by Alex Dahl
That first winter, in the mornings, after driving Josie to school, Jacqueline would sit with Lulu-Rose in the library, teaching her French. For four hours every day, the little girl would be taught intensively by Jacqueline herself, and Lulu-Rose clearly had an ear for languages; by summer she was proficient in oral French, to the point where she and Josie began to speak it together spontaneously. The lessons also helped forge a real bond between Lulu-Rose and Jacqueline.
At the beginning, Jacqueline couldn’t be sure whether Lulu-Rose actually believed her when she told her about the past and about how bringing her here had been the only right thing to do. After a while, she started to ask a lot of questions, and the two of them sometimes spent hours poring over old photographs in beautiful soft leather albums when Josiane was at school. ‘Is that me?’ Lulu-Rose would say, pointing to a round-faced baby with long black eyelashes and little rosebud lips stretched in a sweet smile. Jacqueline would nod, stroking Lulu-Rose’s hair, and sometimes she’d have to lean in and kiss the top of her head so the girl wouldn’t notice the glint of tears in her eyes. She’d watch Lulu-Rose turn the pages of the album, thinking about how that little hand had once been held every day by someone else.
They had both needed some convincing of this new life, but, considering the circumstances, that was surely entirely normal.
There had been the matter of the name. For very obvious reasons, she couldn’t keep calling her ‘Lucia’. To use only ‘Rose’, the name on her birth certificate, also seemed wrong. So ‘Lulu-Rose’ was a compromise. As it turned out, the name suited her: sassy but delicate, playful and original.
Before she’d brought her to Le Tachoué, Jacqueline had had occasional doubts. She would pore over the numerous photos of the little girl on Instagram and Facebook, uploaded by Elisa Blix for the world to see. She committed every last detail of the child’s face to memory, trying to overwrite the face she’d known. Could I love you? she’d wonder. Yes, she would tell herself, her heart aching. But it wasn’t truly until Lulu-Rose came home that Jacqueline knew that she’d been right.
Eighteen months on, Lucia is fully integrated in school and the dust has settled at Le Tachoué. Jacqueline often lies awake at night, like now, thinking about how, finally, order has been restored and she once again has everything. Still, sometimes, in these dark pockets of the night, she feels a niggling murmur somewhere inside, like an itch. What more could she want? She can’t turn back time; second best is as good as she can expect. Perhaps a man in her life would bring new happiness, but Jacqueline can’t bear the thought of someone holding her close or gently running his fingertips across her skin. How could she ever think of love or sex and not instantly be reminded of her husband?
She sits up slowly, willing the memories away. She has a strategy for moments like this: she consciously focuses her mind on the landscape around Le Tachoué, the one thing that never fails to calm her. She dangles her feet over the side of the high bed until they find the sheepskin slippers on the floor. She crosses the room and opens the window, then unhooks the metal clasp of the shutters. The fox is still wailing and its shrill barks fill the room. Though the days have been pleasantly warm in the last week, the temperature still drops below freezing at night, and she can make out the shimmer of frost on the moonlit fields. The distant silhouettes of the mountains glow faintly with snow. She looks down the rolling hillsides below Le Tachoué towards the forests of Lucasso, which have been in the Thibault family since the seventeenth century and where you could walk for several days without coming upon another settlement. Years ago, the government wanted to lay a section of the new district road connecting the Ariège to the south coast through those woods, but Jacqueline’s grandfather refused to sell the land. ‘This forest belongs to itself,’ he said. ‘My job is merely to look after it.’
The world, and life itself, have at last become beautiful to her again. For years she thought that would never happen. Seven years, it took.
She leaves the shutters and window open and returns to bed, drawing her duvet up to her chin against the cool air. She thinks of the afternoon, of how Josie came hurtling into the kitchen saying they’d been playing hide-and-seek at the top of the garden and that she couldn’t find Lulu-Rose after almost an hour of searching. It’s not the first time Lulu-Rose has chosen to stay hidden long past the point when it’s no longer funny. Jacqueline wonders whether this is her one small rebellion, a subconscious mutiny, her only way of exerting some control. It is with thoughts of Lulu-Rose that Jacqueline finally falls asleep, a faint breeze from the Pyrénes Ariègeoises whispering across her face.
39
Selma
It’s the first warm day of the year, over eighteen degrees at ten in the morning, but Selma doesn’t know it; she is still curled up underneath her duvet in deep sleep, her mouth open, Medusa snuggled into the warm space between her chest and her arm. The doorbell rings, first once, then again, but it isn’t until the third attempt that Selma stirs. She tries to open her eyes, but they stick together and she has to rub at them hard. It was past 3 a.m. when she made it to bed, the images from Call of Duty lingering in her mind for a long while before she was able to sleep. She hasn’t left the house for two days, or perhaps it’s three. She couldn’t say which day of the week it is, but it hardly matters.
The doorbell rings again, but just after the sound dies away she hears the jingle of keys and then the smooth click as one is inserted in the lock.
She hops out of bed, scrambling to pull her hoodie and a pair of sweatpants on; she’s slept in only her underwear.
‘Pappa!’ she says, as her father enters her apartment, a tired and hesitant expression on his face. ‘You can’t just come in without asking!’
‘Selma, why don’t you check your phone? I’ve messaged you three times, called you twice and repeatedly rung the doorbell. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know if you were okay.’
‘Of course I’m okay,’ she says, still annoyed but filling the kettle anyway. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? I just went to bed late, that’s all.’
‘Selma.’
Her father tries to catch her eye, but she avoids looking at him, letting her gaze travel across the open-plan studio apartment instead. Medusa is on the windowsill now, looking out at the bright blue sky. Clothes have gathered on the backs of all the chairs, flung there after yet another long night of gaming before Selma stumbled to bed. Peppes Pizza boxes tower next to the overflowing recycling bin. A potted basil plant has wilted to a brown, shriveled skeleton next to a mushy dark brown banana on the kitchen counter. She reaches for the box of Twining’s Earl Grey her father brought last time he came, but it’s empty. She shrugs and searches defiantly through the empty cupboard above the sink.
‘Selma, this needs to stop. Now.’
‘What does? Me just living my life and you not liking it?’
‘No. You barricading yourself in and refusing to engage with anything.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’
A heavy silence hangs between them and Selma briefly recalls how they used to laugh so easily together. That feels like a long time ago now. But then again, so does everything.
‘Did you go to your therapy appointment on Wednesday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Selma…’
‘Okay, fine. No, I didn’t. I don’t need a shrink.’
‘Are you taking your meds?’
‘Yes… Okay, fine. No, I’m not. And do you know why? Because fundamentally I just don’t agree with having to take drugs in order to conform to the world’s expectations of me, do you get that?’
‘What expectations are you talking about, Selma? We’re not talking about expectations. We’re talking about being able to function. This…’ Alf gestures with his hand at the sorry state of Selma’s apartment. ‘This isn’t functioning, and you know it. Look… I know the last sixteen months or so have been really hard on you. I just wish the
re was a way for you to re-engage with the stuff you used to care about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like boxing.’
Selma snorts out loud at the idea of returning to the gym. The only workout she gets these days is the virtual kind. Her once impressive muscles have softened, and she is now rail-thin. She doesn’t miss the exhilaration of a workout, not at all – she’s quite content in her own company, whiling away the days with her beloved cat and the videogames, pushing away any independent thoughts and images until she is bleary with tiredness in the early hours.
‘And work.’
‘Work? What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you think it’s time to start getting serious about work again, Selma?’
‘Are you actually for real?’
‘Selma, everyone experiences a setback sometimes. When I was young and just starting out, I was—’
‘A setback!’ Her voice is suddenly shrill. ‘A setback! I was fucking fired, Dad!’
‘Yes. Yes, you were. And you need to get over it, is what I’m saying. I know how disappointed you were. And how hard you worked at that job. But, sweetheart, it isn’t at all like you to let yourself be defeated like this. You’re a fighter.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m tired of fighting, don’t you get it?’ She has to turn away so her father doesn’t see the tears that have sprung to her eyes. She fumbles with an old jar of Nescafé, blinking desperately, but the tears continue to fall onto the wooden worktop.
‘I think you should persist with the freelancing, Selma. It’ll take time to get established again, sure, but it’ll suit you, being your own boss. And you’ll never get fired again.’
Alf winks at her, and though she would usually have found his comment funny, she certainly doesn’t now, and she stares at him.
‘No.’
The freelance life didn’t work out like Selma had intended. She just never managed to get started, and increasingly she retreated into herself. In the first few weeks after Olav let her go, it was as though a black cloud had descended on her life, rendering her unable to participate in anything. She hardly ate or slept but spent her days and nights either pacing around the apartment or scouring the internet for updates on the Blix case. She wanted, so badly, to be the journalist who landed the big breakthrough scoop on that case. And most of all she wanted a happy ending for the little girl. But as she was dragged further and further into the bleak clutches of depression, she stopped caring. Even when the case occasionally grabbed the headlines again, she couldn’t be bothered to read the articles properly, just scanning them before moving on to something else.
‘How about you come and stay with me for a few days?’ Alf says.
‘No,’ she says. But then she thinks about her old room, and how good it would feel to just be at home, listening to the distant murmur of her father’s radio from downstairs, running her hands across her mother’s old perfume bottles in the bathroom, sitting in the window with her legs drawn up, watching the lights of Drammen in the dark. Besides, she knows she’s only a day or two away from having her electricity cut off, she hasn’t paid a single bill in months, and then what would she do? ‘Okay,’ she says, and lets her father draw her into a slightly awkward hug.
In the car, she holds Medusa close and leans against the window. Her whole body feels leaden and weak. She barely remembers what it was like to feel strong and light, throbbing with energy, the way she used to, before everything went to hell.
40
Lucia
I open my eyes, but it’s still dark. Maman is sitting on my bed, making it dip, and her warm hand is on my cheek, stroking it, like every morning.
‘Bonjour,’ she whispers.
I stretch out the way my cat does and Maman laughs a little. ‘Bonjour,’ I say.
‘Come on, sweet girl,’ she says, and I get out of bed and slide my feet into the soft, warm slippers underneath it.
I take her hand and together we cross the landing and push open the door to my sister’s room. Josie is still asleep, and I can hear her breath going in and out. Maman sits down on one side of the bed and I sit on the other, so my sister is in between us.
‘Bonjour,’ says Maman and strokes Josiane’s cheek gently.
Josie opens her eyes a crack then closes them again. After a while of Maman stroking her cheek, she gets up too, and the three of us go downstairs.
Every morning it’s exactly the same. Maman walks down the stairs first, holding a lantern with a real candle inside it, making the stone walls glow like we’ve painted them with gold. It isn’t because we don’t have normal lights, we do, but because it makes mornings special. Behind Maman, Josie and I walk down together, wearing our nightdresses with our names stitched on them. My name’s in purple and Josie’s is in pink. We walk through the dining room and the sitting room and the library to the kitchen with the fireplace that’s so big that Josie and I can stand inside it, all with only the light from Maman’s lantern. It’s lucky that I am safer here than anywhere else in the whole world, otherwise I might be afraid of what could be in the shadows. But I’m safe here, only here. The cat comes with us, rubbing her fur against our ankles.
We sit down at the long wooden kitchen table covered by a red-and-white wax cloth that doesn’t get dirty even if you spill stuff on it. Maman puts the lantern down in the fireplace and lights lots more candles while Josie and I do our special jobs. Her job is to put the eggcups and plates in the right place with the knife to the right and the spoon above. My job is to pour the apple juice to the second line in each glass. When Maman has finished lighting the candles she takes the bread she has made out of the oven. It’s quite knotty, and it has dusty bits from where she rolled it in the flour, but it smells really good. She breaks it into three pieces and puts a piece on my plate and one on Josie’s. She sits down opposite me and Josie and holds Kimmi on her lap, twirling her ears slowly with her fingers. Cats like that, so Kimmi purrs.
Maman smiles and her eyes shine in the light from the candles. She puts Kimmi down on the stone floor and then she stands up to get the boiled eggs. We eat without talking, like we always do. The bread is warm and soft, and the yummy salty butter on it is from the cows in the field. The eggs are from the chickens behind the barn.
When we finish eating, the sky is starting to go pink and orange.
‘Off you go,’ says Maman, handing us a big paper bag of corn, spinach and brown pellets.
Me and Josie run to the back door and grab our blue wool coats. We take our slippers off and put our muddy wellies on, then we go out into the cold air. We cross the courtyard, holding hands. Feeding the chickens is our job. We like it even though they sometimes rush around and peck at our wellies. Today they are chattering loudly when we open the hatches and they hurry out from their houses. We throw whole handfuls of corn and spinach at them, then we scatter the pellets around, and they go crazy, making me and Josie laugh. Sometimes we laugh so much together that our stomachs hurt.
Back at the house, Maman has changed into her day clothes. Today she is wearing a dark blue silky blouse and a pair of thick trousers in the same color. The trousers shine a bit, like the tiniest stones have been sewn into them. Her hair is tied back and coiled in a tight bun at the top of her head. I want her to do mine exactly the same. Not even a little bit of hair has fallen out of her bun and she looks like a ballerina. Or… a flight attendant.
For a moment I see The Lady very clearly in my head. She is standing in the corner of the kitchen in my house – no, in that house – over by the refrigerator, closing the zip on her little suitcase. Her uniform was the same color blue as Maman’s clothes, but on the shoulders it had two gold stripes and a wing I used to run my fingers over when she scooped me up to hug me goodbye. The Lady was always leaving me. But she was also always coming back. I liked it when she came straight from the airport to get me from school – the other kids thought she was cool, and Mille-Theodora once said she wished her mother could fly planes.
I feel strange. Like something is in my throat when I swallow. A pebble, a lump of ice, a too big piece of carrot. I cough to make it go away, but after the cough comes a squeak, like from Kimmi when we step on her tail by mistake.
‘Hey, sweet girl, are you okay?’ Maman is looking at me from where she’s standing over by the window in the kitchen, pulling Josie’s hair back with a comb.
I try to answer, but the pebble is in the way and her face is blurred now. Maman’s face becomes a stranger who becomes another stranger and it is like ten faces flashing in front of me and then she becomes The Lady. I want to scream and make her go away, but I don’t. Instead, I blink and Maman’s face becomes clear again. It’s sad or angry or worried.
‘Hey,’ she says and drops Josie’s hair just as she was about to do the hair tie, so it flops back around her shoulders. ‘Hey.’
Maman sits at my feet and puts her warm hands around my waist. ‘My sweet angel, are you having bad thoughts? Dangerous ones?’
I nod.
She leans in and kisses me softly in the middle of my forehead. It feels good.
‘It takes time,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘But we have all the time in the world now.’
She ties the hair tie tight on the top of Josie’s head, then walks back over to me. She begins to run the comb very gently through my hair, over and over, and I close my eyes because it’s a nice feeling. ‘Like yours,’ I whisper.
‘Always, my sweet girl,’ says Maman and she twists my hair higher and higher until it’s ready to be coiled around itself like a cinnamon bun.
‘Come on, mon amour. It’s time for school.’
