While Paris Slept

by Ruth Druart

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t go. I don’t wanna go.”

  “I don’t want you to go either, but they can make you.”

  “They can’t. I just won’t go.”

  “I’m afraid they can. That’s why we have to get away. So they won’t find us.”

  “Just tell them I don’t wanna go.”

  “They won’t listen to me, Sam. They’re still very cross that we didn’t track them down after the war. They were looking for you.”

  “But I wanna stay here. I want Daddy to come back.”

  Suddenly she swerves into another lane, overtaking three cars. One of them honks at her. “Shut up!” she yells.

  I jump in my seat, my heart beating hard. I’m not sure if she’s talking to the driver of the honking car or me. I look at the speedometer. We’re driving so fast now, the needle has gone past all the numbers.

  “Mom,” I say. “You’ve pinned the speedometer.”

  “Yeah, I have.” She laughs, but it’s a crazy, high-pitched noise, and I don’t like it.

  “What about Daddy?” I wish he was here.

  “He’ll be able to join us later, once we get settled.”

  I lean back in my seat, trying not to cry. I don’t want to run away. “But where are we goin’? Where will we live?”

  “Mexico, Sam. We’re going to Mexico.”

  “Mexico? But that’s not even in America!”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not far. Why don’t you put some music on?”

  I turn the radio knob and recognize the tune straightaway.

  Oh, my pa-pa, to me he was so wonderful…

  “It’s Eddie Fisher,” Mom says.

  The words of the song make me want to cry. Daddy would know what to do now. He’d be able to tell them I can’t go and live in France. I wish he was here so bad. “When’s Daddy coming?”

  “I’m not sure yet. We’ll have to see. But I know he’s thinking about you every minute of every day.”

  That makes me feel a bit better. I close my eyes. They feel dry and sore, and my eyelids are heavy. My head flops to the side, and I lean against the window.

  When I wake, it’s dark and we’re still driving. I’m dying for a pee. “Can we stop, Mom? I need the bathroom.”

  “Okay, but you’ll have to be quick.”

  We pull into a gas station, and she gives me a quarter to get some snacks while she fills the tank. The sign for the bathroom points around the back of the shop, but there are no lights, and it’s so dark. Trying to be brave, I follow the wall with my hands, waiting to feel a door. A bird screeches, making me jump.

  “Mom!” I scream.

  There’s no answer.

  “Mom!” I call louder. “Mom!”

  “You should put the light on.” A lady’s voice comes through the dark.

  Suddenly I’m drowned by bright light. I screw my eyes up.

  “I think your ma’s getting gas.”

  “Okay,” I say, opening the bathroom door, in front of me now. I shut myself in the cubicle, feeling like an idiot. The sound of my pee hitting the pool of water at the bottom of the toilet echoes in the empty room. I wonder if the lady outside can hear it.

  When I come out, the lady’s gone. I see Mom walking into the shop, so I follow her as if nothing happened. I hear the lady telling her, “He was scared on his own, out the back. It’s pretty black out there when you don’t put the lights on.” She laughs.

  “Sam,” Mom says. “Get yourself something to eat, quickly now.”

  I grab a Hershey’s bar from the nearest stand and hold out a quarter to the lady.

  “It’s late to be traveling.” She takes the money and smiles at me with warm eyes. I smile back.

  “Well, we have a long way to go,” Mom answers.

  “We’re going to Mexico,” I add.

  Mom flashes me an angry look. I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut.

  “Mexico?” the lady repeats. “What’s in Mexico?”

  “Family,” Mom replies.

  I know she’s lying, again.

  The lady rings the Hershey’s bar up on the cash register, then counts the change into my open palm. “Five cents, fifteen cents, twenty cents, twenty-five cents.” I look at her instead of the money. Her forehead is creased in the middle, her eyebrows pointing down toward her nose. “All right, darlin’?”

  I nod and turn around to leave through the door Mom is holding open for me.

  When we get back to the car, we drive off quickly, speeding out of the gas station. I open my chocolate bar, wishing I’d chosen something bigger. I’m suddenly starving.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  California, July 16, 1953

  CHARLOTTE

  It’s nearly midnight when we reach the border. Sam’s slept most of the way, his head lolling over at what looks like a painful angle. Reaching over to straighten it, I hear him murmur in his sleep. He looks beautiful, and I absorb every little detail: his black silky eyelashes curling up, his straight dark hair, his smooth olive skin. His eyes are the same almond shape as mine. People often comment on how much he looks like me. It feels like he has come to resemble me physically, as though his growing body watched mine and took its form from me. He doesn’t look much like Jean-Luc, but he has his way of laughing and his lopsided smile.

  He’s been so easy to love. As we trekked across the Pyrénées, I grew to love him as if he were my own. A warm baby, wrapped around my body, occasionally lifting his eyes to look at me and take me in. Sometimes I deliberately leaned forward, making him feel as though he were about to fall, so that he’d stretch out his little fingers, gripping on to me more tightly. He needed me, and I responded to that need so naturally and effortlessly.

  Why can’t they leave us alone? How can they expect to build a peaceful future when they keep dragging up the past? The thought of Sam suffering brings a tightness to my throat. How much more painful to watch one’s child suffer than to do the suffering oneself. I’ll do anything to protect him. Anything.

  There’s a line of traffic. As we get nearer, I see officers checking passports. I suppress an urge to reverse and drive back the other way. Please, God, I whisper in my head. Make everything be all right.

  A harsh knocking on the window makes me jump. There’s an officer standing there. I roll down the window, my hand trembling.

  “Passports, please, ma’am.” He peers over at Sam, who’s opened his eyes now.

  I hand them over.

  “Wait here, ma’am.”

  My pulse is beating hard in my ears. Please, please, God.

  He comes back with another officer. “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

  No! They can’t! But they’re opening my door, pulling me out by my elbow.

  “Turn around.” An officer pushes me in the back. I’m up against the car, and he’s running his hands up and down my body. I bite my lower lip, willing myself to stay calm. For Sam’s sake.

  Then I feel the cold metal of handcuffs on my wrists. I hear the click of the lock. I swallow my scream, and look over at Sam. An officer has his arm around him and is whispering in his ear. Sam turns his head to find me.

  “I’m sorry,” I mouth. Biting down harder on my lip, I stifle the animal cry starting in my belly.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  California, July 17, 1953

  CHARLOTTE

  The pain inside me grows like a balloon being inflated, stretched beyond its limits, near to the point of bursting. I try to hold it in as it squeezes my intestines up into my throat, pushing hard against my heart. It’s too much for me to contain, and when the police car pulls up at the station, when they tell me to get out, I can hardly move. Doubled over, handcuffed, I climb the steps. Along the corridor, bright fluorescent lights glare at me. We stop in front of a cell. Despite my crippling pain, I look up and see there’s someone already in the barred room, a woman with smudged streaks of mascara running down from her eyes to her mouth, long naked legs sticking out from under a short denim sk
irt.

  The officer unlocks the handcuffs, freeing my stiff arms. Immediately I bring my hands around, gripping myself, holding the pain in. The metal clank of the key turning in the lock rings in my ears. I stumble into the cell, collapsing on the concrete bench. There’s nowhere for the pain to go now. The balloon explodes. My body convulses, heaving sobs wrenched from deep within me.

  “Shut the fuck up, would ya?” the woman shouts.

  But the pain racking my body is unstoppable now, my sobs increasing in volume. I hope the woman will hit me. Physical pain would be better than this. Then I feel her next to me. She puts her head right up next to mine; the smell of whiskey breath hits me. I wait for her fist to make contact with my face.

  “They’ll put you in the fuckin’ loony bin if you carry on like that,” she whispers in my ear. “And then you’ll never get out.”

  I wish she’d hit me instead. Her words scare me. I take a deep breath, forcing it down into my abdomen. Holding it there, I make myself go quiet.

  She goes back to her place opposite. I bring my legs up onto the bench, curling them under me, and lie there in the fetal position, trying to make my mind go blank. Thoughts will start me off again.

  “So, what’s so bad? What’d you do? Kill your husband?” She cackles as if she’s said something amusing.

  I have no words to tell her what I did.

  “You wanna know why I’m here?”

  I curl up tighter, not letting out a sound.

  “’Cause I been sellin’ something that belongs to me. How fuckin’ crazy is that? Bet you did something much worse. God didn’t give me much in the way of brains, but he gave me tits, legs, and a nice ass. Gotta use what you got, ain’t ya? There ain’t nobody to look after me, so what am I s’posed to do? Lie down and die?”

  I hear her stand up, footsteps coming toward me again. Then I feel her hand on my head. “You’re in a bad way, ain’t ya?”

  It feels like a lead blanket has been placed over me. Everything is so heavy. I close my eyes, and let myself fall into oblivion.

  The next thing I know, someone is turning the key in the lock. The officer walks in with a woman in a white lab coat.

  “Get up, Mrs. Bow-Champ.” The officer’s voice is harsh.

  I look at the woman and back to him again. They are both expressionless. Terror seizes me. Are they going to put me away?

  I know I have to stay calm, have to appear compos mentis. Slowly I unfold my legs, putting my feet onto the floor. I stumble as I try to stand, so I lift myself gradually from the bench. I see the hooker sleeping in a sitting position, her head bent over at an awkward angle. I would like to move her, make her more comfortable, but I don’t dare touch her. Instead I follow the officer and the woman out of the cell.

  We walk down the corridor, stopping at a small office near the end, on the left.

  “Where’s Sam?” I promised myself I would wait to ask; that I would do everything to appear calm and in control, but I need to know.

  “We’ll explain everything in the interview room, Mrs. Bow-Champ.”

  When we enter the room, they sit down on one side of the table, motioning for me to sit opposite. I fidget on the plastic chair, suddenly desperate for the bathroom. I don’t allow myself to say anything, aware that my desperation will only make them crueler.

  “Mrs. Bow-Champ,” the officer starts.

  I stare at him. Waiting.

  “What you did was very irresponsible and foolish—”

  “Where’s Sam? Is he okay?”

  He nods. “He’s fine. He’ll be on a flight to Paris shortly.”

  “What?” My voice comes out as a croak from my tight throat.

  “Yes. Today.”

  Daggers of pain shoot through my stomach. I hug myself, trying to block them out. “Please, please don’t send him away like that. Please let me see him.”

  The woman hands me a plastic cup of water. I want to push her hand away, but instead I take a tiny sip.

  “As I was saying,” the officer continues, ignoring my pleas. “Your actions yesterday could get you into a lot of trouble.”

  I look into his eyes. “I’m sorry… I was distraught. I wasn’t thinking straight.” The hooker’s words about the loony bin ring in my head.

  “Quite.” He takes out a cigarette packet, offering it to the woman in the lab coat. She shakes her head. “I’ll let you proceed with the questions now.” He leans back in his chair, smoking, watching us as if we’re some damn TV show.

  “Mrs. Bow-Champ.” The woman raises her eyebrows. “Why did you try to cross the border with Samuel? You were told not to leave your house, unless you informed the officer outside.”

  “I’m sorry. When I heard the news that Sam’s parents wanted him back, I panicked. I don’t want to lose him.” My throat constricts painfully. I stop myself from thinking about him, taking a deep breath in. One breath at a time, I tell myself.

  “We are concerned about your mental state, Mrs. Bow-Champ. We know that your husband put undue pressure on you, preventing you from going to the authorities about Samuel when you should have. To live under that kind of pressure over a prolonged period of time can be quite detrimental to mental health. We want to make sure you are stable enough to return home.”

  “Home?” Suddenly I’m confused. “You mean Paris?” The thought of Paris, of being near Sam and Jean-Luc, makes my pulse beat faster.

  “No.” She coughs, then looks at the officer. “I don’t mean Paris, Mrs. Bow-Champ. I mean your home here.”

  My heart sinks.

  The officer flicks his cigarette onto the side of a metal ashtray, looking up at me from under bushy eyebrows. “You need to stay in the state of California and agree to have weekly sessions with the psychiatrist.”

  “You mean I can’t leave this country—”

  “This country,” he interrupts, leaning forward, glaring at me, “that has welcomed you and been your home for the last nine years. No.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll be able to return to France,” the woman says more kindly. “This is not a permanent ban on travel. It’s just till we can verify that you have accepted the fact that Samuel is not your son.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  California, July 17, 1953

  SAM

  The big lady with hairy arms is talking to me in her annoying voice. “Samuel, you should eat something. You can come to the cafeteria with us and choose whatever you like.”

  I want to slap her wobbly cheeks. “When can I see my mom?” I ask again.

  She breathes out heavily. “We’ve already told you. It’s best that you don’t see her before you go.”

  I clench and unclench my fists under the table, trying to stop myself from crying. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I wanna see my mom!”

  “Samuel, please. Be reasonable.”

  That’s it. I can’t contain it any longer. I jump out of my chair, my fist flying forward, smashing right into her flabby mouth. I feel my breath coming fast, like I’ve just run a race. I hit a marshal. Will I go to prison now too?

  I stand there. Waiting.

  The man steps forward and grabs my arm. I’m too scared to pull it away. He marches me down the corridor. My heart is beating hard. What are they going to do with me?

  He takes me into a small room. There’s a white table and two gray chairs.

  “You can wait here till you calm down.” He releases my arm from his tight grip and closes the door behind him on the way out. Then locks it.

  I ignore the chairs and sit on the floor in the corner of the room, my knees bent up under my chin. I won’t cry. I won’t. Not anymore. I cried and screamed when they took Mom away. I remember shouting at them, “But she hasn’t done anything!” They said I’d understand later, but I never will.

  My stomach twists and growls. The last thing I had to eat was the Hershey’s bar last night. I didn’t want the bowl of cornflakes they gave me this morning, but I was thirsty, so I drank the glass of milk. I w
ish we’d made it to Mexico. I’m so tired now; my head feels dizzy. I close my eyes, leaning my face onto my knees, feeling my eyelashes flickering against my skin. I like the feeling, and open and close my eyes again and again.

  A noise wakes me. It’s the key turning in the door. The marshals walk in. The man still looks cross, the lady looks sad.

  “Samuel, we understand how angry you must feel.” Her voice is sickly sweet. “I forgive you for hitting me. I know it was just your anger and confusion coming out.”

  “Still,” the man interrupts. “If you do anything like that again, there will be consequences.”

  “Let’s have some lunch.” The lady puts on a fake bright voice.

  “Come on, kid,” the man adds when I don’t budge.

  “When can I see my mom?” I ask again.

  They look at each other, and the man raises an eyebrow. Then he reaches down, pulling me up by my elbow.

  They take me to a cafeteria where people queue up to choose their food. “Have whatever you like,” the lady says.

  When I get to the cash register, my tray is still empty. I won’t eat, though my stomach feels hollow. They find a free table and we sit down. I can feel people staring at us, I look around at them and they look away.

  “Babysitting,” the man whispers to the lady. “And I’m working on a case. I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “Shh.” The lady looks at him out of the corner of her eye.

  But I bet he wanted me to hear. He hates me. I can feel it.

  The lady puts a plate of fries in front of me and opens a can of Coke, poking a straw in the top as she slides it over to me. I take a fry. The lady smiles and I put it back. I don’t touch the Coke. She picks up her hot dog and bites into it, ketchup squirting out the sides. “Samuel, let’s start again.” She swallows a mouthful of hot dog and looks at me. “We got off on the wrong foot. I know this is hard for you. We can call the psychologist who talked with you earlier and see if she could see you again. Would you like that?” She smiles at me like she’s just offered me a present.