A guy in a suit and tie emerges from below, nods in my direction, picks up a watering can and meanders over to his tomatoes and peppers while keeping his cell phone glued to one ear. I gather my papers and flee downstairs. I head to my spot; this place at the end of the hall on the second floor that’s like an architectural mistake. The hallway turns and leads to a wall only a few feet away from your face. I’m willing to bet there was a door there once. Anyway, the resulting space is basically a tiny room, and some kind soul left an overstuffed chair in there.
I sit and spread out the letters. Something is bothering me. I want to read the dates.
The hate letter was written in 1869. I compare the dates of all the others, stacking them in uneven piles around me. The earliest was written in 1854, and the others range all the way up to 1868. And after I’ve checked them all, I feel tired, deflated and sad. None of the fan letters were written after the hate mail.
Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the back of the chair. Marguerite, did you let that guy stop you from acting? Why does this thought make my heart sink inside? Minutes ago, I was almost mad at her. I was jealous, because for her, I thought the stage was a safe place where she could talk like anyone else. Now it looks like her safe place betrayed her.
When I raise my head, I see how deep the shadows are around me, so I finally gather up the letters and head to Sylvie’s. I feel like my brain was thrown into a blender. My thoughts are whirled mush.
I’m almost surprised to find myself closing the apartment door behind me. émile is watching a cooking show, engrossed and taking notes, but he turns to smile at me. Sylvie is singing in the kitchen, softly. I catch a few words. “My child, my sweet child.” Her voice breaks. So does my heart.
With my back to the door, I hesitate. I am so confused. I was going to tell my story about Zander tonight. But once again, I’m reminded how much Sylvie and émile are hurt by the unimaginable loss of their son. Is it fair for me to do this to them? To add to their sorrow, to add the burden of a terrible knowledge that’s actually a lie, all so I can convince them to let me stay?
I turn at the entrance to the hallway and look back at the place that in my heart is now my home. I want to stay here, more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. I take a breath and try to imagine the words I’d say. They stick at the back of my throat, choking me. I can’t do it. At least, not tonight.
With a heavy heart, I stumble to my room. Ansel’s room. I pull pajamas over my head and toss my jeans to the floor. And then, I sit on the bed and stare at the floor.
I’m selfish.
I have been all along. I chose Sylvie and émile as my host family only because they lost a son. I chose them only because Sylvie has suffered so much in her life I knew I’d find a compassionate, loving soul who would embrace me. And I hate myself for it.
I don’t even really care about Marguerite! I tie her mail into a bundle and add it to the growing collection in my drawer. The pain I felt as I read the hate-filled letter was mostly for me. I wanted Marguerite to be the strong woman I’d created in my mind. I needed her to be fearless, carefree, and successful, the brilliant actress I thought she was, because of one thing. If she couldn’t do it, how can I? I mean, if Marguerite couldn’t ignore her weakness and still live her dream, how can boring, untalented, freakishly weird-sounding Rosemary ever live her own dreams, whatever they are?
My phone buzzes, and I pick it up. I have seventeen texts from Mom. Seventeen texts that I don’t bother to read. There’s one from Jada, too.
When are you going to call me, bestie?
My shoulders slump. I can’t do it. Not right now.
I delete them all. I fish Marguerite’s portrait from under my bed and prop it up onto a chair so I can see it. Then I curl myself into a ball and hug my knees as I look at her. I don’t know how long I stare, but soon I fall asleep and dream that I’m sitting in a theatre, watching her on the stage. Her face glows and she’s tall and graceful in her pink silk gown. She speaks in a clear voice, with words that flow from her like water in a brook as it speeds over stones, sure and quick.
_______
My phone wakes me at dawn. I rub swollen eyes. I must have been crying in my sleep.
“Loser,” I mumble to myself. When I switch on the lamp, Ansel’s bedroom with its explosions of color takes shape before my eyes, and my heart aches inside me. I love it here. I love the narrow hallway I shuffle down and the tiny bathroom decorated with red roosters where I shower and brush my teeth. I love Sylvie’s paint-spattered floors, and émile’s tattered cookbooks and gleaming copper pans that hang from the ceiling. I love my French parents, who for the first time in my life make me feel like I belong to a real family.
The front room is quiet in the early morning. From somewhere upstairs, a dog barks, and a voice quickly shushes it. Someone wearing high heels taps down the hall outside with rapid steps. The tak tak tak sounds grow louder and louder before they pass our door and fade away. I smile to myself, imagining it’s the ghost of Marguerite. She’s leaving because I discovered her secret.