The Virgin Blue (36 page)

‘Ah, I had that when I was pregnant with Sylvie! Horrible. But it only lasts a few weeks. After that you eat anything.’ She stopped. ‘Oh, but you –’

‘I think it may be the medication the doctor put me on,’ I interrupted. ‘Sometimes there are traces of it still in the system. I'm sorry, I just can't eat.’

Mathilde nodded. Later I caught her giving me a long appraising look.

I fit into their lives surprisingly easily. I'd told Mathilde I would leave the next day – not that I knew where to go. She waved it off. ‘No, you stay with us. I like having you here. It's normally just Sylvie and me, so it's good to have company. As long as you don't mind sleeping on the couch!’

Sylvie made me read book after book to her at bedtime, excited by the novelty, brusquely correcting my pronunciation and explaining what some of the phrases meant. In the morning she pleaded with Mathilde to let her stay home from the summer camp she was attending. ‘I want to play with Ella!’ she shouted. ‘Please, Maman. Please?’

Mathilde glanced at me. I nodded slightly. ‘You'll have to ask Ella,’ she said. ‘How do you know she wants to play with you all day?’

Once Mathilde had left for work, yelling instructions over her shoulder, the house was suddenly quiet. I looked at Sylvie; she looked at me. I knew we were both thinking of the bag of bones hidden in the house.

‘Let's go for a walk,’ I said brightly. ‘There's a playground nearby, yes?’

‘OK,’ she said, and went off to pack all the things she would need into a bear-shaped knapsack.

On the way to the playground we passed a row of stores; when we reached a pharmacy I paused. ‘Let's go in, Sylvie, I need to get something.’ She obediently entered with me. I led her over to a display of soaps. ‘You choose one,’ I said, ‘and I'll get it for you as a present.’ She became engrossed in opening the boxes and sniffing at the soaps, and I was able to talk to the pharmacist in a low voice.

Sylvie chose lavender, holding it as we walked so she could smell it, until I convinced her to put it in her bear bag for safekeeping. At the playground she ran off to her friends. I sat on the benches with the other mothers, who looked at me suspiciously. I didn't try to talk to them: I needed to think.

In the afternoon we stayed at home. While Sylvie filled her pool I went to the bathroom with my purchase. When I came down she jumped into the water and splashed around while I lay on the grass and looked up at the sky.

After a while she came and sat beside me. She played with an old Barbie doll, whose hair had been cut raggedly, talking to her and making her dance.

‘Ella?’ she began. I knew what was coming. ‘Where is that bag of bones?’

‘I don't know. Your mother put it away.’

‘So it's still in the house?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Where else could it be?’

‘Maybe your mother took it to work with her, or gave it to a neighbour.’

Sylvie looked around. ‘Our neighbours? Why would they want it?’

Bad idea. I changed tack. ‘Why are you asking me about it?’

Sylvie looked down at the doll, pulled its hair, shrugged. ‘Don't know,’ she mumbled.

I waited for a minute. ‘Do you want to see it again?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘You won't scream or get upset?’

‘No, not if you are here.’

I got the bag from the closet and brought it outside. Sylvie was sitting with her knees pulled up under her chin, watching me nervously. I set the bag down. ‘Do you want me to – lay it out so you can see it, and you wait inside and I'll call you when it's ready?’

She nodded and jumped up. ‘I want a Coke. Can I have a Coke?’

‘Yes.’

She ran inside.

I took a deep breath and unzipped the bag. I hadn't actually looked in it yet.

When it was all ready I went and found Sylvie; she was sitting in the living room with a glass of Coke, watching television.

‘Come,’ I said, holding my hand out to her. Together we went to the back door. From there she could see something in the grass. She pressed into my side.

‘You don't have to look at it, you know. But it won't hurt you. It's not alive.’

‘What is it?’

‘A girl.’

‘A girl? A girl like me?’

‘Yes. Those are her bones and her hair. And a little bit of dress.’

We walked over to it. To my surprise Sylvie let go of my hand and squatted down next to the bones. She looked at them for a long time.

‘That's a pretty blue,’ she said at last. ‘What happened to the rest of her dress?’

‘It –’ Rotted – another word I didn't know. ‘It got old and was destroyed,’ I explained clumsily.

‘Her hair is the same colour as yours.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does she come from?’

‘Switzerland. She was buried in the ground, under a chimney hearth.’

‘Why?’

‘Why did she die?’

‘No, why was she buried under the hearth? Was it to keep her warm?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Marie.’

‘She should be buried again.’

‘Why?’ I was curious what she would say.

‘Because she needs a home. She can't stay here forever.’

‘That's true.’

Sylvie sat down in the grass, then stretched out alongside the bones. ‘I'm going to sleep,’ she announced.

I thought about stopping her, saying that it was inappropriate, that she might have nightmares, that Mathilde would find us and think I would make a terrible mother, letting her daughter sleep next to a skeleton. But I didn't say any of these things. Instead I lay down on the other side of the bones.

‘Tell me a story,’ Sylvie commanded.

‘I'm not very good at telling stories.’

Sylvie rolled onto her elbow. ‘All grown-ups can tell stories! Tell me one.’

‘OK. Once there was a little girl with blonde hair and a blue dress.’

‘Like me? Did she look like me?’

‘Yes.’

Sylvie lay down again with a satisfied smile and closed her eyes.

‘She was a brave little girl. She had two older brothers, and a mother and a father and a grandmother.’

‘Did they love her?’

‘Most of them, except for her grandmother.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don't know.’ I stopped. Sylvie opened her eyes. ‘She was an ugly old woman,’ I continued in a hurry. ‘She was small and wore black all the time. And she never spoke.’

‘How could the girl know the grandmother didn't like her if she never spoke to her?’

‘She – she had fierce eyes, and she'd glare at the little girl in a way she didn't at anyone else. So the girl knew she didn't like her. And it was worse when she wore her favourite blue dress.’

‘Because the grandmother wanted it for herself!’

‘Yes, the cloth was very beautiful but there was only enough to make a dress for a little girl. When she wore it she looked like the sky.’

‘Was it a magic dress?’

‘Of course. It protected her from the grandmother, and from other things too – fire and wolves and nasty boys. And drowning. In fact, one day the girl was playing by the river and fell in. She went under water, and she could see fish swimming below her and she thought she was going to drown. Then the dress puffed up with air and she floated to the surface and was safe. So whenever she wore the dress her mother knew she would be safe.’

I glanced over at Sylvie; she was asleep. My eyes lit on the fragments of blue between us.

‘Except for one time,’ I added. ‘And it only takes once.’

I dreamed I was standing in a house that was burning to the ground. There were pieces of wood falling and ashes blowing everywhere. Then a girl appeared. I could only see her out of the corner of my eye; if I looked at her directly she disappeared. A blue light hovered around her.

‘Remember me,’ she said. She turned into Jean-Paul; he hadn't shaved in days and looked rough, his hair grown out so it curled at the ends, his face and arms and shirt covered with soot. I reached out and touched his face, and when I took my hand away there was a scar from his nose to his chin.

‘How did you get this?’ I asked.

‘From life,’ he replied.

A shadow crossed my face and I woke up. Mathilde was standing over me, blocking the evening sun. She looked like she'd been there for a while, her arms crossed, studying us. I sat up. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, blinking. ‘I know this must look bizarre.’

Mathilde snorted. ‘Yes, but you know, I'm not surprised. I knew Sylvie would want to see those bones again. It looks like she's not scared of them anymore.’

‘No. She surprised me, she was so calm.’

Our voices woke her; Sylvie rolled over and sat up, cheeks flushed. She looked around, her eyes coming to rest on the bones.

‘Maman,’ she said, ‘we're going to bury her.’

‘What? Here in the yard?’

‘No. Her home.’

Mathilde looked at me.

‘I know just the place,’ I said.

* * *

Mathilde let me take her car into Mende. It was strange to think I'd been there only three weeks before; a lot had happened since then. But I had the same feeling now walking around the grim cathedral and the dark narrow streets of the old town. It wasn't a welcoming place. I was glad Mathilde lived further out, even in a treeless suburb.

The address turned out to be the same pizzeria I'd eaten in before. It was almost as empty as last time. I felt calm walking in, but when I saw Rick sitting alone with a glass of wine, frowning at the menu, my stomach turned over. I hadn't seen him in thirteen days; it had been a long thirteen days. When he looked up and saw me, he stood up, smiling nervously. He was wearing work clothes, a white button-down shirt, a navy cotton blazer and docksiders. He looked big and healthy and American in that dark cave of a place, like a Cadillac crawling through a narrow street.

We kissed awkwardly.

‘Jesus, Ella, what happened to your face?’

I touched the bruise on my forehead. ‘I fell,’ I said. ‘It's no big deal.’

We sat down. Rick poured me a glass of wine before I could say no. I politely touched it to my lips without swallowing. The smell of acid and vinegar almost made me gag; I set it down quickly.

We sat in silence. I realized I would have to start the conversation.