Learning to Swim (13 page)

“All right,” I said. Dumond nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less. Maybe he hadn’t.

It took less than ten minutes to pack: laptop, clothes, passport, leash, dog food, Tiger’s rabies inoculation certificate, and my little digital Canon. No room for my bike, but I could survive without it for a while. While Dumond carried my bags out to the car, I speed-dialed Thomas’s home number, knowing he wouldn’t be there. The coward’s way out, but you can’t always take the high road.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said to the recorder. “Everything’s fine; I’m … um … I’m going to be out of town for a few days, but you can reach me by email and I’ll, well, I’ll try to call.” I hung up guiltily. Thomas
deserved better than this. Thomas deserved the girlfriend I was unable to be. Next I called Baker, who wasn’t home either. Another easy out. She’d already done her best to talk me out of going to Ottawa once and might try again. I told her answering machine I was going to Ottawa with Paul and his father and would call later, and would get the borrowed clothing back to her when I returned. I stuck a note on the fridge for Zach and locked the door to my rooms.

Paul and his father were waiting by the car, Paul apparently having assumed all along that I was going with them. In his bright new world, of course the woman who rescued you and delivered your father to you accompanied you to your new home. Paul hopped into the back, with Tiger beside him on an old comforter. Dumond drove smoothly out of town, remembering the turns without my prompting him.

In an odd way it felt right, sitting here in this car, leaving Lake Placid behind, listening to Paul murmur to Tiger in the backseat. Like I was heading to a new adventure.

At the border Dumond told the customs inspector that we were returning to Ottawa after visiting Lake Placid. She glanced at our passports and Tiger’s rabies certificate. Dumond told her he’d bought some children’s clothing, and she waved him through. We pulled into Canada and stopped in Cornwall at a Harvey’s for burgers and fries, the image, I suppose, of a happy little family. Soon after we left Cornwall I fell asleep, and didn’t awaken until we exited from the Queensway into Ottawa.

I
T FELT MORE THAN A LITTLE ODD TO BE CLIMBING OUT OF
the Mercedes at the Tudor house I’d arrived at with the same man just over twenty-four hours ago. Like the old Bill Murray movie
Groundhog Day
, where you’re doomed to live the same day over until you get it right. Here we were again, this time bringing home the missing child.

Maybe this time everything would be fine.

The sound of our car doors closing behind us was sharp. I was acutely aware of our footsteps crunching against the flat stones of the driveway, of the leaves of the trees around us fluttering in the breeze. Paul was clinging to his father’s hand, with Dumond leaning over, speaking to him as they walked toward the house. The door opened and in the doorway I saw a spare sixtyish woman, gray hair pulled back, her entire body radiating anxiety. Paul pulled his hand free from his father’s and ran into her arms. She was mouthing his name, over and over. Her face broke and tears streamed down her cheeks.

So much for my notion that Dumond could have been involved with the nanny-turned-housekeeper. She looked up at us as we reached them.
It was a mistake to come here
, I thought. She was Paul’s life, past and future. I was the interloper.

Dumond spoke. “Elise, this is Troy Chance, who found Paul for us. Troy, this is Paul’s nanny, Elise.”

The woman released Paul and pulled me to her in a rough, hard hug. I sensed an enormous amount of emotion, so much she was barely keeping it contained. She didn’t say anything and didn’t look
me in the face, but I knew it was because her feelings were so intense. She turned back to Paul and began chattering in rapid-fire French. They headed off together—toward the kitchen for cookies and milk, I supposed, likely the first line of treatment when lost boy returns home. I felt a pang of something uncomfortably like jealousy.

But this was his nanny, his father, his home. What I had given him had been great compared to being locked up in a room for months, but nothing like the life he was supposed to have.

When I turned to Dumond I saw something flicker across his face, and knew that what I was feeling was infinitesimal compared to his pain. Watching your long-lost son marching away with the nanny without a backward look must be the moment when you long to erase the long hours and late nights at work, wish for an Etch A Sketch moment when you shake the box, erase everything, and start over.

But now he had that second chance—with his son at least.

As their footsteps died away he spoke: “Elise has been with Paul since he was born.”

I made an
Mmm
noise to try to convey
That’s great
and
I understand
. He spoke again. “She’s always blamed herself for Paul being taken. She thinks if she had been there that day she could have protected him.”

I blinked, envisioning the tiny nanny trying to fight off kidnappers. “But she couldn’t have—”

“I know,” he said, picking up my bag. “But logic doesn’t come into it. I know all about that. Let me show you your room.”

Tiger and I followed him. We passed Paul’s room and reached a spacious room with large windows and sunlight streaming in. It had a queen-sized bed, light wood floors, and Shaker-style furniture. Just what I might choose if I earned ten times what I did. “I think this has everything you might need,” Dumond said, waving vaguely toward an attached bathroom. I could see it was equipped with hair dryer and bottles of lotion, like a fancy health spa.

“Make yourself at home,” he said. “If you need anything, ask Elise—you’ll find the kitchen to the left of the front foyer. I’m going to show Paul around the house, and we’ll have dinner in an hour or so.”

I’d assumed he would take Paul straight to the police station, but he’d planned that for after a visit to the doctor tomorrow morning. Dumond was, I think, used to getting his way. I sat on the bed and bounced once or twice: a firm mattress, just what I like.

Okay, this was awkward. But there’s no handy guide for introducing your motherless five-months-kidnapped son to a new life. Although maybe step one would be
Have the person who rescues your son come home with you to help out
.

I looked around the room. I like staying in guest rooms and hotels, nesting in miniature, setting up my things in a new space. I unpacked everything and set my laptop bag near the desk. This took about five minutes. I folded the comforter from the car beside the bed, where I could pretend Tiger would be sleeping instead of with me. She sat on it, watching me.

Sitting here seemed too Jane Eyre-ish, too much like a governess awaiting a summons. New Troy wouldn’t hide away meekly—she would open the door and step out of the room. So I did.

I passed Paul’s room and stifled the urge to unpack his bag of new clothes.
Not my house, not my kid
. This would have to be my inner mantra while I was here.

I wandered into the living room and dining room, which were tastefully furnished, but too austere for me. I perched on the leather sofa: comfortable, but cold. I wondered if Dumond’s wife had picked out this furniture. I saw nothing remotely personal: no piles of magazines, no photos, no knickknacks. But maybe they would be too-painful reminders of missing wife and child.

Then I found the library, which I loved instantly: built-in bookshelves, a fireplace of rounded stones, and stuffed sofa and chairs you could disappear in. I walked the length of the shelves, running my fingers along the spines of the books. They were new and old mixed in together—fiction, nonfiction, English, French. I saw a French version of
The Count of Monte Cristo
, a book I’d fallen in love with around age twelve.

So the house did have some personality—and presumably its owner did as well. Greatly cheered, I wandered on. I found the state-of-the-art
kitchen I’d expected, with a marble-topped center island and rows of gleaming pots and pans overhead. Elise, busy at a mixing bowl, looked up.

“Troy,” she said, the
r
sound making it clear she was a native French speaker. “Your room is good, eh?” It’s the uvula, the little thing that hangs down the back of your throat, that lets French speakers make that trilling
r
. For us English-speakers, it just hangs there uselessly.

“Oh, yes, it’s great,” I said quickly. “It’s wonderful.”

“Would you like anything? A snack, something to drink?” she asked, setting the spoon down.

“No, no, I’m fine. I was just—Paul’s father told me to look around.”

“It’s a very nice house. It will be a good home for Paul.” Her next question caught me off guard. “Where Paul was, where Paul was kept, was it very bad?”

My throat tightened. I had no idea how much Dumond had told her about Paul’s captivity or what he wanted her to know. I sat on a stool before I answered. “I don’t really know. I mean … he told me only a little, but, no, I don’t think it was very nice.”

She dumped the dough on the countertop. “Paul will be happy here. He will forget the bad things.”

I didn’t know what to say. Yes, Paul probably would be happy here, but he would never forget the bad things. I saw her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and realized she knew all this. “Yes,” I said gently. “He will be happy here.”

She shoved at the dough. “Paul likes you.”

I shrugged. “I was the first person he met. I think he would have liked anyone.”

“No. He likes you especially. He told me you saved him.” Her voice broke. I blinked, my throat tight. She looked up from the dough she was assaulting, and somehow her look said
We are in this together
. I had rescued the child she loved.

I stood. Suddenly I wanted to see Paul and his father. “I think I’ll go find the guys.”

“They are up in Monsieur Dumond’s room, I think.” She nodded in the direction of the spiral staircase I’d seen yesterday.

At the base of the stairs I called out, “Hello?”

“Troy!” Paul answered.
“Viens! Jouons à l’ordinateur.”

My sneakers squeaked on the metal steps. As I reached the top Dumond called out, and I could see the two of them in an attached room at the back of a large bedroom. I walked past furniture similar to that in my room, with darker bedding and a moody painting of a seascape. Then I was in an office with a built-in desk that stretched the width of the room. Paul was playing Tetris on a computer with a huge flat-panel monitor.

“Regardez, Troy,”
he exclaimed, bouncing on his chair.
“C’est mon jeu préféré!”

Dumond, in a chair off to the side, caught my eye. “Yes, Paul always liked playing this game on my computer,” he said. I watched Paul maneuver the colorful falling blocks as they came faster and faster, eyes intent on the screen, fingers poised on the keyboard. If you’re fast enough, you can line the blocks up into a tidy wall. One misstep, and your wall has holes you can never fill.

A discreet beep sounded from Dumond’s pocket, and he pulled out his phone and glanced at it. He excused himself and stepped out of the room.

When I turned back to Paul, a small silver-framed photo on the far end of the long desk caught my attention. I could see it was Madeleine, with a younger and smaller Paul laughing into the camera; she was laughing as well, one hand holding down that honey-blond hair to try to keep it from being blown in the wind. I felt abrupt nausea: it seemed I was trespassing, here in this room with this woman’s family.

A minute later Dumond reappeared. “I must make some business calls,” he said apologetically. I stood up quickly. “Perhaps—would you mind? Paul might like your help setting up his room.”

“Of course,” I said. “Paul, sweetie, let’s go unpack some of your things.
Paul, viens avec moi, s’il te plaît.
” His gaze was locked on the
screen and the little falling blocks, but as soon as my words penetrated he flicked off the game and followed me. I wondered if he had always been this obedient, or if this was how an abducted child would act—a little too eager to please.