by Sarah Jio
A few minutes later, I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”
I don’t want to talk to him. I just want him to be here. To help me unpack all these twenty-six thousand boxes. I sigh, staring straight ahead.
“Remember our honeymoon?” he says, kneeling beside me. “Those incredible tacos we found in that little place along the road?”
I nod, still looking straight ahead, arms folded, holding my ground.
“I still think that pineapple salsa is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.”
“Me too,” I say softly, the memory disarming me somehow.
“I’m sorry I have to go this weekend,” he continues. “If it weren’t such an important meeting with these investors from New York, I’d bag the whole thing and stay here with you. It’s only for two nights. Just leave the boxes until I’m home.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Hey, how about I make tacos tonight?”
“Okay,” I say, cracking a smile. He kisses my cheek and heads to the kitchen.
It’s hard to stay mad at him long, this husband of mine. I close my eyes tightly, remembering our honeymoon. At once, there we are in Tulum, Mexico.
Victor looks perfect in his new shirt, linen with a tropical banana-leaf print. A little zany, maybe, but when I saw it in a shop window a few weeks ago, I couldn’t resist buying it for him to wear on the trip. Every man should have a tropical shirt in his closet. I smile to myself in the backseat of the taxi, watching him study a map of Mexico as the car barrels along the road, half-dirt, half-paved in places, a thick forest of palm trees and tropical vegetation on either side of us.
The driver slows down and pulls over in front of an unmarked road. “Do you think this is it?” I ask skeptically. It’s hard to believe that just yesterday we exchanged vows at that little church on Coronado Island.
“Husband. It’s such a funny word, isn’t it?” I said to him on the plane.
“So is wife,” he said, laughing.
We might have new titles now, but we’re still the same, Victor and I. Two people madly in love, embarking on the beginning of our lifetime together.
In the beginning, his family in Paris had been less than thrilled with the idea of his marrying an American and moving to San Diego, but they came around, especially after that first visit when they saw the house we’d eventually be living in, my childhood home. When his mother set her eyes on the pool, I think she actually wanted to move right in. “Might we come for a week in the fall?” she asked sweetly the day they flew home. “Paris is so miserable in October.”
I smile to myself as Victor checks his phone. “Yep, the address is correct. Look,” he says, pointing to a sign that’s partially obscured by a palm branch. THE ALMA INN.
We carry our luggage up a sandy pathway to an open-air check-in desk. “Welcome,” a woman says, handing us each a cocktail of some sort. “Mescal margaritas.”
“Mescal?” I ask.
She smiles. “It’s a smoky tequila. Try it; I think you’ll like it.”
I take a sip and nod. It’s indeed smoky and just a bit sweet—perfectly balanced.
She hands Victor our room keys, then leads us down a winding path that leads to the beach. Nobody seems to be wearing shoes here, so I kick off my sandals.
“Here we are,” she says, pointing to the most charming little thatch-roofed bungalow, so close to the ocean you could practically leap right in from the front steps.
“Vic,” I squeal. “It’s perfect!”
“I’ll leave you,” the woman says, smiling shyly. “Congratulations.”
I walk toward the door, but Victor stops me. “Not like that,” he says, scooping me into his arms. “Like this.”
He carries me over the threshold of our little bungalow, where we will spend the next week in each other’s arms.
“I’m the happiest man in the world,” he says.
“And I’m the happiest lady.” I smile, reminiscing. “Remember the day we met, in Paris?”
He nods. “You thought I was, what did you say, a Casanova?” His English is perfect, but I still think it’s cute the way certain words he pronounces come out sounding distinctly foreign.
“Yeah,” I say. “I thought you were a player, like all the other Frenchmen I met that summer.”
“Well, I thought you were cocky.”
I smile, reaching for his hand. “It was about time you found a woman who could hold her own.”
He smiles as I hold up his hand, twisting his gold wedding band around his finger. “Do you want to look now?”
He begins to pull his ring off. Inside its inner edge is a surprise inscription I’ve left for him. There’s one inside my ring, too. Our wedding gifts to each other. We decided to wait until the first day of our honeymoon for the reveal.
“Now?”
“Wait,” I say, inching closer to him. We both hold our rings expectantly. “Remember that day we stumbled upon that magical little garden in Montmartre?”
“How could I forget?”
“And how we drank wine and watched the sunset and stayed there until the stars came out?”
He nods.
“Remember what you said, about how the stories of our lives are…”
“Written in the stars,” we both say at the same time.
He smiles. “Look at the inscription on your ring.”
My arms erupt in goosebumps. “You too.”
Together we hold them up, reading the words we have left for each other.
I smile, misty-eyed. “Of course we’d pick the same thing.”
“Written in the stars,” I say.
“Écrit dans les étoiles,” he repeats in French.
The waves crash loudly onto the shore outside. I slip my ring back on and quickly change into a swimsuit before casting a playful glance in Victor’s direction. “Race you to the beach!”
He jumps to his feet, but not fast enough. I’ve already gotten a head start and reach the water’s edge first. Salt water sprays my face as he wraps his arms around my waist, picking me up and spinning me around.
I lean my back against Victor, his arms draped lovingly around my waist as we stare out at the turquoise sea, transfixed by its beauty, soft waves crashing at our feet.
“You know what I think?” I say.
“What?”
“I think if we have a little girl, someday…that we should name her Alma, after this place.”
“Alma,” he says, the ocean breeze picking up his voice and sending it down the shore and beyond, like a message fit to broadcast to the world. “Alma it is.”
* * *
—
I FEEL A cool hand on my arm, and my eyes flash open. Margot is hovering over me as I lie on the couch. “I’m sorry to wake you,” she says cautiously. “It’s just that you’ve been sleeping so long. I thought I’d make sure you’re feeling all right.”
“Yes,” I say, sitting up, startled. “I mean,” I begin, swallowing hard as I blink back tears. I can’t find my words.
Margot sits beside me and squeezes my hand. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she whispers.
A draft of cold air wisps against my skin, and I shiver, wondering how anything could ever be okay again.
CHAPTER 22
CÉLINE
AUGUST 24, 1944
Paris, France
My water breaks at half past three. Not a slow trickle, like the birth stories of other women I know, friends who’ve shared nostalgically as they sipped their espressos. Nor does this feel like anything I experienced at Cosi’s birth. No, this…this is entirely different. The pain rushes through me now as fluid surges down my legs like a violent waterfall, staining the rug in the bedroom. I’ll be punished for that, of course. Maybe a cigarette burn on my inner thigh, like the time I drop
ped an expensive crystal vase in the dining room. It cracked in three places, sending a river of water and mangled tulip stems onto the wood floor. And while Reinhardt raged about the priceless vase, deliberating about what my punishment would be, I could only stare at the purple tulips and think of Papa. How I miss him, especially now.
The stain on the rug is the least of my worries. The baby is coming, and fast. Reinhardt won’t be home for at least three hours, maybe longer, if he stays out drinking with the other officers. The reality of pregnancy displeased him, and the larger I got, the less he summoned me to his bedroom, choosing to pass the time with other women—many other women.
I’ve heard their screams from our bedroom at night, Cosi too. I clutched my pillow, both comforted and frightened by the alternate moaning and screaming. As awful as it was, at least it meant a reprieve from Reinhardt’s terror.
The ten months we’ve been held hostage have been a nightmare, to say the least. But I’ve learned to survive the repeated assaults by detaching from my body and slipping into the garden in my mind. Luc’s there; Papa and Cosi, too. There are peonies and roses, hydrangeas and lilacs. Tulips in the spring, alliums in the fall. Flowers for all seasons. Flowers to drown out the agony.
And there is no shortage of agony. Just after dinner last night, Reinhardt poured himself a glass of whiskey and summoned me to the sofa to buff his boots.
“I saw a friend of yours today,” he said with a smile.
When I remained silent, he spoke again. “Aren’t you going to ask me who?”
It could have been anyone; I just hoped he hadn’t done anything to Luc.
When he prodded me with his right boot, I nodded in compliance. “Who?”
“That little tart Suzette.”
My eyes widened. He must have followed me that day we had lunch together.
“No, I didn’t lay a hand on her, if that’s what you’re wondering. Would’ve been impossible, anyway.” He laughed, shifting his scuffed left boot so I could get a better angle. “You see, I got a call this afternoon from some of my men. There’d been a terrible disturbance in the street, down in the ninth arrondissement, that needed to be…taken care of.” I looked up at his face, which I rarely did unless forced to. There were dark circles under his eyes. “The little bitch jumped off the roof of her building.”
I gasp, covering my mouth.
“Have you ever seen what a body looks like all splayed out on the street?”
I felt a surge of nausea rise in my body as my eyes erupted in tears. Oh, Suzette. Not like this. In my mind’s eye, I saw her beautiful face, her joyful blue eyes, the two of us skipping through the park after school, our hair in braids tied with ribbons. I thought of our last conversation, and how I’d hoped we’d persevere the way lotus flowers do. But, sadly, Suzette had succumbed to the murky waters below. She never found the light, as I had hoped for her, for us. Would I?
Suddenly, I feel my first contraction, mild at first, then slowly radiating through my midsection. Reinhardt stands up abruptly, as I clutch my belly, preparing for another wave of pain. With each passing minute, it only intensifies.
On one drunken night, Reinhardt threatened to kill me, to plunge a knife in my belly, carving out two lives in one fell swoop. Sometimes I wish he had just gotten it over with. The termination of terror. Though a violent death, it would be quick enough. My baby, if a girl, wouldn’t be subjected to rape and torture in the way I had. She wouldn’t ever know what a wretched place the world had become right before my very eyes.
But there are three of us, not just two. Who would see to Cosi’s safety in her little room below the floor? How would she ever escape? The news of Suzette’s death has unsettled me deeply and nearly depleted my scarce reserve of strength. But I must find more. Just a little more.
In my bedroom again, the contractions keep coming, one on top of the next, like the strong waves on the beaches of my childhood. I close my eyes and try to remember how I giggled and screamed, running in and out of the surf, as my mother and Papa watched from a blanket in the distance. But these aren’t Normandy waves. They crash into my body with great force, and I cry out in agony.
What would Luc think, I wonder, to find me like this? Would he still love me? Or would he be disgusted by my state?
Another bolt of pain surges, this one worse than the others, as Reinhardt’s heavy footsteps pound down the hallway and to the front door. I hear it creak open and then slam shut, and I am grateful that he has gone, at least for now.
There is more blood now. Too much blood. I feel weary, dizzy. The August heat is sweltering, and sweat drips from my brow. I lie down on the bed, blood quickly soaking the sheets beneath me. I don’t have much time left, I know that. I open my mouth to cry, but nothing comes out.
“Cosi,” I say, forming my daughter’s name with my parched lips, but my voice is only a whisper, not nearly loud enough for her to make out. I don’t have the strength to stand, and my breathing is very shallow. I hear my beloved daughter moving around in the little room below the floor. Hours have passed. She must be terrified. “Cosi,” I say again, with my last thread of strength, before my eyes close.
* * *
—
IT’S NOT CLEAR how much time has passed when I am roused by the sound of the door hinges. My eyes flutter open, just for a moment. It’s no longer night, and light streams in from the window. Hovering over me are two familiar faces: Esther and…Luc!
I don’t know if I’m awake or dreaming. I close my eyes, then open them again, blinking back tears at the sight of the man I love.
“We finally found you,” Luc says, tears welling up in his eyes. “The housekeeper let us in, on her way out. She was carrying a suitcase. I don’t know whether she’s working with the Germans or not, but at least she had the decency to let us in before she fled. She said we’d find you here.”
Information is coming at me so fast, I can barely take it all in. Nic, he continues, had come through, as I’d always hoped, sending word to Esther of my whereabouts. Together, they’d planned the rescue. Luc had anticipated a confrontation with at least one German, so he’d come armed.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Luc is crying. He tucks his hand in mine as Esther lifts up my skirt and pulls my legs open. Usually steady and composed, her face is ashen as she looks up at Luc. “We need to get her help. Now.”
The room is spinning. I’m so very weary. My eyelids feel like two heavy bricks, but I will them to open. I must tell them about Cosi, that my little girl is hiding in a space beneath the floorboards. Cosi can hear them now, certainly, but, with the floorboards muffling sound, she won’t be able to make out Luc’s voice, or Esther’s. She has no way of knowing whether the people above are here to help or hurt her, so she will do what I instructed her to do, always: stay quiet and wait for the signal, three knocks, that all is well.
I know this is what Cosi is doing now, and it breaks my heart. I look up at Luc, terror stricken. “Cosi,” I whisper, my voice hardly detectable. “The…room.”
Luc and Esther exchange glances. “I think she’s trying to tell us something,” he says.
Esther shakes her head. “She’s delirious. She’s lost too much blood. If we don’t get her to the hospital soon, we might lose her, and”—she swallows hard—“the baby.”
As Luc carries me through the door and to the elevator, I reach my arms back to the apartment with every ounce of my remaining strength. “Cosi!” I cry. This time, my weak voice registers, and Luc nods.
“I know,” Luc says. “We’ll find her. I promise.”
They don’t understand that Cosi is just steps away, locked in a prison beneath the floor. And as they rush me into the elevator, I can only weep, whispering my daughter’s name over and over again—though all Esther and Luc can hear are muffled moans.
I have no strength left, not even an ounc
e. As my eyes close, I see Cosi’s little face. She is clutching Monsieur Dubois, in the apartment with Papa. They are talking about Normandy. I can hear her voice, like a comforting melody.
“Will you take me there? Someday? And can we get a tarte normande, the kind you used to love as a little girl?”
“Yes, sweet child.”
“And can we look for treasure on the beach, and throw rocks in the water, and look for starfish in the tide pools?”
“I promise.”
CHAPTER 23
CAROLINE
“Come on,” Margot says. “You went to all the trouble to buy that gorgeous dress and now you won’t go?”
I sink into the couch with an exhausted sigh. Since the avalanche of memories returned, I have little interest in attending my art show this evening. “I just don’t feel up to it.”
“I’ve seen your art,” she says. “You have talent.” She picks up the dress on the hanger and holds it up. “And you have a beautiful dress. Get up, girl! Let’s get you ready!”
I’ve been dodging Victor’s phone calls for days. I’m definitely not ready to see him, especially now that I know. I have so many unanswered questions—most notably, why he’s kept the truth from me. It feels like a betrayal. But I’d told Inès I’d attend; besides, my name is already printed in the program.
“Okay,” I say, standing up.
“That’s the spirit,” Margot says.
She curls my hair into loose waves, then applies my makeup. I barely recognize myself in the mirror afterward.
“You look like a million bucks,” she says, grinning in the doorway as I zip up my dress.
“Thanks,” I say, skeptically, as I reach for my purse. I only wish I felt like a million bucks. The truth is, I feel like ten cents.
* * *
—
“THERE YOU ARE!” Inès exclaims as I walk through the door. The studio is packed. I scan the crowd and am relieved when I don’t see Victor.
