The French Girl Read online

  The Priest said many nice things about Maman, how she had been a good wife to Papa and how so many lives had been changed by the Christmas storm. He went on a lot about the storms, les orages, and how we all have storms in our lives but that God will help us weather them. I imagined that had Maman been there, she would have taken a long drag of her cigarette, tossed back her head and said, “Rien a cirer. I don't give a damn,” because I could not remember Maman ever believing in God. Turning to me, the Priest said, “Etoile will need all of God’s protection from what those storms have wrought.”

  I tried hard not to cry as Maman was lowered into the ground right next to Papa’s grave, but I looked over and saw that Anais had her eyes shut very tight and tears were rolling down the curve of her cheekbones. Mrs. Galloway put her arm around me, but I drew back. After it was over, I ran to Anais and hugged her so hard that it took both Mrs. Galloway and Detective Brody to pull me off, but I could not let go of her.

  Mrs. Galloway let me take one of the white flowers from the bouquet by Maman’s grave, but as we neared her car a gust of wind took it from my hand. I watched as it sailed upward and all of the petals came off and danced around in the air for quite some time before slowly drifting back down to the ground. Surely a soul, I thought.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mrs. Galloway’s office had piles of papers and folders stacked everywhere. I sat at a small desk and flipped through a magazine about whales while she stood just outside and talked to a man with a very red face.

  “We have located a cousin, but there are unusual circumstances,” I heard her say. She leaned forward and whispered something into his ear. He drew back and looked at her with raised eyebrows. Then he shook his head back and forth and said, “No. It’s unheard of.”

  “There was a case in California…” Mrs. Galloway said.

  “This is not California, Audrey. This is Massachusetts and I for one will not have this division responsible for placing a child in a home with…”

  “Actually, it would be in New Hampshire.”

  The man stopped. “What do you mean?”

  “The cousin lives in New Hampshire. All we have to do is meet the caseworker, sign the papers transferring guardianship and it would be on them.”

  The man tapped the side of his red cheek with his finger for several seconds. “Alright,” he said, “but not one word in the documentation about the… circumstances.”

  “I’ll make the call right now.”

  Someone brought me a hamburger. I realized I had not eaten in some time and was trying hard not to, but the smell of the French fries reminded me of Madame Duvais’ shop. Before I realized what I was doing, I ate the whole thing. At the bottom of the bag, I found a little stuffed yellow dog.

  “It is good that you are eating,” Mrs. Galloway said as she picked up her phone.

  Because I am not a real French woman, I thought to myself.

  “Yes, excellent,” she said into the phone as she glanced at her watch. “We can leave right now with the paperwork if you’ll give me directions to your office.” She scribbled on a piece of paper. “We’ll meet you there in two hours,” she said placing the phone back on the receiver.

  “Was that my cousin?” I asked.

  “No,” she said tearing the sheet of paper off the pad. “That was the New Hampshire caseworker, but they have gotten hold of your mother’s cousin, Giselle Simone, who will let you stay with her in New Hampshire.”

  “New Hampshire?” I said. “But I don’t want to go to New Hampshire. I’ll never see Anais…”

  Mrs. Galloway sighed and picked up her white purse. “Come along, Etoile,” she said gesturing towards the door.

  We drove for a long time on a highway. My stomach was very restless and I was sorry to have eaten all of the food. I felt only the slightest relief when the “Bienvenue New Hampshire” sign came into view. I did not know this cousin, Giselle Simone. I did not even know that Maman had a cousin. If she was anything like Maman, I could not imagine living with her without Anais being there. I dug my fist into my belly against the pain.

  Mrs. Galloway pulled into a parking lot by a tall, modern brick building that said, “New Hampshire Department of Health and Human Services” on a sign out front.

  My stomach started to leap around. For all I knew, this Giselle could be a monster who hated children. Not that I liked Mrs. Galloway very much either, but at least she brought me food. I squeezed the little yellow stuffed dog very hard and blinked a few times as I stared at the building.

  Mrs. Galloway was already out of the car with papers in one hand and my little blue bag in the other before I could even get my door open.

  “Come along, Etoile,” she said. “It will be alright.”

  I slid slowly off the seat and landed on wobbly legs.

  Mrs. Galloway put a firm hand around my shoulder as she steered me through the front doors. There was a sign with a lot of different departments listed on it including Welfare, Women Infants and Children, and Family Services. Mrs. Galloway pressed the elevator button.

  As soon as the doors shut, I imagined they would open and this Giselle woman would take one look at me and say, “She is too fat. Send her back.” All the food began to stir around in my belly as the elevator buttons swirled.

  I looked up at Mrs. Galloway but that just made it worse so I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

  “Here we are,” Mrs. Galloway said. I opened my eyes to see a bunch of offices with large glass windows.

  Mrs. Galloway pressed her hand into the small of my back and pushed me forward just the way Maman had that time in the kitchen. “This way,” she said, steering me to an office.

  I peered through the glass window and saw two women sitting in it. One woman had dyed blonde hair in a shag hairdo. The other woman, whose back was turned to us, had dark, curly hair the same color as Maman’s, but cut much shorter, just touching the tips of her shoulders.

  “I’m Audrey Galloway and this is Etoile,” Mrs. Galloway announced as she shoved me forward.

  I could feel my heart racing as the woman in the chair turned around and looked at me for the first time. She was younger than Maman, but with the same triangular face, pronounced cheekbones, almond-shaped brown eyes, and wide lips. She was thin, but not nearly as thin as Maman. She wore a long blue peasant skirt, a white cotton blouse, a choker and tan Earth shoes. She stood up, smiled at me and held out her hand. On her left hand was a silver ring with a very pretty green stone in the shape of a heart.

  “Bon jour, Etoile,” she said softly. “Je suis notre cousine, Giselle. I am your cousin Giselle Simone.”

  Her nails were cut very short and colorless.

  “Well, you can certainly see the family resemblance,” Mrs. Galloway announced to the other woman sitting behind the desk.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” she said.

  “There, you see? It is official. We are family,” Giselle said smiling. Her eyes lit up as she did so.

  “Very well, then,” Mrs. Galloway said, “If you can just sign the paperwork, Miss Simone, I’ll be on my way.”

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Galloway patted my shoulder and said, “Good luck to you, Etoile,” before bolting out the door.

  I struggled to keep up with Giselle as she walked down to the parking lot. She held open the door of an old green Mercedes for me. The smell of leather filled the air. I had never sat on leather seats before and could not help but touch the smooth surface with my fingers.

  Giselle saw me. “Doesn’t it feel nice? And the smell,” she said taking a deep breath.

  We climbed in and she started up the engine. Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody filled the car’s interior as we pulled away. I watched the brick building disappear from view. In between the seats was a cassette tape storage unit. She had people I had never hear of – Beethoven, Vivaldi, Mozart, plus people I did know like Bob Dylan, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell and Fleetwood Mac.

  “This is your car?” I asked.

  �
��No. It is Jean’s. I live with Jean.”

  She pronounced the name with a hard “J.”

  “Is he French?”

  “No,” Giselle said shaking her head. “And it is a she. Jean is the woman I live with. Dr. Jean Becker.”

  A moment of panic struck me. Maman had once cleaned for a woman, a Mrs. Beckerman in Seaville. Maman called her un chien sale Juif, a dirty Jew dog. Maman said she was glad to be rid of her after she accused Maman of stealing a silver bracelet.

  “She is not a Jew is she?” I asked.

  Giselle glanced at me for a second, then put her turn signal on and sped past a bread truck.

  “No,” she said, “she is not Jewish. She is German, but several of our good friends are Jewish. You’ll see what nice people they are once you have had a chance to meet them.” A few seconds later, she said, “We will try to be open-minded, Etoile, okay? If you shut doors so quickly, you may never find all the wonderful things that are hidden behind them.”

  “This Jean, she is a doctor?” I asked.

  Giselle smiled. “Not a medical doctor. She is a professor of Women’s Studies at Eastern University. We live in a small house right near the campus.”

  “And she is not married?”

  Giselle sped up again and passed a van with painted bugs on the side of it.

  “No,” she said.

  I looked at Giselle’s arms. They were thin, but I could see muscles moving beneath them as she shifted the car’s gears. Her fingertips did not have the yellow stains that Maman’s had.

  She drove the little green car with great determination. I lost count of how many other cars and trucks we passed as she sped along and zipped in and out of lanes. The circular gauges on the dashboard flew up and down.

  A few minutes later, she said, “Etoile, I want you to know how very sorry I am about your Maman.”

  “I did not know Maman had cousins,” I said because I did not want to talk about it.

  “Yes. Your grandmother and my grandmother were sisters, so we are actually second cousins but the families weren’t particularly close. My family moved away from Cote Nouveau when I was a young girl, so I never saw your Maman much after that though I would hear about her on occasion.”

  “Your family lives here?”

  “No. They live in Connecticut. I am the only one here in New Hampshire. I have not seen them in some time.”

  “Why not?

  “They…” she began, “I just do not. We are all busy.”

  A few minutes later, she looked over and smiled at me and asked, “How are you doing?”

  I studied the constant line of trees passing by. “Okay,” I said as a road sign announced “Eastern University – one mile.”

  “We are almost there,” Giselle said. “I hope you like our house.”

  My mind settled on the “our” and wondered what she meant by that. Was it an “our” for she and this woman, Jean? Surely two women could not own a house together. Or, did she think I was going to stay with her permanently? My stomach shifted.

  We pulled off the highway and came to a road that wound around a main street lined with many large brick buildings with big white pillars in the front and signs outside that read, “Tuttle Hall” and “College of Science,” and “College of Social Studies.” Students strolled around, many carrying leather bags. Many of the girls wore tight Jordache jeans with peasant blouses, a few with halter tops. Some stumbled awkwardly along in six-inch platform shoes. A young man wearing very short Addidas shorts jogged by.

  “This is the main campus of Eastern University where Jean teaches,” Giselle explained. Pointing to a much smaller building, she said, “and that is Jean’s office, but she is lecturing right now. You will meet her tonight.”

  I did not like the sound of “lecturing.” I remembered Madame Duvais complaining that Monsieur Duvais was always lecturing her about what meats to buy for the shop and where to place things on the shelves.

  We turned away from the campus down a dirt road that was lined with trees on either side. I grabbed onto the leather seat as the car lurched over a pothole.

  Giselle tossed back her head just like Maman and laughed. “Je suis désolé. I am sorry. This road is unforgivable.”

  I watched as a small stone house with a bright red door suddenly appeared at the end looking like something out of a fairy tale with its pitched roof, stone porch and windows filled with so many small panes.

  “Welcome to Stone Cottage,” Giselle announced as pebbles skidded out from under the tires.

  I had never seen such an odd little house before. Two front windows were set deep inside the stone openings, as was an old wooden door that looked freshly painted in bright red, the same color as Maman’s polish. It looked as if someone had built it, forgot it was there, and then remembered it again. Giselle gathered up my small blue bag.

  “It used to be the caretaker’s cottage when the University was first built,” she explained. “I fell in love with it the first time I saw it and when I heard the University was selling it because it was too much to maintain, I begged Jean to buy it.”

  “Jean owns it?”

  “We own it together,” Giselle said. “But she does not like the door,” she added grinning.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “She thinks it should be gray or white or brown, but I like it red.”

  I liked it red, too.

  “It looks like a fairy tale, doesn’t it?” she asked gesturing widely. “Wait until all the gardens are in bloom and you see the beautiful stream that runs down the back.” Turning to me, she said, “I do hope you’ll like it here, Etoile.” She opened the front door, which was unlocked and said, “Welcome home.”

  I felt a quiver in my stomach. Surely she did not think I was going to live with her and this woman Jean long enough to see the gardens bloom? I was only there until Anais could come for me.

  I glanced back anxiously at the road while Giselle stood waiting in the open door, but I could not move. The thought of being so far from Anais when I didn’t even know where she was… And what if Mrs. Galloway didn’t tell Anais how to reach me? I squeezed my eyes tight against the pain that was starting up in my stomach.

  Giselle shut the front door, came over and knelt down beside me.

  She reached out and stroked my hair just the way Anais did. “Etoile,” she said, “I cannot imagine how hard this must be for you, but you and I are family and you must trust me that you will be safe and cared for here. No one will ever hurt you. That I promise.” Her eyes glistened and I thought she was going to cry, and then I thought I was going to cry, too. “Can you try and do that for me?”

  I nodded, but wasn’t so sure. She took a finger and wiped at my cheek and I realized I was crying. I looked back at the red door.

  “Come along, I will show you your room,” she said as she opened the door again.

  We entered into the living room. It had a very high ceiling with old beams running across it and a small loft area that looked down over the living room. The walls were all freshly painted off-white. A stone fireplace filled an entire wall with stones of all shapes and colors. Above the fireplace hung a large picture of the Stone Cottage, complete with its bright red front door. It must have been painted in the summer because the cottage was surrounded by colorful gardens. Several couches and chairs made of leather were arranged around the fireplace. The opposite wall was filled with built-in bookshelves that were stacked high with books. The room smelled like berries.

  We went through to the kitchen. I had never seen a fireplace in a kitchen before. Black iron pots hung by hooks in several openings. The cabinets were painted a deep rust color and an old porcelain sink stood in the middle surrounded by wooden counters with loaves of bread rising on them. That gave me some relief, but then the yeasty smell that filled the room reminded me of Le Gateau and I suddenly wished I was back there even if Monsieur Segal asked me all of his questions. My hand grazed the stone fireplace as we passed through.

>   I followed Giselle up a set of narrow stairs.

  “My room,” she said as she opened the door. The room had two over-sized windows that faced out to a garden, though the flowers were not in bloom yet. The large wrought iron bed was neatly made and covered in a gold comforter with matching pillows. An old-fashioned full-length mirror in a frame, sat beside the bed. Above the bed hung a large painting of a stream with red and gold leaves floating around in it. I liked the colors of the painting.

  Giselle walked down the hall and opened a door. “And this will be your room. I know there isn’t much in it now, but we can go to the thrift store if you need anything.”

  The wooden bed was covered with a blue and yellow quilt of moons and stars. An old dresser stood in one corner with a vase of fresh flowers on top. The whole room smelled like Mr. Cavelle’s flower stand. Beside the bed was a small table with several books and a flashlight. In the corner, right under the window overlooking the gardens was an old desk and chair with a brand new paper, pens, pencils and markers.

  I spotted a small rectangle wrapped in pink tissue on the pillow.

  “Go ahead,” Giselle said, “It’s a little something I made just for you.”

  I sat down on the bed. The mattress was so soft; I thought I would sink into it. The package smelled wonderful. Inside was a bar of soap. A label on the outside read, “L’Etoile, The Star,” and had a hand-drawn picture of a star with a smiley face on it. Its surface was not smooth at all like the soaps I was familiar with, but flaked with little pieces of purple throughout. It smelled wonderful.

  “It is made with lavender and oatmeal,” Giselle explained. “I grow the herbs in my garden.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I could not find the words to tell her that no one had ever made me anything before.

  Giselle walked over to a closet and opened it up. “I know you brought some of your own things, but I picked up a few things for you when I was over at the thrift store. I hope you like them. If not, we can find something else.” I looked at the sweaters and skirts neatly hung. She walked over to the dresser and pulled out one of the drawers. “And since I know you weren’t able to bring much, I thought you might need some underwear and socks. Everything is in here.”