He was still clearly uneasy in Camille’s presence, but he had to get past his concerns, for all their sakes. She didn’t even think he’d held his daughter since her return; he might not even have touched her. How could Léna accept Camille if Jérôme didn’
t?
It would happen, though, Claire knew. She could tell they had no doubts about who Camille was, not really; Jérôme’s wariness and Léna’s denial were symptoms of their unwillingness to accept the miracle they’d been given, this second chance. Soon, they would see it for what it was: a gift from God.
• • •
She called Pierre and asked him to come around. She hugged him when he arrived, but there was a formality to it, a symbol of how their relationship had to be, at least for the time being. They sat, and she told him of the unease in the house and of Léna going off somewhere.
“I called her several times,” she said. “She won’t pick up.”
Pierre smiled at her. “Doesn’t she often do that? There’s no need to worry about her, or Jérôme. They’ll accept her, Claire. Soon enough. Has Camille said much? Has she…” He paused, as if he was having trouble finding the right words. “Has she any memory of the time between the crash and now?”
“No,” said Claire. Pierre looked disappointed. “She remembers everything before the accident. Her life, all her friends…” Claire looked away, thinking of Camille’s face when she’d learned that most of those friends were dead. “Have you happened to speak with any of the other parents?”
He nodded. “Some. Of course, I’ve not said anything about Camille, but I thought, perhaps…”
“That maybe others had come back? So did I.” She looked at him, expectant.
He shook his head. “It seems not,” he said.
A voice came from the stairs, a combative edge to it. “Hello, Doctor. Still no bag?” It was Camille, looking at Pierre with suspicion.
“Did you manage to sleep?” asked Claire.
“No, not for a second.” She turned to Pierre. “What’s your explanation for that?”
“Everything has an explanation,” he said.
Camille sighed. “Great.” She went to the front door and grabbed a coat.
Claire stood, immediately tense. “Where are you going?”
“Out. I’m suffocating here.”
