The French Impressionist

by Rebecca Bischoff

  “Yes. I have to wait until I’m eighteen. Mom said.”

  I’m shocked. Not that Jada’s Mom said to wait until she was “legal,” but that she said yes at all. Because Jada will never be able to live on her own. Neither will Mitch. They think they’re going to get married?

  “Uh, okay, Jada. I mean, congratulations,” I finally say. “I’m happy for you, seriously. But please, listen, okay? I need help!” I plead.

  Six seconds pass.

  “What?” she answers. Finally, she’s listening.

  “I wasn’t going to come home,” I whisper. There. I said it. It was hard to push the sounds out, but I did. Clearing my throat, I raise my voice and pour out the whole story, sounds vomiting out of my mouth and mixing together into what would be nothing more than a stream of nonsense syllables to anyone but Jada. She always understands me. So, I tell her everything, turning my back on the woman with the bulging chins whose dark eyes continue to stare with open curiosity.

  I tell Jada about the paintings, and Mrs. Thackeray, trying as hard as I can to speak clearly. I tell her about Ansel still being alive. I even tell about Gavin and the kiss as an afterthought. I’m dying for someone to know. Jada listens, gasps once in a while, but most often barks out her harsh laughter. How can she think this is funny?

  “Jada?!”

  She doesn’t answer for another forty-three seconds. I pace even more, trip over someone’s feet. The bus arrives; everyone else gets on, the driver waits, staring at me. Finally, I notice his quizzical expression, with bushy eyebrows almost touching his hairline, and wave him on. He makes that typical French grimace combined with a shrug that means, “Whatever,” and closes the bus doors.

  Jada finally talks. “I don’t laugh at you. Mitch is here. He’s so funny!”

  My head is about to explode.

  “Jada, how could you? You didn’t even listen! What do I do?” I shriek into the phone. “Ansel’s coming back home, so I have nowhere to go when summer is over. I need you to help me find a new exchange program, fast. Please! Help me!”

  The answer comes in a few seconds.

  “What?” Jada asks. I don’t hear any laughter this time.

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m not going back to Idaho! I can’t go back to Mom, Jada! I can’t . . .” I sob. “It would be like going back to prison!”

  I take a trembling breath and try to fight the tears, but they won’t stop.

  Five seconds later, Jada responds.

  “Prison?” she asks.

  I try to control my tears and make my words come out slowly. “It’s true, Jada. I’ve never been anywhere without my Mom since, well, since Shreveport. I mean, since I was four! I’m never alone. Ever.”

  This pause has to be the longest, but I don’t count the seconds. My eyes are too blurred with tears to see anything.

  “You’re coming back in August. Right?” Jada finally asks. Now, she’s starting to get it. She finally gets that I wasn’t only coming here for the summer. I gulp.

  “I was never planning to go back to Idaho, Jada. I wanted to stay here. Now, I can’t stay in Nice, but if you help me, maybe somewhere else in France . . .” My words trail off.

  I hear background noise again, but this time it’s not laughter. Jada is mad. Really, really mad, because she’s squealing, grunting and yelling, and her head is thrashing around like it does when she’s agitated.

  “You can’t stay there!” she finally says.

  “I thought there was a way I could do it, Jada! I thought that Sylvie and Émile didn’t have Ansel anymore, so they had room for someone else. And I knew they would feel sorry for me . . . don’t you get it?” I say, sobbing. Saying it out loud makes a cold lump of squirming embarrassment form in my stomach, because hearing my voice say the words makes it totally obvious to me how crazy the plan was from the beginning.

  “It won’t work, now, because Ansel is coming home. And I said bad things and hurt Sylvie, and I got mixed up with that old lady and took stuff from that apartment. I know it was crazy! Now I have to find another place to go! Please, help me, Jada!” I add, gulping and gasping for breath. Crazy plan or not, I’m here now, and desperate not to go home.

  “I helped you lie to go to France! I helped you steal! I’m your best friend but you lied to me, too!” Jada says.

  “I am your best friend, but I couldn’t tell you. I was afraid you’d think I was crazy.” I hear her grunt as she works on her response. Ten seconds go by.

  “Crazy and stupid.”

  My tears stop. Everything stops. No breath is in my lungs. The black sludge is still inside. I feel it spreading from somewhere around my heart to the rest of my body. My best friend, who always stands up for me when no one else does, who tells me I can do anything, who tells me to “bring it,” called me crazy. And stupid. Jada can’t even talk without a computer, or move without a wheelchair. Neither can Mitch. They think they’re getting married. And she thinks I’m crazy and stupid?

  Once again, my mouth moves before I think about what to say. Maybe it’s my . . . apraxia. There. I allowed my brain to think it, the word I hate so much. Maybe it’s the sludge inside. Sounds plummet from my lips, quick and garbled, but I know Jada will understand me.

  “Crazy and stupid? You know what’s crazy and stupid, Jada? That you and Mitch think you can get married! That’s a joke and you know it! Where are you going to live? At Cascade Hills, with Mitch? So the nurses can feed you and change you at the same time? That’s romantic.”

  Jada squeals as I struggle for breath, feeling my heart drum with anger. Jada’s mom probably told her “yes” to get her off her case. But Jada will never live by herself. She can’t walk. She can’t talk without her computer; she can’t even eat. Someone has to feed her through a tube in her stomach. Someone has to bathe her, change her clothes and do her hair. Someone has to change her diapers.

  She’s a lot like Ansel.

  Ansel. The name carves itself into my mind, and once again, I see brown-black eyes that fill with pain at the sound of my words. What would I read in Jada’s eyes if I were standing before her now? How could I have spoken those cruel words? She’s my best friend. We laugh together, get crushes together, and cry together. She is the one person who always defended me and has never, ever mocked my mushy words. Why can’t she and Mitch get married? Why shouldn’t they? Why do I keep saying such awful things to everyone around me, even the people I love the most? My words were true, but they’re horrible.

  “J,” I start to say, but I hear a click and my throat starts to close.

  Jada hung up.

  Twenty-Four

  I sleep so late it’s no longer morning. Sylvie must have hit the flower markets, because the kitchen is smothered in plant life by the time I wander in, looking for food. Clouds of pink, crimson, blue, lavender, yellow, and green cover every surface. I smell roses, lilacs, carnations, and other flowers I don’t recognize. Underneath it all is the smell of roast chicken and lots of garlic.

  Wrinkling my nose, I grab a pear and sink into the nearest chair. The fruit is tasteless so I give up on it after a few bites and sit, staring at a smattering of crumbs on the table, wondering where I’ll go when autumn comes. During the night I researched student exchange programs. One in Milan sounds promising. It’s for English speakers, so I don’t even need to speak Italian. I’ve already done the online application but need to fake some actual paper forms. I’ll use the same credit card I’d applied for in Zander’s name, like I did to pay for this program in Nice. But won’t that make it too easy to trace me? I don’t know. My head hurts. Maybe I’ll go back to bed. Say I’m sick. Rubbing my eyes, I head back to what used to be my bedroom.

  My things are piled outside the door. Clothes are in one pile; shoes are lined up along the baseboards. Two of my stupid “happy tree” paintings lean against the wall. I stop, gasp, and feel like my world
is about to implode.

  Not yet. I don’t have anywhere else to go!

  “Oh, Rosie, here you are,” Émile says, emerging from Ansel’s room. “I was cleaning out Ansel’s closet, trying to find his old books. I’d wondered where your suitcase was. What did you do with it?”

  Blinking in shock, I try to answer. “I, um, well—” Too late, I finally remember I’d left it down in the shop after returning from the Wizard’s Church.

  Émile regards me for a moment with a thoughtful expression, looking a little sad. Finally, he shrugs.

  “No matter, you can help me put your things back. Then we must prepare for our dinner tonight.”

  Several times I find myself simply staring at the object I’m trying to put away. My mind won’t focus on anything. We finally finish and head to the kitchen.

  “Who is coming for dinner?” I manage to ask. It’s silly, almost. I know who’s coming, but I want to hear it again.

  “Our friends, Phil and Valerie, and their son. I’m sure you’ll enjoy seeing them again,” Émile says with a slight grin. I grimace in return. At least Gavin won’t try to kiss me in front of the group. I hope.

  “Also,” Émile adds, looking up from the roast chicken he was basting, “Ansel will be here. This dinner is in his honor. To celebrate his homecoming.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying but failing to smile. Instead I turn away and finger the petals of a pale pink rose. “That’s nice.”

  “That’s why we’ll eat in the shop tonight. Sylvie is they’re making everything ready for us. You can help me bring down some chairs.” Émile turns back to his chicken.

  So we’re having a party. I shred petals and drop them onto the counter. A party with everyone I don’t want to see.

  It’s time to say goodbye. I tried, but my plan didn’t work.

  It kind of feels like my heart melted and is sloshing around in my shoes. I follow Émile and help him carry down metal folding chairs to Sylvie’s little shop. We move shelves, clear space in the middle of the floor, set up a long folding table. Sylvie is busy in the back rooms, and doesn’t emerge. I don’t mind. I don’t speak, except to ask when the guests will arrive. I’m told I have about an hour.

  Once chairs and table are in place, I say I need to shower to get ready for the party. I grab my suitcase from where I’d stashed it, behind the rack of bright skirts, and let it bump against each step as I return to the upper floor.

  Ansel’s bedroom feels different. It even looks different somehow. It’s cold and sterile. The colors are no longer bright. It’s the room of a stranger, a place where I don’t belong. I pack quickly and quietly. I don’t yet have a new family, but at least I have a temporary sanctuary until I can find one. I pat the key to the Wizards’ church in my pocket to be sure it’s there. And then I turn to say goodbye to the room I love.

  Fat Cat grunts at my feet, wanting me to let him out. I gather the purring feline in my arms and bury my face in his soft fur.

  “I’ll miss you, cat.”

  I ease the door closed behind me and pull the suitcase down the hall. I’ll have to borrow Sylvie’s phone again until I can get my own. I’ll send it back to her as soon as I can. The kitchen is empty, so I grab the phone, shove it into my pocket and stuff the charger into my suitcase. I look around the kitchen once more, wanting to remember, but it hurts too much. Blinking, I whirl around and rush to the front room, wanting to escape quickly before anyone comes back upstairs.

  I’m too late.

  Gavin and his parents are here in the front room, sitting on the little couch. I yelp when I see them. Valerie wears a sweet grin, Phil fake-smiles in my direction, and Gavin just stares at me with his weird eyes. My face bursts into flames. Then, someone clears her throat, and I turn toward Mrs. Thackeray. She’s actually holding Marguerite’s portrait, the ancient witch! Why did she bring it with her? To gloat? The old lady nods a greeting at me with a smug smirk on her face. I have the sudden urge to grab Marguerite from her and run.

  Émile rushes in and places a tray of drinks onto the coffee table. “Rosie, can you help?” he asks. “Our guests are a bit early. Sylvie has already left to pick up Ansel.” And with that, he hurries again into the kitchen, not noticing my suitcase. The doorbell rings. “Please get that,” Émile calls from the kitchen.

  Everyone turns their eyes to me. Gavin stares at my suitcase. Phil looks perplexed as usual, Valerie’s smile starts to slip a bit, and Mrs. Thackeray pins me in her gaze like a cobra. Forget this. Forget them. I’m still leaving. Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I go to answer the door.

  I’m drowning. A whirlwind, a hurricane, a tsunami crash into me and engulf me all at once. I feel all the oxygen leave my body. It’s her. She found me.

  “Rosemary! Oh, it’s really you! How could you do this to me?” Mom shrieks, while her long arms grab me and I’m caught. She holds on tight. Her voice breaks. I feel her sobbing against me. She’s crying, and has been for a while, from the looks of her puffy eyes and runny makeup. How did she find me?

  Zander is here, too. He stands behind Mom, his tall frame wobbly and ill at ease, as usual, his blond hair tangled and dangling down over his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot and baggy and his face is gray. Mom tries to squeeze every last molecule of air out of my lungs.

  “Who is it?” Sylvie calls from hallway outside the apartment. She hurries up, and then a wondering expression spreads over her face. “Your mother, Rosie?” she asks, dark eyes wide. She doesn’t wait for an answer, but calls, “Émile, come, come, look who’s here!” She gestures for Mom and Zander to enter and shoos them inside, while Émile comes in, looking suddenly even more harried and distressed.

  The tiny front room is full of people all talking at once. Mom keeps one arm around me, holding tight to my shoulder. “Well, Rosemary,” she says, sniffing and practically digging her nails into my skin, “you haven’t said anything! I’m sure you’re surprised to see us.” Her ragged voice is hard-edged, laced with fury. She throws a significant look at Zander, who gives a slight shake of his head. “Get your things. You and I are going to have a nice, long talk.”

  She dissolves into tears again. Sylvie hands her a tissue, invites her and Zander to join us for dinner. Zander accepts. He tells Mom we can wait a bit and I can leave after dinner so I can say my goodbyes. I still don’t think anyone has noticed my suitcase, now sitting forlorn and forgotten by the front door.

  Ansel is waiting downstairs. Sylvie shoos us all down the hall and to the back staircase, and we all squeeze through the door and troop down in one big, noisy group.

  They found me. How? Then, as I squirm under my mother’s hand, still gripping my shoulder, I feel like a bucket of ice water was dumped over my head. Jada. She must have told her.

  Everyone spills into the shop and keeps talking. Ansel is there at the head of the table, smiling, laughing, while his machine whirs and breathes for him. Sylvie and Émile introduce everyone. I pull away from Mom and go to sit at the little chair behind the cash register, partly hidden from the group. Mom lets me go but keeps her red eyes fixed on me. Zander wanders and stares at paintings on the wall. Chatter whirls around me for two, three long, long, long minutes. Sylvie’s voice rises above the others.

  “You mean you did not know that Rosie was in France? Mais, c’est impossible!”

  Émile’s voice rumbles after Sylvie’s, softer, calmer. Trying to soothe. Oh, Émile! My eyes fill with angry tears. They spill down my face, and I don’t bother to wipe them away.

  I only wanted to get away from my mother. I wanted to so badly that I lied, I stole, and I went to another country! I did everything I could to carve myself a place within this new family. Things obviously didn’t go like I’d planned, but at least I was on my own.

  Then, Mom showed up. She found me because my best friend betrayed me. My only friend . . . wait! I think of someone with auburn hair and an easy smil
e. Nicole! She told me to visit her in London. I’ll send her a text. If I have her address, I can figure out how to get there. Maybe I can find a way to slip out while everyone is talking.

  Hey, it’s Rosemary. Can U send me your address? I’m on my way to London.

  I hit send and bite my lip while I swipe away tears. Voices rise and fall like waves lapping against the pebble-strewn beaches of Nice while I stare at the phone, waiting, praying. It beeps. I read the words that appear.

  Who is this???

  Doesn’t she have Sylvie’s number? Maybe she was just being polite. She’s a supermodel, Ro. She doesn’t actually want to be your friend.

  The voices die away. When I peer around the cash register, Gavin’s bright copper head swivels in my direction. He holds up a small white card in his hand with an expression of amusement on his face. It’s one of Mom’s “Childhood Apraxia of Speech” info cards. She likes to hand them out. Valerie has one, too. She says, “Ah,” as she reads it.

  Hashtag humiliated times infinity. I’ll go to London anyway. I hear they have work for sideshow freaks.

  Mrs. Thackeray speaks.

  “Please listen, all of you. I have something very important to say,” she announces. “You probably do not know that I am the owner of this building.” Sylvie and Émile gasp. Ansel’s eyes widen. The corners of the old lady’s mouth curve upward in a tiny smile.

  I loathe her.

  “It once belonged to my grandmother, a famous actress whose portrait I hold in my hands.” She pauses and gazes around the room, like we’re all supposed to applaud, or something. “This building is mine. I plan to hand the ownership over to my son Thomas when I return to England next month.” Mrs. Thackeray clears her throat, a wet, gravelly sound that turns my stomach. Then, she looks around at everyone. The shop is silent, except for a couple of coughs and a long wheezing breath from Gavin, who must have caught a cold.

  “You needn’t worry,” Mrs. Thackeray continues. “Tommy will take good care of things. However,” she pauses to dab her face again, “his plans do change things, a bit.”