Learning to Swim (14 page)

There was so much I didn’t know.

T
HE SUN WAS SENDING SHAFTS OF LATE-AFTERNOON LIGHT
across Paul’s bedroom, seeming to welcome us as we stepped across the threshold. Paul walked around the room slowly, running his hand along each piece of furniture. He knelt beside one of the open boxes and began pulling out toys and inspecting them, as if greeting each one:
Hello, this is Paul, and I am back
. When he’d emptied the first box, he moved on to the next and began pulling out clothing.

I sensed another presence and turned to see Elise in the doorway. She smiled shakily. “I wasn’t …” she said in a low voice. “I wasn’t sure if any of his things would fit him. But we brought everything from Montreal.”

I flashed to an image of the two of them, father and nanny, packing Paul’s clothing and toys into boxes that might never be opened. Of course they couldn’t have gotten rid of them, just as they hadn’t been able to unpack them. Maybe years later they would have donated them or moved them to an attic. I wondered if Madeleine’s things were packed away as well, in boxes stashed in a closet in Dumond’s room.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “It’s good he has them all, even if they don’t fit. Later he can get rid of things if he wants.”

The pain in Elise’s face was stark. “I have been with Paul since he was a baby,” she whispered.

“I know. I know.” My throat caught. She stared past me, tears welling, then murmured something about dinner and left.

Paul looked up. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Comment ça va?”

He nodded solemnly and turned back to the box of clothes. Next he opened a box of books and began to thumb through each one. The room was starting to look like a rummage sale in progress. I moved closer and gestured at the bookcase, and Paul began handing me books one by one to place on the shelves.

“How goes it?” Dumond asked from the doorway. I jumped.

“Salut, Papa, je mets mes livres sur l’étagère,”
Paul replied, without looking up.

“No, I think it is Troy who is putting the books on the shelf,” Dumond said, smiling. “And I think it is only polite to speak English when Troy is here.
Nous devrions parler anglais quand Troy est ici.
”

Sitting back on his heels, Paul shook his hair out of his eyes and smiled at his father. “Okay, Papa. I try.” Surrounded by piles of clothes and toys, he looked like any child in a messy room. It seemed impossible he had been gone so long.

Paul returned to the box of books, rooting through it as if looking for something in particular. Dumond picked up a toy car, and idly spun one of the wheels. He watched his son stash toys in the closet, in a dresser drawer, but none in the big toy box. Maybe it was Paul’s way of defining his space. Or hiding his toys so no one could find them.

And then it was time for dinner.

We ate in the fancy dining room; Elise served but didn’t eat with us. It made me think of old Agatha Christie novels, where nearly everyone had servants. But no one objected when Tiger tucked herself neatly under the table.

Paul emptied his bowl of rich vegetable beef soup and ate two steaming, buttery rolls. Apparently Elise had been transferring her unused nanny energies to cooking. When the main course arrived—salmon, with broccoli—Paul stared at his plate, then looked up unhappily. He shifted in his chair.

“Paul, what is it?” asked Dumond.

“Papa, I cannot eat,” he whispered.
“Je n’ai pas faim maintenant. Est-ce que je peux le garder pour plus tard?”
A lone tear ran down his cheek.

A silent, frozen moment, broken by the rasp of Dumond’s chair on the floor, and then he was at Paul’s side, turning his son toward him and cupping his face in his hands.

“Paul, of course you can save it. There is no reason to be sad. Elise will understand that you are full,” he said, and repeated it in French. “Let’s take this to Elise in the kitchen and ask her to wrap it up for us.” He picked up the plate and led Paul toward the kitchen.

I picked at one of the rolls on my bread plate, appetite suddenly gone.

Dumond came back alone and sat down. “Elise is going to help him get ready for bed. I should have realized that he isn’t used to large meals. But I don’t understand why he was so upset.”

I twisted in my seat, figuring how to explain this. “He’s been gone a long time; he wants to please you.”

He frowned; he wasn’t getting it.

I tried again. “Look, the kidnappers made him think you didn’t want him. They probably told him you were angry with him or didn’t like him. They do that—tell kids their parents don’t want them, or that they’re dead.” I’ve read the grim articles; it’s hard to miss them.

Dumond shut his eyes. I imagined he was seeing Paul locked up, wondering why his father didn’t come rescue him. Because at six, you think your father can do anything.

“Does he believe I didn’t want him, that I wasn’t looking for him? That I wouldn’t have given anything to get him back?” His voice was harsh, a mix of anguish and rage.

I blinked back the moisture gathering in my eyes. “It’s what they told him,” I whispered. “That’s all he’s known for months. And kids always think that bad things that happen to them are their fault.”

Dumond sat for a long moment. “You have no children.” Not quite a question.

“No.” I wasn’t going to discuss my sisters’ children, needy kids at a shelter, other kids I’d known. Or tell him that I understood Paul a little better than he did right now, that the Paul he’d gotten back wasn’t the same child he had lost months ago and in some ways never would be again. Although maybe he knew.

He picked up his fork. “I’ll tell Paul those men lied to him, that I never stopped looking for him. And I’ll have the pediatrician recommend a therapist, psychologist, whatever he needs.” Dumond ate a few bites before speaking again. “And you, what did you think?”

I blinked. “What do you mean? Think about what?”

“When you located me. You could have telephoned me, you could have asked the police to contact me. Instead, you came to Ottawa.”

The salmon that had seemed so delicious suddenly was Styrofoam in my mouth. I swallowed with difficulty. “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t know … if you were involved somehow.” He looked shocked, and I wished I hadn’t decided to be this honest. “It can happen,” I blurted. “It has happened. People want out of their marriage, don’t want to pay alimony, whatever. They arrange to have a spouse gotten rid of, or kids, too.”

Dumond stared at me. “Look, I didn’t know you,” I said, my voice rising. “And my brother’s a cop; he tells me stories that would set your hair on end.”

We finished dinner with no more conversation. The broccoli was cold, but we ate it anyway. We skipped dessert and walked to Paul’s room, Tiger padding after us.

Paul looked well scrubbed, his damp hair combed neatly. He was wearing one of his new T-shirts with snug stretchy pajama bottoms Elise must have found among his old things. Pajamas were one thing I hadn’t thought of getting him, probably because I don’t own any—I sleep in a T-shirt and old gym shorts, or sweats if it’s cold. I gave Paul a hug.

“Sleep tight, cowboy,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.
Je te verrai le matin.
” He surprised me with a tiny kiss on my cheek.

Dumond replaced me at Paul’s side, tickling him and then leaning over and whispering in his ear. Paul smiled sleepily, happily. Dumond settled himself next to Paul on the small bed and looked up.

“I will stay until Paul falls asleep,” he said. I nodded and turned
to go. He was Paul’s father; I was a pseudo-temporary-nanny. It was to be expected.

Dumond’s voice stopped me at the door. “Troy, thank you.”

I looked back at him, next to his son, the two dark heads close together: Paul’s eyes closed, angelically young and relaxed; Dumond looking tired, but at peace. Maybe I didn’t belong in this scene, but I had helped bring it about.

M
ORNING WAS A SEMBLANCE OF NORMALCY, OR AT LEAST
what I assume is normal in a household with a small child and a housekeeper. We ate steaming oatmeal and French toast and sipped fresh-ground coffee, which was astoundingly better than the stuff I made with my paper-towel-drip method. I’d always been scornful of the allure of money, but I was fast seeing the advantages.

The dose of reality came when Paul perversely decided to wear some of his old clothes and squeezed into a snug long-sleeved polo shirt and jeans so tight he could barely fasten the top snap. Elise called me into his room and we consulted
sotto voce
, Paul close to sullen and looking mutinous. I knelt and put my hands on his shoulders.

“Paul,” I said, looking into his eyes, “these are nice clothes. But I think your papa will feel bad if you don’t wear some of your new things.” I repeated it in French, as best I could.

He looked dubious, then squirmed. The jeans had to be cutting off circulation around his small middle. His face brightened. “New pants, same shirt?” he asked, making his eyes wide.

I nodded. “That’s a very good idea,” I said, handing him a new pair of jeans. Elise and I stepped out so we wouldn’t witness his struggle to peel off the old ones.

Dumond blinked at the sight of the too-small shirt, Paul’s thin wrists showing, but just reached in the hall closet and pulled out a light jacket. “Get your jacket, Paul—
va chercher ton veston,
” he said
matter-of-factly, and Paul ran back to his room for his new windbreaker. Dumond winked at me, and put his hand on Elise’s back, murmuring something near her ear.

In the crowded waiting room I read old copies of
Ottawa
magazine, learning more than I wanted to know about people I hadn’t known were Ottawans: Dan Aykroyd, Mike Myers, Alanis Morissette. I flipped through battered copies of
Highlights
for the Goofus and Gallant cartoon. Gallant was polite and good and neat; Goofus was sloppy and rude. But he had mellowed from the naughty fellow I remembered, and was now only mildly ill-behaved.

I was trying hard to ignore the fear churning inside me: that Paul had been sexually abused, which was why the kidnappers had kept him so long. I expected it was what we all feared. I was nearly desperate enough to pick up a copy of
Marie Claire
when they emerged, Dumond’s arm around his son’s shoulders, Paul sucking a lollipop. “A clean bill of health,” Dumond said. As Paul stepped into the elevator, Dumond moved closer, squeezed my shoulders lightly, and said the three magic words in my ear:
No sexual abuse
.

My face must have shown how much this had been eating at me, how I had needed to know. I hadn’t expected this insight and compassion from Dumond, which shows what a reverse snob I am. Because someone is rich and attractive and successful, apparently I think they can’t be human. Which made me feel pretty small.

As we drove to the police station my stomach was in knots. Now I’d have to explain officially why I hadn’t taken Paul straight to authorities.

Paul looked up from the backseat when we pulled into the underground parking area. Dumond turned off the ignition and twisted around to face him. “Paul, we are going to talk to the police so they can catch the bad men who took you,” he said, and repeated it in French.

Paul looked blank, a look I recognized as his
hear no evil, see no evil
face. When things are happening you can’t understand or don’t want to deal with, just shut down. It may not be the best way to deal with things, but it works. With a pang I realized the petulance over
his clothes this morning had been the most normal six-year-old reaction I’d seen from him.

“It’s okay, Paul,” I added. “No one will hurt you, and your papa will be right there.”

Paul looked uneasily at me. Dumond forced a laugh. “Yes, the policemen will be very nice to you and if they are not I will bark at them, like Tiger.
Arrrrf! Arrrrf!
” Paul’s lips twitched. “And I will be there,” Dumond said as he swung the car door open.

God, we were winging this, I thought as we walked in, Paul clasping our hands. He was trusting us, but he was still scared, like a dog you’ve rescued from the animal shelter. Every time we went somewhere he was, I think, a little afraid he was going to end up back in his prison.