“Eh, bien, you are early, but it’s no matter,” Sylvie says in slow, careful French. “I am sorry that you’ve lost your voice. We’re so happy that you’re here! émile will take you to your room.”
émile takes my suitcase and gestures for me to follow him and I do, finally remembering to breathe. I suck in oxygen while we climb the narrow, wooden steps that lead up from the back of the shop. My new father says nothing. I’m sure it’s out of pity for the fake illness that caused me to lose my voice. I hope.
We move into a cool, dark hallway and émile opens a door for me. I step inside and gasp. I’ve seen a photo of the room, of course, on Sylvie’s blog, but pictures never compare to reality. This room is warm and alive with color.
émile smiles. “I hope you like your bedroom. It was our son’s.” With that, he places my suitcase onto the floor and turns to leave, before glancing back.
“You would like to rest?” he asks me, his eyebrows raised. His French is slow, too, even slower than Sylvie’s. They are so kind. So patient. I want to say something, but can’t make any words come out. Not a single sound. To cover my embarrassment, I kneel to tie my shoe, praying he hasn’t noticed that it wasn’t untied in the first place.
“Stay here as long as you like,” émile says with a shrug. “Or you may join us in the shop, if you prefer,” he adds. “When you wish.” And with that, he is gone.
It worked. It worked!
I look around. My room, my beautiful new room, has forests and oceans and mountains painted all over the walls. It has stars and planets on the ceiling. A mustard-colored rug spattered with paint sits on the floor. On the bed is a vivid quilt that’s a kaleidoscope of colors. The room has a window that looks out over red-tiled roofs and palm trees. It even has a cat! Amber eyes glow up at me from the puff of grey fluff resting on the rug.
I was never allowed to have a pet. I stare at the pile of grey fur for a second, not sure what to do. Will it chase me from its territory? But the puffball simply closes its yellowy eyes and goes to sleep.
I turn back, close the blue-painted door, and stare at the knob. There’s no lock. On this side or on the other side.
It’s perfect.
A couple of tears spill down my face, but I swipe them away. My new life just started, and I’m going to live it. I’m going to head back down to the shop and get to know my new family.
But when I grasp the doorknob, I stop. I don’t want to leave just yet. I turn to check out the room one more time, straining a little to see the murals as the light from the window changes from bright to dim. Outside, clouds cover the sun and a summer storm spatters rain onto the glass. I don’t bother to turn on the light, though. I know this room well already. I walk along the walls, tracing the paintings with a gentle finger. The photo of this room on Sylvie’s blog was what started it all. It’s part of the reason that I’m here and why I chose Sylvie and émile to be my new family.
The mural at the head of the bed is my favorite. A trail curves through a forest, then up the side of a steep canyon, where it angles back and forth in sharp switchbacks. Every so often, along the trail is a boy who carries a backpack and walking stick. The boy, lanky and brown like Sylvie, gradually grows taller. It’s their son, Ansel, now gone. He painted himself somewhere on the trail each year for his birthday. The figure at the very top of the cliff is Ansel at eighteen, heading to Paris. He’s smiling and pumping a fist into the air.
I kiss my fingers and touch them to the painted boy’s tiny head. “Thank you, Ansel,” I whisper. I couldn’t be here if he weren’t gone. “I promise I’ll take care of the room for you.”
A gleam of light glows on the wall a few feet away. I jerk my hand back in surprise. Painted on the other side of Ansel’s cliff is a wide expanse of stormy sky over a dark ocean. Streaks of bright lightning cross the gloomy haze, but one line of lightning extends downward in a straight line, cutting through sky and cloud until it plunges into the ocean. I move closer until my nose is practically against the paint and stare. The straight line, of course, isn’t painted lightning. It’s a crack in the wall, one so deep that light from the next room shines through it. Then, before I can even begin to wonder, the crack disappears.
What just happened?
Two
Lie Number One: I traveled to the sunny coast of France to study art.
Truth: I don’t even know how to hold a paintbrush.
I came here to escape. But they can’t know that. At least, not yet.