My phone is beeping and shaking again. It’s like the ghost of my former life, still haunting me. Inside me, something dawns bright as a sunrise. Since coming to Nice, I’ve never been so terrified, and yet . . . I’ve never been so happy.
Maybe Marguerite wasn’t as strong as I thought she was, but that doesn’t matter.
I can be as strong as I need to be. Even if that means living a lie.
Taking the phone with me, I sneak out of the apartment and make my way to the fourth floor, then climb the creaking metal stairs that lead to the rooftop garden. With eyes closed to the waking world around me, I hold out my hand, balancing my phone in my sweaty palm. The morning air is cool. The phone buzzes like an overgrown insect in my hand. It’s been ringing non-stop since it woke me. She’s still trying to call, text, IM me. Can I really do this, right here, right now?
I’m tired. I’m so tired of everything. Maybe I’m selfish, but I’ll do whatever I have to do to stay.
It’s time to cut the final string that connects me to my old life.
Gulls call overhead. They lazily circle on currents of warm ocean air, free to go wherever they choose. They are free, and so am I. I smile.
Yes, I can do this.
I let go, and my cell drops.
I watch it as it falls. Even from four stories up I can hear the satisfying, metallic “crunch” as it lands and tiny bits scatter. No more buzzing. I smile up at the gulls, who screech loudly. I feel like they’re laughing with me.
Today I declare my independence. It’s time for me to speak.
Twenty-One
My hands are shaking. I will tell Sylvie about Zander this afternoon, during our scheduled art lesson, but I want things to be perfect. That’s why I set up a canvas in Sylvie’s studio so I can paint while she works on her books downstairs. I’m trying to recapture the images that flashed through my mind when Thomas locked me in his mother’s apartment. They were my nightmare images. That’s why I choose to recreate them. Thinking about them and about Thomas will put me in the right mood to tell my story. Everything has to be believable.
So I paint what first comes to me: a kid holding a teddy bear that’s missing an eye and has a torn ear after years of being loved. When I step back to survey what I’ve done so far, it’s not quite right. It’s only a little kid with a toy. The tiny figure isn’t nearly frightened enough to explain the vague feeling of dread that comes over me whenever I think of those nightmare visions. Not sure what to do, I dip my brush and begin to paint swirling clouds of darkness around the child. They’re dark and heavy, more like a thick, oozing sludge than clouds. Suddenly, something sparks in my brain and I paint the shape of a person emerging from the sludge. It’s a man, old and bent, with one hand that reaches out, almost touching the child. I step back, not breathing. It’s like I can feel the fear that spills out from the painting into the room and swirls around me, like a cold fog. Why?
émile bursts into the shop.
“Oh, la, la, it is time! Are you ready, Rosie?” he asks. His eyes sparkle as he looks at me.
“For what?” I gasp, still not quite able to breathe normally.
With a loving arm around me, émile sweeps me from the apartment. “We have a surprise for you,” he says. I’m still shaky and I’ve started to sweat. I take slow, deep breaths as we walk outside to émile’s car, where Sylvie waits inside.
Palm trees and the faded facades of pastel buildings whir by as I try to catch my breath. We have to stop near a frilly-looking villa lined with white pillars, because a throng of pedestrians fills the street. “They wait for a concert,” émile says with a grin. The car finally inches away and soon we pass a museum we visited before, one that looks like two buildings trying to crush the giant statue of a woman stuck between them. We pass more skinny apartment buildings that are faded and worn, like ours. Then the older buildings are replaced with different apartment complexes, bigger, more modern, cleaner. Uglier. Finally, the car starts to climb a steep hill, protesting; like a groaning old man climbing stairs.