“Simply dialing it down a bit. But it’s the offseason. The island will be empty.”
Lucie manages both of Stella’s suitcases, while Colette rolls the large suitcase with the painting inside it. I have our three duffel bags slung over my shoulders. On board the grizzled captain collects our money and prepares to set off, clearly not expecting any other passengers.
“It’s just over there.” Stella points to the horizon. “You can see it from around the curve in the shore. We’ll have a quick ride.”
A quick but bumpy ride. I cling to the bags and the railing at the same time. Stella smokes the entire way. By the time we reach the shadowy far shore, Stella, the captain, and Lucie are engaged in a rollicking discussion of the merits of Camille Paglia that would only ever happen in France.
“I agree that men must be educated, refined, and ethically persuaded away from their tendency toward anarchy and brutishness,” the captain grumbles as he steers us into the island’s harbor. “But it has to be done gently. No man wants to be told what to do.”
“Oh, that’s exactly what some of them want,” Lucie scoffs.
“I have found the same,” Stella says. “Are you married?”
“Not anymore,” the captain grunts. “Because she was always telling me what to do.” We laugh at that, and he adds, “But now I miss it.”
Stella places a hand on his mottled forearm. “Of course you do.” To us, she motions toward a low hill. “The house isn’t too far. We’ll walk.”
“What other option is there?” I ask.
“Sometimes there’s a taxi, but not tonight. Too late.”
A row of sweet fishing cottages lines the coastline, soft light emanating from one or two windows. Not a soul in sight.
Our way is lit only by the moon and a flashlight procuredfrom our captain. A small animal, maybe a cat or a fox, scurries across the path, startling all of us and causing us to giggle uncontrollably at our nerves.
We walk along a sandy path for about fifteen minutes, most of it uphill. Stella’s breath comes in harsh, whispering gasps. Finally, a humble one-story cottage comes into view. It’s surrounded by low stone walls and towering cypress trees. The door’s unlocked, a fire already burning in the hearth. On the rustic kitchen table there’s a crusty baguette, surrounded by both soft and hard cheeses and a smattering of fruit and nuts.
“The owner lives on the other side of the island and she was expecting us,” Stella says happily.
“What if we hadn’t come?”
“I didn’t think that was an option,” Stella says curtly, unwinding the scarf from her head. She sits at the table and pops a grape in her mouth. “I wasn’t planning for you to say no. There are four bedrooms. All itty-bitty, but at least everyone will have their own space. We can regroup in the morning after a good sleep. In the meantime, unpack our masterpiece and hang her somewhere we can enjoy her. She won’t be ours for much longer and I want to spend as much time with her as we can.”
I wake up to findStella perched on the edge of my twin bed watching me while I sleep. A soft rain patters on the clay-shingled roof. Morning light filters in through sweet red gingham curtains. I’m wrapped in a thick quilt that smells like pine needles and burnt leaves.
“You were crying in your sleep,” she says. When I turn my head, my pillow is wet.
“Bad dreams. I never remember them. I probably don’t want to.”
But I do remember what I dreamed last night. It was a memory, a terrible one.
I was in Paris for six months when I got the call from Philadelphia.
I didn’t even manage a hello before the scream nearly shattered my eardrum. “Let go of me. Get your hands off me. How dare you?” Another scream, this one more desperate than the last.
“Mom?” I managed, unsure if she could hear me. The line went dead, and my insides fragmented.
When my phone rang again, a woman was on the line. “This is Officer Santos,” she said.
“Hello, Officer,” I said politely. Politeness mattered most of all in these situations. “Could you please tell me what’s going on?”
“The neighbors reported a smell coming out of the apartment. Said they hadn’t seen the tenant in weeks. They were worried she was dead and asked us to come check on her. She didn’t answer the door and we had to break the lock. When we got through she charged at us with a baseball bat.” The cop said all of this calmly, carefully. Just the facts.
“She was nude. And she has not bathed in some time. She was covered with both blood and feces. She looks extremely malnourished. Does she live here alone?”
“Yes,” I whispered through my shame of abandoning her even though she had been doing so well when I left. I should have known better.
“Are you nearby? We’ll be taking her in for a psych eval. Can you meet us at the hospital?”
