“Oui.” Despite being two-and-a-half, Cosette knew most of them. She was advanced for her age, talking in full sentences at eighteen months, recognizing letters by her second birthday. We did this weekly. She took my hand and guided my blunt fingertip along the lines and curves of Angelique’s name as she recited in a mixture of French and English, still unable to untangle the two languages. A, N, G, E, and so on and so forth. Cosette absorbed everything, soaking up every detail of her growing world.
When she finished, she stood and moved into the pocket of my arms, leaning her tiny body against me as I remained at her level, cradling her against my chest, absorbing her minimal weight and sweet syrupy scent—always pancakes for breakfast on Sundays.
“Did Maman sing?”
“She did. All the time, and she had a beautiful voice.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Gorgeous. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Like me?”
A watery smile tugged at my lips, and I kissed Cosette’s cold, rosy cheek as the lump in my throat strained my words. “Oui, just like you, ma belle.”
“And she’s an angel now, like her name.” She used the French pronunciation of angel.
“Oui.”
“And she liked dandelions, too, but not the yellow ones.” Facts, not questions. Cosette knew these answers because we discussed them at every visit.
“That’s right.”
“Like the picture on your skin.”
“Like my tattoo.”
Cosette puckered her strawberry lips, and I knew what was coming.
“Pourquoi, Papa?”
Why?AlwaysWhy?The one question that deserved an answer, but it was an answer I didn’t have.Why did she have to die? Why her?“She was very sick.”
“And the sick made her die?”
“Yes.”
“And the doctor couldn’t fix her?”
“Non, ma belle.”
Cosette turned in my arms and squished my cheeks between her icy fingers. “En anglais, Papa.”
I chuckled. “The doctor couldn’t fix her, and you forgot your mittens in the car, munchkin. Your hands are freezing.”
I curled my much larger ones around hers and brought them to my mouth, breathing hot air into a small opening between my thumbs. Cosette giggled and told me it tickled.
“How about you find Maman some treasures while I talk to her for a bit?”
“Okay.”
Cosette bounded off among the rows of headstones, gaze fixed on the ground. A curious magpie in search of shiny objects. Her pockets were always full of one thing or another. She often collected acorns, bubble gum wrappers, shapely rocks, or bottle caps. To her, they were riches and gems to be hoarded. Once, she found someone’s lost brooch.
This past summer, Cosette had learned of her mother’s love for dandelions. Collecting them, she marked her chin and cheeks yellow. Bouquets of those precious weeds sat in a cup of water on the kitchen table for weeks. When they went to seed, she blew on them, making wishes.
Cosette never wandered far, always mindful of my presence. Once she was out of earshot, I faced Angelique’s memorial. In truth, I had no words left. Nothing would bring her back. Nothing would change the past.
I crouched and straightened Cosette’s flowers so they didn’t fall off the rounded top of the headstone.
