Felicite Found (9 page)

Red Balloon

A
little boy, who was no older than four years, rushed into his mom’s arms. He jibber-jabbered about a red balloon tied around his wrist. “It so pretty, Mama. I like balloon. It my friend. I want to give it name.”

“What will you name it?”

“What was papa’s name?” He ran around in circles chasing the balloon and poking it with his finger. Every time it pushed away, he giggled like it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.

“Stephane,” she responded with a frown.

“I want to name my balloon Stephane.” He looked at it saying its name over and over again. “Mama, can you draw face on it?”

“Okay,” she said, smiling. She reached into her bag, withdrawing a marker her son used to color pictures. Within seconds, two eyes, a nose, and a wide grin appeared on the balloon.

“Great, Mama.” Drawing the balloon closer, he hugged and kissed it. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Papa,” he sang out in a childish, high-pitched tone.

The son’s heartfelt declaration of love made the mom cry. She dropped to her knees and hugged her son.

“Why you crying, Mama? Did I say something wrong?” He pled with his puppy-dog eyes, chin quivering.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just crying.”

“Why do I not have a papa?”

“I know he would’ve liked to be here, but he had to go to heaven. He’s an angel now.”

“Oh.” His thin lips moved back and forth. He shrugged it away with a smile. “Do you think he likes his balloon?”

“Yes, he loves his balloon very much.”

“Good, because I like balloon a lot.” He hugged it again and slobbered a wet kiss on the side of it. “Stephane good balloon.”

They continued walking through the garden, enjoying the summer’s sun. For no apparent reason at all, the little boy tripped and exploded into tears. Blood poured from his nose, and the balloon popped with a startling burst. It deflated in to nothing—the face disappeared. The wind picked up, and a scratchy voice could be heard from somewhere close.

You will end up just like your papa—dead.

“Mama, did you hear that?” the boy said, looking around and shaking. His mom wiped his nose with her handkerchief as blood smeared down his chin.

“Hear what?” she responded.

“The voice, it said I will end up like papa. I’m scared, Mama.” He smothered his head in his mom’s lap.

She darted her head around and yelled with the striking force of a tornado, “Don’t you dare! I swear if you do anything to my son, you will regret it. I promise you that.”

Félicité woke up unable to understand why she would have such a dream. For some reason, she recalled the moment in distinct clarity. She had been there and was terrified to know how and why.

La Tour Eiffel

Félicité stumbled out of Pierre’s bedroom to find him sitting on the couch with his head burning a hole into a textbook—his favorite past-time she was coming to realize. “Good morning
,
” she said, yawning.

“Hi, sleepyhead.” He nodded to the clock; its hands were pointed to eleven-thirty in the morning.

She shushed him, placing her finger over her mouth. “I did not sleep well, bookworm.” She scolded, a slight smile tugging on her lips.

“Come here.” Pierre patted the empty spot by his side. “
Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” She rested her head on his chest. “I just want to forget it.” Her tight muscles relaxed as she nestled by him.

“I hate this. Wish I could magically give you all your memories back. ”

“Yes, please turn into a wizard or something and give me my life back.” She slid away from his side and curled her legs under her.

“Whatever you say, Félicité.” He pointed the pen in his hand at her and whispered some incoherent words of some sort of an incantation. “Bam! Your memories are back.” He blew on the end of the pen as if it were on fire.

She blinked and shook her head. “Better luck next time, Monsieur. You will have to work on your powers some more. But,” she sighed, “maybe I do not want to remember. If I tried to kill myself—twice, maybe I do not want to know why.”

“I know, but it might be important so you can move on with your life.” He coughed. “But not away from me, of course. Anyway, it’ll be better knowing, right?” 

“I guess so.”

“Well, to help you get your mind off of it all; I took the next couple days off from school and then it’s the weekend. I’m devoting myself all to you.”

If the sun could shine into her soul, it would be boiling hot. Being with Pierre was so easy, so right. She brushed her mouth against his. His lips tasted delicious. “What’s that taste? Chocolate?”

“How’d you know?” he asked, licking his lips. “Oh, I taste like it. Would you like some?” He grabbed a package of half-eaten dark chocolate. She accepted a couple squares.

After a few savoring moments of letting it melt in her mouth, she said, “Very good—delicious.”

“Hmm, I can’t remember what it tastes like.” Pierre grinned mischievously, his eyes were wide. Grabbing her by the small of her back, he pulled her into his body. Greedily he explored her lips, licking her lower one to taste the lingering flavor of chocolate. Breaking away and breathing heavy, he said, “Now, I know why Luc likes kissing so much.”

“What?” Her eyes darted open.

“Let’s just say my friend Luc has kissed
a lot
of girls.”

“Have you?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“No,” Pierre said as he looked away, fidgeting. “Only one person before you and I assure you, I hated it.”

She smiled at the response. She liked knowing he wasn’t like his friend in being overly friendly with girls. “I am glad.”

“Really?” he said playfully, kissing her again.

“Really,” she answered between breaths.

“Anyway. . .” Pierre broke free. “The other day you said you wanted to go to
La
Tour Eiffel.
How about we go today?”

“Yes! Let me get ready, and we can leave.” Before she finished the sentence, she bolted for the bathroom, turning on the bathtub tap. Moments later she came out and kissed Pierre, again—just a peck, though.

Félicité fell silent—jaw dropped—when they turned the corner, and she gazed upon
La
Tour Eiffel
.

“Do you want to go to the top?” Pierre asked, pointing at the peak of the steel tower.

“Can we?” she pleaded, captivated by the sheer magnitude of the creature that stood erect in front of her with its four legs planted firmly on Paris’s ground. “How do we get to the top?”

He pointed toward the four queues that wove their way like snakes from below the center of the structure. As it was February, they were lucky to have somewhat shorter lines. “We get to wait in the line and then pay to go up. Stairs or elevator?”

She considered it for a moment, rubbing her chin. “Stairs.” She jumped up and down, not able to wait to get to the top as if she were one of the foreigners who, for the first time, were seeing the tower.

They made their way to the shortest line at the southern corner. Getting to the front of the line didn’t take long at all, and they had a lot to talk about, so it didn’t seem like much time spent waiting.

Wanting to know more about Pierre, Félicité asked, “What is your favorite color?”

After some thought, he responded, “My favorite color is yellow.”

“Why?”

“Because yellow’s . . . uh, happy. Well, let me rephrase that.” He paused. “It’s
one
of the happiest colors.”

“What are some of the other happiest colors?”

“There’s only one other color that makes yellow pale in comparison to it,” he said cryptically with his lips slightly parted.

“Which color is that?”

“It’s the color of your eyes. Your perfect, perfect eyes.”

“Well, thank you, I guess.” Heat rose into her face as welcome flutters overcame her stomach.

“When you blush, like you are now, it makes your eyes look prettier.” He squeezed her arm. “Now, it’s my turn to ask
you
a question.”

“How can you ask me questions when I might not know the answers?”

“You never know, the answer may be right there in your pretty little head.” He tapped her on the crown of her forehead. “I know it is, so let’s get the answers out.” He raised his hand triumphantly.

“If you think it will help.” She shrugged out of her perfect posture.

“First question: what’s
your
favorite color?” He asked with a hopeful smile.

“My favorite color is . . .” She paused and thought hard for a minute. If a mind could be at war with itself, Félicité fought at the front lines battling her fists bloody to win out the enemy: her amnesia. “My favorite color is purple—the purple of the flowers that grew in the garden at the châteaux. The green of the grass and the brown of the dirt are also my favorites. The white of freshly laundered sheets has to be on the list, too. The blue of the sky after it rains and the clouds
depart. These are my favorite colors.” Saying that all in one breathe brought a flash of dizziness upon her; Pierre steadied her, thankfully. “I cannot believe it, I just remembered not only one of my favorite colors but,” she paused as she counted on her fingers, beaming blissfully, “five colors.”

“We should try some more.” He thought for a moment and asked another question. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?”

Here again, she struggled to remember until a smile formed on her face. “My favorite thing to eat is apple pie.” She inhaled deeply, trying to catch its aroma in the air. “It smells so good and tastes delicious, too.”

“I’ll have to buy you some apples.” He smiled sheepishly. “Okay, I’ll admit, so I can eat some of it.”

“That is a great idea. It will allow me a chance to do something for you—for your mom.”

By this time, they had made it to the front of the queue. Pierre purchased the tickets, and they set off scaling the steel steps. At every turn, signs were posted stating numerous facts about the tower. They read every single word on them and then moved farther upward. When they reached the middle section, they boarded an elevator to the very top.
             

Once there, they enjoyed the three hundred and sixty degree view of Paris; this one was far better than the sight they had seen on the Ferris wheel.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him. He pulled her in front of him, holding her close, completely ignoring the gorgeous view of the city. She had the impression she was the only thing he was thinking about. Giddiness flashed like a flood through her veins.

“Paris has nothing compared to you.” Pierre stroked her hair as he turned her toward him. He cupped her cheek in his hand; she felt heat filled sparks spread from the palm of his hand into her skin. He drew her into his arms. Thunderous prickles engulfed her entire body while Pierre continued to warm her.

Not long after, Félicité spoke, a tremble cracking her voice. “I have been here before. I cannot place when it was, but I know I have been here.”

“That’s great.” Pierre peeled himself away from her. “It’s probably like how I’ve been here many times.”

“No
,
it seems . . . different to me.” She stared off to the east, a bitter chill—not from the cold weather—enveloped her, making her shudder. “Let’s go home, Pierre.”

“Home? I like the sound of that.” He blushed, tuning his face away from her.

“Yes
,
home.” She pulled his head back toward her and kissed him and then she pulled him back toward the elevator.

She hardly said a word on the way home. It was difficult for her to stop thinking of how she felt on top of the tower. She was so happy with Pierre all day. However, her happiness, unfortunately, had faded soon after they had arrived at the top of the tower. She grasped Pierre’s hand firmly, hoping his grip would protect her from whatever wickedness seemed to have originated there.

She could not wrap her mind around the feeling that slithered its way across her skin and burrowed down into her bones like a lethal disease. All she knew was she had been there before. And it had
not
been a good experience. Something evil had happened there—to her.

Pont
Neuf

Atop
La Tour Eiffel
a girl wearing a dress with slits lengthening up to her thighs stood viewing the city of Paris. The sun shone bright, casting shadows across the floor. Tourists clamored around her talking excitedly about how beautiful the city looked from where they were perched high above the city. And how they couldn’t believe they were on such an incredible architectural beauty. Nose wrinkling and balling her hands into tight fists, she wanted more than anything to make them shut up. She wanted to be alone, not disturbed by such petty discussion. Right now, that was not her objective.

Her features were unrecognizable even in the bright light pouring its warmth across the city. A dark aura filled with rage and bitterness emanated fluidly from her body. Standing in one place—not moving a fraction of a centimeter, she glared at the city of Paris with a stabbing, incurable ache in her chest. She would never give up and never stop her fuming rage.

Focusing her eyes unblinkingly on one spot of the Parisian landscape—
Pont Neuf—
the fire of her wrath was fueled. She despised that bridge. Releasing all other thoughts from her mind, she focused only on one objective: sweet revenge. With every ounce of energy she had, she blocked out all the distractions around her until she heard nothing but the swirl of the wind around her. Head pounding with earthquake tremors and arms shaking until numbness took them over; she continued to fight for a plan.

The dark rays of her aura grew black and ominous, stretching out far from her body. The few people standing in her proximity recoiled away in fear. Finally, after a few minutes more of intense thought, relief flooded through her body. She had developed a fresh, evil plan. Her sinister aura was now as dark as night, and it stretched far beyond the tower
.

The girl’s shrouded face came into complete focus. Coal-colored splotches circled her reddened eyes, veins webbing the edges. Flowing hair danced wildly in the wind, framing her pale and withered face. Little by little, the left side of her mouth pushed upward; her calculating smile of darkness made the wind pick up force. And then rain fell from ominous clouds that had not been there moments before. It pounded upon
La Tour Eiffel,
washing in branches of water down the girl’s hair, dress, and to her bare feet. Tourists around her ducked their heads, rushing for cover.

She licked her lips as if ready to eat an evilly-tempting meal. “Ready or not, here I come,” she said, elongating every word with a voice lathered with malice.  

Félicité woke up from the dream trembling and gasping for air, dripping with perspiration. She knew who the girl was straight away. Within seconds, her stomach cramped and bile rose thick up her throat. Making a wild dash to the bathroom, she threw up until all she could do was dry heave.

Not wanting to wake up Pierre or Hélène, she tiptoed her way back to bed. Her head crashed down on the pillow. Muffled sobs vibrated through the bed until sleep overcame her quaking body.