Felicite Found (21 page)

Alone

Pierre woke up and kicked the blanket off of his aching and sweaty body. The buzz of
the television in the living room hammered a hole into his skull. He could use a painkiller, or maybe
ten.
Rumbling sounds churned in his empty stomach. He fell out of bed, rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, and rose to his knees.

Pierre fumbled for his alarm clock on the bedside table; it read in neon green, blinking digits: four forty-five in the afternoon. Wanting to test his eyes with light, he opened the curtains. As expected, the sunlight stung his eyes. Reflexively, he started to shut them when he saw Madame Rose and
her
leave the building. A taxi waiting in front of them and the driver placed some luggage into the trunk.

Madame Rose stood in front of
her
saying something. Moments later, they were hugging. Every nerve pulsated in his body demanding him to run down there and snatch Madame Rose away from the evil person in her arms. Before he could do anything, they parted and Félicité gazed toward his window. Automatically, he let the curtain flutter back in place.

How could
my
Madame Rose be helping
her
?
             

Bile rose in his throat. Before he threw up in his bedroom, he made a mad dash for the bathroom. After heaving up nothing, he sat with his head by the toilet in agony. So many emotions flooded his senses. He couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to die.

“I was going to see if you wanted something to eat, but that might not be the case.”

Pierre raised his head from the toilet to see his mom’s troubled face. He loved her so, so very much. It devastated him that he knew what had killed her husband, but he could never tell her. She would think him cruel and demented to think up something so vile about
Féli . . .
her
.

“Can you get me some soup? Nothing
too
solid.” His throat was rubbed raw from drinking and throwing up. Anything more substantial would slither down his throat like sandpaper. He decided right then he would never, ever do this to himself again, regardless of how down he was. It wasn’t worth a hangover.

Later that night, as Hélène and Pierre were watching a movie, they heard a light knock at the door. Hélène answered the door and let Madame Rose into the living room. Pierre glanced over and then pushed pause on the remote. The film stilled right as the actor had his mouth wide open. For the first time, a quiet laugh squeezed itself from his throat. The actor looked way too hilarious not to find some enjoyment from it.

“Hi, Pierre. Are you doing okay?” Madame Rose asked, inching tentatively closer. Pierre looked away. His laughter faded as fast as it had come. He couldn’t believe his grandmotherly figure was aiding and abetting
a criminal of sorts. He said nothing but continued to stare at the awkward facial expression stilled on the actor.

“Pierre, don’t be rude. Answer Madame Rose’s question.” Hélène prodded with an edge to her voice.

“I’ve been better.” He picked some popcorn off his lap and tossed it into his mouth. Guilt expanded like a balloon in his shattered chest for treating Madame Rose in such a cruel manner. But he had the right to be mad under the circumstances.

“I’m so sorry, Pierre.” She made her way in front of him, probably hoping he would acknowledge her presence.

“Sorry for what?” He stood and looked her straight in the eye. “What?”

“Sorry about—”

“See, you both don’t understand. Anything she touches is tainted,” he yelled, making his mom clasp a hand over her mouth. “And, Madame Rose, where are your loyalties? I can’t believe you helped her.
What?
Are you paying for her to stay at some ritzy hotel? Where is she, anyway?”

Hélène stumbled backward at what happened next.

“Pierre,” Madame Rose matched his anger ten-fold. “I’ll do as I wish for those I love, and I love Félicité and will help her in any way I deem suitable. And as for your lack of concern for her when she
really
needs someone, I am ashamed. In fact, I have helped her find employment, so she can start over and make something of her life. But Pierre . . .” She stepped closer to him; her hand extended and hovered by his arm.

“Even with your lack of manners toward her and me, I still love you. You are a grandson to me and always will be. Out of the love I have for you, I ask you not to forget the true love you and Félicité share. Do not let it slip through your fingers. I assure you, you will regret it for the rest of your life if you do.”

The fragile woman held out her other hand—something was in it. “Félicité wanted me to give you this. Take it!” He did as the little woman demanded, but only with thoughts of ripping it to shreds and then burning it as he stomped on the flames, quenching it to nothing. “And, Pierre, you
will
read it, or I will never talk to you again.”

She stormed out of the flat, slamming her door shut.

Pierre held the letter up to his mom, willing her to take it with a frown pulling on his lips.

“Don’t look at me, Pierre. The letter is for you. And I suggest you read it because I’m determined for you to have a
good
relationship with Madame Rose.” Hélène switched off the television and went to her bedroom. Before closing the door, she turned back and said, “If you need anything, come get me.” Then she was gone.

He was left alone with the letter. He set it on the coffee table. For a half hour, he glared at it, hoping his deathly stare would make it burst into flames. Periodically, he thought about Madame Rose and how cruel he had been to her. Guilt boiled hot in him, but his puffed-up pride got in the way. He picked up the letter and ran his finger over the embossed C and R surrounded by a heart. It took him a minute to understand what it meant.

Madame Rose always spoke highly of her late Charles and how she wished such good fortune upon him. Gritting his teeth, he was adamant that would never, ever happen between him and Félicité.

He placed his index finger under the flap, ripped it open, and removed the letter—six pages long, front and back, in pretty script. As he unfolded it from its thirds, he noticed the same C and R at the top. Gulping, he proceeded to read.

Pierre,

I am so sorry for what I have done to your family. If I could take it all back, I would, but it is too late. The only thing I can do for you now is leave and let you get on with your life without my memory to ruin it.

However, I desire to recount what I have remembered in order for you to understand better. I hope it will open your mind to what drove me to my sinful ways that resulted in the death of so many good people, your father included.

I do not tell you any of this for you to forgive me. I know I do not deserve that luxury. You can choose to do what you wish with it, but I beg you to please read the letter in its entirety, even though some parts will be difficult to read.

After reading five pages that recounted everything about her circumstances at
Châteaux de Rousseaux
, her death and what followed thereafter, and her being given a second chance, he put the crumpled pages down on his thigh. He roughly rubbed the tight muscles in his forehead. He wished the past five weeks had never happened—that he hadn’t walked to school the day he saved Félicité. Part of him felt sorry for her, though. The abuse, humiliation, and her death at such a young age were all at the hand of Anton de Rousseaux: his ancestor. 

Anger gnawed its way into his mind, deadening his feelings of remorse for Félicité’s past. It still stabbed at his heart that she had been the one to make some homeless man kill his father. Going back through the letter, he read that part of her account again.

I followed your father, Stephane, home from work one evening, laughing at him and putting him down as I had done since your birth. A homeless man stood on the corner, begging for money, undoubtedly money for alcohol and drugs. I whispered to the man that Stephane had a lot of money in his wallet. It would pay for more alcohol and drugs than he could ever imagine. Of course, this was a lie, but the man believed the words I placed in his mind. I caught a glimpse of a small knife tucked into his pants. I told him that Stephane must be killed—brutally. He seemed confused at the thought, but the money was enough encouragement. I told him to use the knife and he nodded. He followed your father into the building.

The drunkard approached Stephane after they had gone up a few flights of stairs and demanded his wallet. Stephane handed it over and said, “Just take it and go.” But the man found little money in the wallet as he opened it. The transient yelled at Stephane for not paying up and then pulled the knife on him. He stabbed him ten times, each time twisting the knife. I watched and . . . and was happy about it. Moments later, the door to the flat opened so the drunkard ran. Your mother knelt by her husband cradling his head. I distinctly remember your father look at his wife and say, “I’m sorry.” His soul rose from his body. I laughed at him. He begged me not to do this to you. Then he gazed lovingly at your mother and went into the light.

I am so sorry, Pierre. What I did to your father, mother, and you is unforgivable. However, you deserve to know about it. I am sorry, ever so sorry.

He laid his head back on the couch, his throat was dry and his heart was torn to bits. He had always wanted to bring justice to his father’s murder. Now the murderer turned out to be some drunk, homeless man who was told by a ghost—Félicité—to kill him.

Her account was so farfetched—something you would watch in a movie, not in real life. It was difficult for him fully to grasp this supernatural, paranormal explanation. Although, something inside him knew it was true. He had the answers he had longed for his entire life now. Biting his lip, he picked up the letter again. Once he finished it, he could let go of the person he thought he loved.

I plead with you, Pierre, not to become angry and bitter. That is what happened to me, and you know what good came of that. Absolutely none. I could not bear it if you fall prey to such circumstances. Please shake off your anger because anger is not a part of who you are. I have known you your entire life and have only seen kindness and humility in you. It is all due to your good nature that I wanted to change. I thank you for that. I was stuck in the bitterest hell and was offered a second chance. However, I will suffer from the consequences of my sins every day for the rest of my life. Perhaps, that may be some form of consolation for you.

Again, I apologize for what I have done. Unfortunately, that will not change anything, even though I desperately wish it could change the situation. 

Pierre, I promise that I loved you, do love you, and will always love you.

Félicité

That was it. He turned the page over and nothing else was there. After gathering up the letter, he almost ripped it to shreds. Instead, he got Anton’s journal and placed it within its old pages and then slid it under his mattress again. He tore open his book bag, took out his father’s murder case file, and shredded it to tiny bits. The small pieces were gathered and then put in the kitchen garbage. He no longer had need for it. The case was solved.

He knocked on his mom’s door. “Come in.” He entered to see her looking at an art magazine. “Did you read it?” He nodded, his lower lip quivering. “At least now Madame Rose will talk to you again,” she joked. It didn’t faze Pierre. “Come here, Son.”

Stretching her arms to him, he walked toward her until he fell on her queen-sized bed that was covered with a patterned quilt that Madame Rose had sewn for her. His mom ran her fingers through his hair and patted his back as though he was a little boy again. Nothing was said between the mother and son. Within minutes, he fell asleep.

Pain

The alarm buzzed obnoxiously loud. It was a weekday, and that meant going to school and facing Luc. Pierre didn’t have the guts to call his friend yesterday. Plus, the hangover was pure misery. And to make matters worse,
her
letter had upset him a lot. In the middle of the night, his mom had led him to his own bedroom. His thunderous snoring probably kept her up.

He had to face this day one way or another. Why not at school, where he could think about his lessons and studying for
le bac
? He may as well attempt to do well on the test in a couple months, even though he would rather crawl into a hole and die. His mom needed him, though. She’s the person who he would live for now.

“Doing any better? How’s that head of yours?” Pierre’s mom rubbed her hands up and down his arms.

“Could be better but at least I don’t have a pounding headache anymore.” He brought her into a hug. “I’m sorry I worried you. That was really stupid for me to get drunk. I promise I’ll never do that to you again.”

“I want you to promise you won’t ever do that again for yourself, Pierre.” She looked him straight in his eyes.

“Okay, for myself.” He had a problem really believing it. Never, ever would he get drunk again but not for himself. He couldn’t promise that much. But for his mom’s sake he could make that promise.

“That’s a good boy,” she said as though he was a little kid. “You’re going to school?”

“Nothing better to do,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“It’s good for you to get out of the house and focus on something productive. Get your mind off of everything.” She half smiled. “And you need to apologize to Luc.”

“First thing on my list.” He brushed some Nutella on a croissant with a knife; its flakey crust crumbled with each smothering of the knife.

“Well, go make amends. I think you owe your life to him from how you looked. And it would probably be a good idea to say sorry to Madame Rose later, too.”

“I will. I can promise you that.” He pulled her into a one armed hug, the other hand held his breakfast. “See you tonight.”

It wasn’t until lunchtime that he got the nerve to talk to Luc. His eyes glanced over to his friend throughout the day when they had classes together. Luc said nothing, but on occasion he would catch Pierre looking at him. Both just looked away.

Luc sat at their regular table in the cafeteria. Pierre slid into the chair opposite him. “Hey, about the other night, I’m sorry. I—”

“What were you thinking? Seriously?” He grabbed Pierre’s arm and held it so hard that he could see Luc’s handprint forming in white on his skin. “I’ve never seen someone so wasted. You must have downed at least fifteen beers, and I don’t know what else, but it was a ton. You scared me to death. Don’t you
ever
do that to me again, you hear?”

Pierre slouched in his seat, not too far, though. Luc still held firm on his arm. “I can’t tell you
how
sorry I am. Uh . . . did I punch you?”

“Yeah, you did, and it didn’t feel very good, man. The swelling went down this morning. No bruise formed, thankfully. If you ask me, you could have done better.” Luc straightened up, puffing his chest out. He let go of Pierre’s arm.

“Uh, I’m glad it wasn’t that bad. I’m really sorry. Can you forgive me?” Pierre cocked his head to the left and held his breath, hoping his friend would say yes.

“Yeah, already have. Hey, what did you do to your hand?”

“Uh, don’t ask.” Pierre played with the bandage that covered up his run in with the coffee mug.

Luc slouched and proceeded to eat his cafeteria sandwich. “Hey, you owe me a lot of money, by the way. I had to pay your bill at the club and for the taxi ride. Sure wasn’t going to reach into your pocket for money. Totally too gross.”

“For sure, how much do I owe you?” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet. With the money settled, Pierre asked, “Did anything
else
happen I should know about?”

“Well, you could be fathering a baby if I hadn’t stopped you leaving with some skanky girl.” Pierre placed his hands on his face, rubbing his eyes. “Man, you were slobbering over her the entire night. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. That’s when we got into the fistfight, and you threw up like four times. I got a taxi to take us back to your house because I knew there was no way I could’ve walked you back. You were a dead weight, man.”

“Again, I’m sorry. Thanks for getting me out of a
really
bad
inebriated decision. How would it have been to wake up in the morning by some stranger, not knowing what went on during the night? That would’ve been bad.”

“It wouldn’t have been
that
bad.” Luc smirked.

“Shut up,” Pierre joked, slugging Luc from across the table
and spilling
his soda. “It would’ve been bad. You know it.”

They both grabbed a ton of napkins and wiped up the liquid before it leaked onto their pants and floor.

“You’re right, even for me that would’ve been bad.”

Their laughing meant they were on good terms again.

“So, are you going to tell me what made you get drunk or do I have to guess?”

Piling up the wet napkins on the side of the table, they continued to eat.

“Nothing, Luc, I don’t feel like talking about it.” Stuffing his mouth with as much sandwich as he could eat, Pierre tried to dodge anymore questioning.

“I’m going to guess then if I must: Félicité.” Pierre looked at his friend with the evil eye. “She remembered
who she is, and you couldn’t handle it. You broke it off with the hotness and got yourself drunk because you’re in love with her and have no idea what to do about it.”

“Luc.” Pierre swallowed without completely chewing his food. “I mean it. I don’t want to talk about it. Do you want me to hit you again?”

“You’re a little touchy, but man, you love her, right?” Luc held his head up with the palms of his hands, his elbows resting on the table.

“Really don’t want to talk about it. I just apologized to you and don’t want to have to do it again for anything that may happen.” Pierre got up from his seat and fast, looking at his friend. “Please don’t bring it up ever again.”

“It is my business when it’s obvious my best friend isn’t doing so hot.”

Not wanting to make a scene in front of the whole school, Pierre booked it out of the cafeteria with Luc on his heels. Their food and the sopping napkins were left for someone else to clean up.

“Go to the bathroom, Pierre. There probably won’t be people in there.”

Once they were safe behind the walls of the bathroom, Luc locked the door. He said nothing but looked at his friend. In less than a minute, Pierre was punching the tiled walls over and over
again with his bandaged hand. Soon, blood smeared over the walls. His white shirt was stained red.

Luc pulled him away from the wall and Pierre crumpled to the floor, taking Luc down with him. “Come on, stop, please stop, man.”

Pierre panted hard, his head full of pressure.

A heavy knock sounded on the door. “Is there a fight going on in there?”

“Everything’s okay. We’ll be out soon,” Luc said, as the door was unlocked and it opened.

The headmaster of the school stood there with a few people gawking behind him. “What the devil happened in here? I demand an explanation, Luc Broussard.”

“Uh, Pierre took some . . . uh, anger out on
the walls. I think he’s okay now. Sorry, sir.”

“That is not like Pierre to do this.” He huffed. “You are both suspended for the rest of the day. Go to the nurse’s office and get him checked out and then go home. Now!”

They shuffled out of the bathroom. The entire school stood there staring at the humiliating scene as though the paparazzi were breathing down their necks with cameras to get the next big scoop.

The nurse released them a while later. Luc took him home. He put a movie on and let Pierre stare at it, but he paid it no attention. He was gone, a shell of a man. No thoughts went through his mind. All he could do was make sure he still breathed, not for himself, but for his mom. She needed him too much.