My heart shattered all over again. I was sure it was Amelia.
A hand clutched my elbow. "Brother, let's get out of the street."
I didn't move. I couldn't move. My knees buckled, and I fell to the cobblestone. "I thought it was Amelia," I cried out.
Claude continued to try and help me off the ground, but nothing within my body wanted to comply.
"Just leave me here," I snapped.
"You're out of your mind, Charlie. Get up right now."
"I need to find her. You don't understand. What if you were separated from Juliette? What would you go through to find her? Would you give up?" My words sounded like sobs, though there were no tears left to cry. I had already cried them all.
"Of course not," Claude said, sounding less confident than he had while giving me his advice throughout the past year. It was as if I had finally gotten through to him, explaining my devotion to finding Amelia.
"God saved me from that battle in Prague so I could save Amelia, and all along I thought it was so I could take care of her and love her after all had been taken, but I am coming to realize now that I was only meant to save her from the war because I do not deserve the rest of the story."
Again, Claude tried to lift me to my feet, and I pushed through my weakness to stand. He buried his shoulder under my good arm and helped me back to the curb where we spotted Juliette standing complacently with her black-gloved hands gracefully holding a silver clutch. "Are you all right, Charlie?" She had concern and pain written across her face. Her brows furrowed, and her nose scrunched slightly. She ran to me, wrapping her arms around my neck. "I saw everything. Charlie," she choked. "I am so sorry."
I needed that embrace, but I shook away my selfish pain and pulled away, grabbing her hand and squeezing. "How did it go?"
"Yes, darling, tell me it went well?” Claude questioned, taking her other hand.
Juliette's pearly teeth appeared from within her wide smile and she began to bounce on her toes as a small shriek grew in her throat. "I got the job!" I knew it was a moment where I needed to take a step back and allow Claude to share that good news with her.
Her shouts and excitement with details sounded hazy as I watched from a few feet away. Claude was swinging her in a circle. His happiness for her was palpable.
I lost my focus, imagining myself in Claude's shoes—imagining Amelia in Juliette's.
We would be standing outside of an art gallery. Amelia's painting would have been chosen as a featured piece of work for all of New York City to see.
Amelia would be beaming with pride, and I would be swinging her around, kissing her cheeks and her lips. I would be whispering into her ear how proud I was; how I knew she was meant for this life. I would tell her I was taking her out for a fancy dinner with candlelight and jazz music so that we could celebrate. Then, she would kiss me back while giving me those eyes that told me how happy she was.
"Let's go celebrate, ja?" Claude shouted out, pulling me from my daydream. Juliette ran toward me, grabbing my arm.
"Let's go, Charlie. Did you hear, I'm allowed to give you and Claude front row tickets to my shows. I hope you like the theatre," she gushed.
"Of course. I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else." That was a lie.
During the short walk to the sandwich shop, I came to realize how many women passed by who were all wearing long overcoats with their hair pinned. At least half of them had a young child, as well. I was beginning to realize the lack of serendipitous odds there would be of running into Amelia, or just spotting her in the city. She would look different after not being starved. What if I didn't recognize her when she passed? Would she recognize me? Would she stop if she did?
My questions could have gone on forever, never to be answered.
The sandwich shop was bustling with people waiting for their turn in line. The line was out the door, and wrapped around the corner. "I heard the food is worth the wait," Claude said, taking his place at the back of the line. "Tell us about the show, darling."
"Oh, it's just wonderful. The show is called 'La Bohème' and it's an opera. Claude, they want me featured in an opera!" she squealed, covering her mouth to hide the emotions. "It's about some starving artists in Paris. The story is phenomenal. I'm just beside myself."
A starving artist. Bohemia. It must have been a sign. Everything seemed to be a sign.
Just as I was thinking of coincidences, I spotted another woman in line with a long overcoat. She had a daughter, too. I could only see her from behind, but there was just as much of a chance that it was her as any of the other women I had seen. She turned to talk to her child, and I pressed up on my toes to see over several heads, hoping to get a glance at the side of her face, but she quickly repositioned her stance, leaving me without a view of much more than her back.
"Brother, that's not Amelia," Claude whispered.
"Well, how do you know?" I asked.
"I saw her a turn around a few minutes ago. I assure you it isn't her."
I knew I should stop looking after hearing it wasn't her, but my only thought was … Claude could be wrong.
