Chapter XI. Everything That Rises Must Converge. #4
For a moment he’s quiet, his hand running back and forth atop his head, his eyes closed.
“Okay, okay. I understand what you are saying, but Cile, Julien is thirteen. He is still a child. He is not driving yet. He is not getting into trouble. He still plays with Legos. He is safe where he is, in this expensive school, and expensive neighborhood. And we will be back in Europe before he is man-size, and it will be okay. Je te jure.” He emphasizes the last bit, opening his eyes and leaning into the computer.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I’m serious, Fran—”
“I know. Look, why don’t you call Anouk? She has a son, right? Ask her how she deals with it. I’m sure she can give you advice.”
“Sacha?? Have you seen pictures of him? He’s as white as you are. Maybe whiter. Plus, Anouk lives in a bubble. That kind of money and beauty and fame. The real world doesn’t affect her in the same way.…”
“We live in a bubble now, Cile. You live in a bubble.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You don’t appreciate it, but you do. En tout cas, je peux pas en parler maintenant. I’m going to be late for dinner. Call Anouk. Je t’aime. Bise.”
She answers on the third ring.
Her voice welcoming, warm. And I wonder why I’d hesitated to reach out for so long. Why I feared that one day she would recall the details of that shoot and choose the wrong person to blame for what had happened to her.
“I was wondering if you’re available for lunch sometime later this week,” I start. “Francois is off shooting in the desert, and I am slowly going out of my mind and could really use some adult company.”
She pauses for a half second. “Adult company? That sounds exciting. Is this a date?”
“A date? Um … it’s … lunch.” My ears and cheeks are suddenly warm. Is she propositioning me? Does she think I’m propositioning her? Is she mocking me, perhaps? Did something get lost in translation?
After a prolonged moment, I hear her exhale, and then casually she says, in French, “I am just messing with you. Yes, we can have lunch. I’m crazy this week with meetings for our family foundation, but can do next Tuesday, if that works.”
“Yes. Tuesday’s good.”
“Tuesday is so far away. I have this thing tomorrow. A low-key charity boutique fundraiser for a conservancy in Africa. I can’t promise for sure, but it might be interesting. Come with me. Be my plus-one.”
“Your plus-one?”
“My plus-one,” she repeats. “My adult company. Not a date.”
There are three of them in the water. Just at the shoreline.
Fran, Bas, Anouk. The sky is beginning to pink.
The sun a whisper or two above the horizon.
I have been to this beach before. The rock formations at both ends creating a symmetrical horseshoe.
Coral reefs visible just below the surface. Golden sand. Mexico.
“Cecilia, tu viens?” Francois motions to me on the rocks, his Hasselblad in hand. He is tan and lovely. Slender, young.
I shake my head. No. I’m not coming. He turns back to shooting his subjects. Bas and Anouk frolic in the water, wading in deeper. Her hair is short, a bob. Present-day Anouk. But Bas is exactly as I remember him on that beach. Twenty-five, glorious.
Francois turns back to the shore and heads up to where he’s stashed his belongings beneath one of the palapas.
The wind is picking up. I watch him as he changes his film, his camera tucked beneath his T-shirt, protecting it from the light and sand.
And then I hear it, a faint scream. Distant, muffled.
Anouk is way out in the cove, far beyond Bas.
Impossibly far. Her head bobs at the surface, once, twice, before disappearing down below.
Bas is swimming toward her but doesn’t seem to be advancing. How did she get so far out?
“Francois! It’s Anouk! Help Anouk!” I yell. But my voice is lost in the wind, and my husband is far too consumed with loading his film to heed my call.
I stand and begin waving my arms, frantic. “Francois!!”
He sees me then, cocks his head, holds his hand to his ear.
“Anouk!!! Help Anouk!!”
He shrugs, shakes his head, returns to his camera, his back to the ocean.
“Help her!!” I continue to scream.
Bas isn’t making any headway, and Anouk is no longer surfacing.
“Francois!!”
He looks up to me then, a scowl across his youthful face. “You help her!! You’re right there. Help her!”
His words are chilling. I move to race down the rocks but lose my footing and stumble.
Something is wrong with my legs. It’s as if one is longer than the other, and I can’t find my balance.
It’s then that I notice my shoes: the wooden platform sandals I bought on Columbus Avenue the summer I met Lorry.
Cute, I thought then. But painful to walk in.
And it strikes me that they are perhaps two different heights.
“Francois!” I continue to scream. “Do something! Francois!!”
He is not there. At the other side of the bed.
And even though of late I intermittently despise him, his absence stings.
I lie there for a moment, staring at the exposed beams of the ceiling.
Listening for movement. But there is just the whir of the pool filter, the trickle of the creek, the frogs.
And Fran’s words in my head, “You help her. You’re right there. ”
As if he knew.