by L. L. Muir
“We were neck and neck. I pushed myself to get ahead. Julia did the same. She was on the outside, where I usually ran. When we started that morning, we just fell into step that way for some reason. I should have made her switch. I should have let her take the lead. I shouldn’t have complained when she made me get out of bed. We both knew I’d get up. We both knew I wouldn’t stay in bed, but I always made it a fight.” She looked up and shook the tears from her eyes. Fisher watched, hanging on every word.
“She was hit by this car?”
“Hit? Yes. It was early. The guy was drunk from an all-nighter. He remembered thinking it would be funny to scare us, to swerve toward us, then pull away. His sense of distance was off.”
Her lungs threatened to collapse, so she paused to breathe. It was almost a relief to talk about it again, after avoiding the subject for so long. After talking to the police, reliving it again at the guy’s sentencing, she’d never wanted to talk about it again. But with Julia back in the picture, it seemed easier.
“I remember thinking she was cheating, somehow, to get out there ahead of me when I was pushing so hard to pull ahead of her. It took a second for me to realize her feet weren’t touching the ground, that she was flying past me, literally. Then I went flying too. He barely grazed me, sent me off to the side. I was faced the wrong way, so I didn’t see when he hit her the second time. To the rest of the world, it would have happened so fast. Thump, thump, you know? But it wasn’t like that at all.
“The driver kept going. Says he didn’t know he’d hit her—us. I had a phone on my watch and was able to call an ambulance, then I crawled into the street to get to her. Thought my leg was broken, but it wasn’t. It was a couple of minutes before the next car came along. She was…gone before the ambulance could get there, and they got there fast.
“There was no chance to say goodbye. No eye contact. She had this look of horrible pain, and then it was gone. I guess that’s why I really needed her to come back. I was right there, in her face, and we didn’t have a chance to say goodbye.”
The metro line to Sacré-Cœur and Montmartre was not as crowded as Fisher had expected late in the morning. There was plenty of space for him to sit apart with Martine next to him and Julia’s spirit seated on the far side of her sister. He didn’t mind that it made it necessary to lean close to the lass in order to listen to Julia and pass on her words. Paris, underground, made one appreciate the proximity of a warm body, especially one that smelled so pleasing.
“Martine,” he said quietly.
“Mmn?” She kept her voice low as well.
“Julia is here. She’d like to thank ye for putting her ashes to rest where she wanted them, even though she kens ye dislike travel.”
“I don’t dislike travel,” she murmured. “I just like being home, where I’m comfortable. I liked being home with her. I never wanted to take the world by storm, like she did. I guess I didn’t get it.” She looked up into his eyes. “But I’m starting to see the benefits.”
His heart thrilled to hear it, but since they were not alone, he set the sentiment aside to examine later. “Some folk feel a need to leave their mark, lass. I know I did. It pains me still that there will be no proof that I was once here.”
Martine frowned. “Are you speaking for yourself, or my sister?”
He straightened, shook himself, and ignored her question. If he weren’t careful, he’d be spilling his own sad tale and admitting that he’d been dead and forgotten for centuries. His story had no place here. The important task at hand was to reconcile the sisters before they had to separate again.
“Dinnae forget. Julia has thanked ye.” He nudged Martine’s arm.
“Oh, yeah. Well, you’re welcome,” she said to the empty space around her. “You’re lucky Aunt Penny understood about Sacré-Cœur.”
“Speaking of Penny...” Julia spoke, Fisher repeated. “You really need to cut her some slack. She is never going to be like Mother, and we...you...need to appreciate her for the way she is. Not everyone can be emotive, like Mother was. Not everyone is that considerate, that expressive. It’s okay if Penny never calls or remembers our birthday. Love her for being Penny.”
Martine nodded. “I know. I’m getting there. I was pretty blown away when she offered to pay for this trip—”
“Penny paid for the trip?”
Fisher dropped his voice again. “Yer sister did not know this. She seems genuinely surprised.”
Both sisters laughed. It was a pity Martine couldn’t hear both sides of it. They did sound much alike.
He noted the progress of the train along the map near the ceiling. “We’re nearly there, ladies. Just in case, I suggest ye say whatever wants sayin’.”
“Just in case?” Martine’s brows pushed together with worry.
“Aye. Just in case.”
“All right,” Julia said. “Here goes. Tell her to let me go. Miss me now and then, but don’t you dare join me, do you hear? My life is complete, wrapped up in a neat little package—well, a Ziploc for now. If people forget me, let them forget me. I am ready to leave all regrets behind, and I need you to do the same.”
The ghost gave Fisher a pointed look, then continued.
“I know it will still take time. After all, no one gets over Julia May Platte easily.” She chuckled. “Don’t just exist. Do something with your life, even if it’s only loving one person.
She gave him another pointed look, then sobered again.
“Tell her… Don’t live for me. Don’t wear clothes or hats to keep me alive and real. You are the mark I leave on the world, Martine. No pressure, but you are. And there are other people out there, somewhere, who will need your love now. It will be the easiest thing you ever do. But you won’t find them sitting around our apartment.”
Fisher translated, in chunks while Martine listened closely. She panicked when the train slowed.
“Tell her I love her,” Martine said quickly. “We never say it. We never said it.”
“Julia says ye both always knew it.”
“True.” They hurried out the door before the alarm, then Martine grabbed onto his elbow. “Tell her anyway!”
“She heard ye fine. She said she loves ye more.”
The words brought a bark of laughter from her, but her eyes were full to overflowing with tears. His warning had been enough. She knew it was almost over.
The brave lass kept moving. “The last time I walked up these stairs, I was trying to get away from that Frenchman.”
“Julia said she saw the whole thing. She said ye should have paid more attention in French class. And that even dead, she could have run up those steps faster than you did.” He gave Julia a frown for good measure, but Martine only laughed.
They trudged up the street toward the cathedral with Martine setting the pace. He would not pusher faster than she wanted to go, and Julia had no say in the matter. In the middle of the second block, Martine slowed, then stopped, her attention on a wee shop that had fancy cards and such on display.
“Give me just a minute, would you?” She grinned and patted his elbow. “You two stay here.”
A woman standing nearby frowned and tried to look around Fisher, then blinked, confused. He smothered the laugh building in the back of his throat. How many times had he wanted to tease the tourists but had no means with which to do so?
Julia started for the shop’s open door, but he stopped her by clearing his throat, then shaking his head. To his surprise, she returned to his side.
“She’s taking it well, don’t you think?” She searched his face for reassurance.
“Aye. She’s a brave lass. And she’s not limped at all since ye’ve said yer piece.”
“Yes. She’s already healing, I think. On the inside, now.”
“Ye’re a good sister, Julia, to come back.”
A gasp from behind made him turn. He found the same confused woman hurrying away, her eyes round. When she glanced over her shoulder, to give him a dirty look, she nearly
collided with a pole.
Martine returned just in time to see the woman’s close call. “That’s what she gets for eavesdropping.” She patted her large purse and smiled broadly. “Shall we go?”
Julia sniffed. “Tell her she doesn’t have to sound so eager.”
Fisher laughed, then shook his head. “I doona think I will.”
Chapter Eighteen
As it turns out, there was a funicular—a tram—that runs alongside the stairs leading up to the cathedral. Not only had it been there the day before, it had been running for over a hundred years!
Martine figured she’d missed it the first time, going up and coming down, due to some trees and some high-running emotions. But that morning, there was no hurry, and at least two of them climbed aboard the contraption—a cross between a trolley and a space ship—and enjoyed the ascent.
Her mind whirled as she tried to think of things to ask her sister. “Ask Julia if she saw the Joan of Arc statue.”
He nodded. “She says she did. And what made her very happy was the fact that you sought it out.”
“And did she see the art piece of the man half-in and half-out of the wall?”
“She saw it, and she thinks you should consider a creative career. Make your own art.”
Martine shrugged. “I’m enrolled in a chalk and charcoal class. But don’t tell her that. Let her think she was first to think of it.” Then she laughed, knowing Julia had heard every word.
If she didn’t joke around, she would fall apart. It was like lying on the road, next to her sister again, only this time, Julia was still with her, able to speak. This was their chance for saying goodbye, for memorable and famous last words, but she couldn’t think of a stinking thing!
Fisher seemed to sense what was going on inside her because he squeezed her hand, pulled it close, and wrapped his forearm around hers.
She nodded at an empty seat across from them, assuming it was where Julia sat. “Maybe you should hold my sister’s hand too.”
“I cannot. She is holding tightly to you.” He then winked at the empty air to her right.
Martine closed her eyes and tried with all her might to feel it.
The funicular bumped to a stop and her stomach dropped, not because of the motion but because the fantasy of having her sister back was about to end.
“Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” she said, like the brilliant idea had just come to her. “I don’t leave until Saturday. Maybe we could—”
Fisher stood and tugged at her hand. “Yer sister says it is time. And she would be the one to ken it, would she not?”
“I… I guess so.” Tears spilled out of her eyes and wet her face, but she ignored them and stepped out of the UFO.
Walking toward the center of the staircases felt like walking to the guillotine. Every step meant something. Every step brought her closer to being alone again. But she didn’t need to put that on Julia’s shoulders. She should be making it easier for Julia to leave her, not harder. It was the last thing she could do for her sister.
“I’m going to be fine, Julia. All I really needed was a chance to say goodbye, you know?”
“She knows,” Fisher said.
Martine shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Why does there have to be so many people here today?”
“I’ll just go over to the side and sing a song, shall I?” Fisher winked, then addressed the space beside her. “Anything else to say, lass?” He cocked his head, laughed, then looked Martine in the eye. “I am to say… It looks like I’ll get to Heaven first…but I’ll save you a seat at the front.”
Martine swallowed hard, then reached into her purse as Fisher moved away. Once he reached the top of the side path, he looked back and nodded, then started singing the dirge from the tunnel, the one that had devasted her.
With the purse propped on her raised knee, she used two hands to unzip the bag. With just one hand, she grabbed onto a bottom corner and swung it out, making a giant arc with her arm as she let the ashes fly. She took a step back as they rained down through the air—with millions of flecks of fluttering pink glitter mixed throughout—like it was just a little magic trick.
“Good-bye, Julia.”
In the distance, she heard a young girl laughing…and chose to believe it was her sister.
Chapter Nineteen
Fisher Rankine sat in a familiar cell inside the security offices of Sacré-Cœur. The most outstanding difference between yesterday and today was that Martine sat beside him.
“Believe what ye like, lass. But if experience has taught me anything, it is that the truth will set us free.”
So they stuck to the truth. And though it did not sway the officers who interviewed them, it had the desired effect on Captain Marchant, who had arrived late to the party. Once again, the man insisted there was nothing worth reporting.
“Miss Platte, do you have more sisters who wish to have their ashes spread on these grounds?”
“No, sir.”
He threw his hands in the air. “There you have it. It is hardly likely that Miss Platte will be bringing more ashes to us, so there is no harm in allowing her, and her magician friend to go.”
Marchant then led them to the front entrance and pulled Fisher aside, to ask him once again for the truth. His casual tone implied he expected the same excuse, that Fisher was a magician and Martine, his accomplice. But the look in his eye said he hoped for something much more.
“This is a holy place, monsieur. Miracles happen from time to time. And sometimes, we get them on camera, n’est ce que pas? For instance, I now believe the hook did puncture your hand yesterday. I believe your skin healed itself immediately. And today, I believe you were…speaking to someone who was not there. And yet, there was a glow—an orb if you will—a phenomenon on the screen that moved with you. This, I cannot explain. An angel, perhaps?
“On that same screen, both today and yesterday, there is this glow, this orb, around yourself.” He glanced at Martine, who was standing out in front again, looking up at Joan of Arc. “You insist that you will never be returning to Paris, sir, so I beg you to enlighten me. Certainement, you have a theory on this matter…of glowing?”
Fisher got Martine’s attention with a wave, then held up a finger to let her know he needed a moment. She nodded and wandered back toward the hillside to look for ashes and glitter stuck to the frozen grass, no doubt.
He urged Marchant to step farther away from the entrance with him, made certain no one stood too close, then gave the man what he asked for—the truth. It took much longer than expected, though he only hit the highlights, as they say, but Martine never complained.
Marchant’s face remained stoic throughout the tale. And just when Fisher believed the man would call him a liar, the officer grabbed his arm and pulled him close. “You say there are many more?”
“Thirty more, I would guess.”
“And they may come here in search of a noble deed?” Marchant looked out over the grey city spread before them with the high sun winking off millions of windows, not unlike ashes and glitter on a stretch of frozen grass. “There is much good that could be done here, is there not?”
“When the witch comes to collect me sir, you have my word. I will pass your hope along. Just keep a weathered eye out for Scotsmen.”
Though the funicular was on its way up the hill, Martine preferred to take the slower staircase down the hillside. She pretended that Fisher’s hand-holding had nothing to do with her pace. The fact that they’d have reason to hold hands a little longer was just a bonus.
She forced herself to say what had to be said. “What now?”
He bit his lip for only a second. “Is it too soon for lunch?”
“Probably. How much did you make?”
“Would you know it, I forgot to lay out my cap?”
She clicked her tongue. “I guess lunch will have to be on Aunt Penny, then.”
“I’m growing quite fond of the woman.”
“Me too.
”
For the next few hours, they kept to small talk while they played the roles of tourists. They had their portraits drawn by a street vendor who insisted on drawing them separately, but eventually conceded to drawing them together.
While the artist performed his magic, Martine didn’t mind sitting still for it. The strange Scot that had distracted her the last time was now safely tucked behind her right shoulder where she couldn’t see him.
She could feel him though. Warmth from his body seeped through her coat and into her bones. His wide shoulders blocked the slight breeze that tickled around her knees. A trailing edge of his tartan flipped around and tapped her every now and then, to make sure she didn’t forget how close they sat.
He might not have been aware of stroking her arm. It might have been a nervous gesture, but she felt every movement of his fingers against the fabric of her pea coat. It might relax him, but it left her wanting his touch even more. Would it be so bad to sit on his lap and wrap her arms around him for the rest of the day?
Of course it would. They barely knew each other. But still, she didn’t want to break this physical bond. And with Julia at rest, it was the only bond she had left. She only hoped it meant something to him.
The artist finished just as her butt was getting numb. The end product was spectacularly accurate, as the first one had been, and Martine realized why the artist had suggested they not be together—how could they decide who could take the portrait home?
“I truly was…am a fisherman,” Fisher said. “I have no wall upon which to hang it. You must take it, to remember me by.”
To remember him by. He’d gone and stepped over that line. Looked like small talk was behing them.
