We’re in émile and Sylvie’s tiny orange “deux-chevaux,” and the “two horse” car barely has enough room for me in the practically non-existent back seat. I squirm and try to find some leg room. Maybe my “surprise” is a trip to the cemetery, La Chance, to visit Ansel’s grave. Sylvie holds a tote with bright fuchsia and yellow chrysanthemums spilling from the top. She hands me another bag that feels heavy on my lap. Bottles clink inside. Picnic lunch at La Chance? My French teacher used to talk about her visits to Paris. She would go to a big, famous cemetery filled with huge carved tombstones, and eat bread and cheese sitting next to the monument of her favorite nineteenth-century French writer. Other people do it too, drinking wine and tossing crumbs to the birds. It’s a French thing, I guess, to have picnics in cemeteries so you can be around famous dead people. Or visit loved ones.
émile hums and he and Sylvie smile at each other, and I marvel at their mood. Sylvie is little-girl giggly. Her joy is catching, and I find myself smiling a little. The fear I felt after I painted my strange memories begins to ease. Save it for later, I tell myself. For now, I want to make my French parents happy.
“So, where are we going?” I venture to ask.
“To see Ansel,” Sylvie replies with a radiant smile she flashes at me as she turns in my direction. I smile back, shocked, but gratified. My pulse quickens and I feel a flutter in my stomach. They want to share Ansel with me. This is good, because it practically means I’m like family to them, doesn’t it? I’ve been trying to hint at joining the family in all my conversations with Sylvie. It’s what I plan to ask after I tell my story this afternoon.
The car speeds over a bump and we all fly up to hit the roof of the tiny car that holds us inside like sardines. Sylvie laughs out loud. I join in, and then émile, and we all laugh together. This is perfect! After we visit the grave, I’ll tell my tale. Still full of sadness after being reminded of their loss, Sylvie and émile will be ready and more than willing to welcome me into their lives. Forever.
I barely have time to register the new feeling of triumph that washes through me when the car finally crests the top of the hill and we speed down a tree-lined drive. Then we stop before tall iron gates with curving letters that spell out the name “La Chance” across the top. I look through the gates and my laughter dies. This isn’t a cemetery. It’s a tall, tan building with rows and rows of windows. Not a carved angel in sight or tourists throwing bread to the birds.
Sylvie hops out and opens my door, and I step out, lugging the heavy tote bag. émile eases the car away to find a parking spot, and I follow Sylvie with dragging steps and a heart that feels like it’s leaking away all of my blood. I don’t understand. I thought Ansel was dead. This isn’t a cemetery.
Inside, we pass a kind of reception area and head down a long hallway. I don’t want to breathe more than I have to. The air smells like a light layer of antiseptic over a whole lot of putrid. As we move down the corridor I glance into rooms. There is an old, old man whose wispy white hair sticks up in patches on his crinkled skull. He’s lying on a bed and snoring with his mouth gaping wide. In another room, a woman waves at us from her wheelchair. Her thick, gray curls cover her head like a helmet. I try not to stare at her legs, which end in puckered stumps where her knees should be. Sylvie gives her a jolly wave as she passes. The woman says something rapid, but I catch the word, fils, which means “son.” Sylvie smiles and nods, and the legless woman smiles back.
We stop before a painted door displaying the scene of what looks like the beach close to our apartment. Wide umbrellas dot the pebbly sand and swirling turquoise water swells in the distance. I recognize Sylvie’s work. émile lopes up the corridor behind us, and catches us as Sylvie reaches to open the door, and swings it wide. She and émile step in, and motion for me to follow.
A young man sits in a supercharged power wheelchair, watching TV. The chair is a familiar sight. Jada has one like it. The man’s face is turned away, but his head is covered with dark curls and the curve of a bronze cheek is somehow familiar. Sylvie calls his name, and he turns toward us. I gasp and my tote bag crashes to the floor. The man looks toward the source of the sound and his eyes, nearly black, with long curling lashes, meet mine. He smiles. There’s something pure in his face. It’s a warmth full of truth, like all his thoughts are there to read, clear for anyone to see. Like he has no desire to hide who he is. I know those eyes, so like Sylvie’s. I know that face, that smile that flashes so easily, so often. I’ve seen countless photographs. He is the painted boy on my wall.
Sylvie and émile move closer and hover over their son, speaking softly. He responds, but I don’t recognize any words.
“Rosie, meet our son, Ansel,” émile says with pride in each note of his voice. I want to say something, but when I try to breathe, to speak, it hurts. I close my mouth; nod my head, trying to read émile’s expression. Did he and Sylvie understand what I believed? That I thought their son was dead?
“Isn’t he handsome, Rosie?” Sylvie says, without turning away from her son. Ansel laughs. His voice is deep, rich, but soft.
“I’d like to meet you, Rosie. Please come closer so I can see you,” he whispers.
“Of course, of course,” émile says, taking my arm and leading me toward Ansel’s wheelchair. “We brought you here for this very reason,” he adds. “Our son is coming home, soon. We wanted him to meet our houseguest.”