The American Girl (10 page)

AUGUST 1, 2015

Q
uinn didn't remember me, but then she didn't remember anyone. Retrograde amnesia, the doctors said. As a consequence of her head injury, not only could she not remember the days leading up to the accident, she couldn't really remember much of anything about her past, her family, or where she came from. They said they thought this was a transient symptom and that over the coming days and weeks she would recover her memories, at least in part. They told me this anxiously, as if it were their fault somehow, as if I might make a scene.

A therapist came to see us and Quinn gazed at him, blearily, her head weighing heavy on her neck like a small child up past her bedtime. His plan for treatment was that Quinn make a record of the new memories she'd made on a particular day as well as anything she recalled from the past. He also said a bunch of stuff about hippocampal damage and neuronal loss that I wasn't really following. He had a dinky little phone-size video
camera and showed Quinn the buttons on it, the functions, and I thought, This is either a genius strategy to distract her from her amnesia, or crazy.

“Excuse me, but how is she supposed to get hold of all this? I mean, she's just woken up from a coma.” The words spilled out of my mouth before I really thought about them. God, it was like something my mom would say.

The therapist seemed to think so, too. He shot me an irritated look. “It is really a good tool in cases like these.” He turned back to Quinn. “It is simple actually. When you remember some new thing, you can press this red button here and look into the lens and then tell the camera . . .
comme ça
. That way I will be able to check up your recordings and make a sense of the progress you are having. Shall we try it?”

“Sure,” said Quinn, though she didn't sound sure at all. She took the camera from him with slow hands, as if her limbs were moving against an unseen current. With clumsy fingers, she pressed the red button and pointed the camera at herself, then she looked up blankly, like a robot that had lost its programming.

“Talk to it,” said the therapist. “Say your name, the most recent thing you remember.” He was not one of the more patient therapists I'd ever met.

Quinn cleared her throat and I saw a blush creep up it. I felt sorry for her then, newly awoken in a room full of strangers, in pain, alone, and yet suffering every teen's worst nightmare—public embarrassment.

“Don't you think—” I began.

The therapist held up his hand and I fell silent.

Quinn cleared her throat again and aimed the camera at her face. “My name is Quinn Perkins. Um, this is what I remember. I remember, um. I . . . Nothing, I don't . . . I can't do this. Aunt Molly?” Her eyes filled with tears and she dropped the camera. One skinny arm stretched in my direction.

For a moment I thought she was pointing at something behind me, then I realized with a soft shock that she wanted a hug. I went to her, pulling her close a little awkwardly and she whispered in my ear, “Please make him go.”

I turned and in a perfect imitation of my mother, I said, “Thank you, but I think she's had enough for now, don't you?”

The therapist coughed and adjusted his glasses. He looked annoyed in that way that suggested he knew there was nothing he could do. I turned back to Quinn, who was still clinging to me.

“It's okay,” I said. “It's all going to be okay.”

“No, it won't,” she said, sobbing.

In shock, I thought,
She accepts me. I am now her aunt from Connecticut, Molly Perkins. You couldn't make it up.

A flash went off and I heard a snarky-sounding comment in French. I spun around to see a photographer with a huge flash capturing the moment.

Without thinking, I rounded on him. “How dare you? You delete that image right this minute or the next thing you'll be photographing is the inside of your ass.”

Sister Eglantine, passing by in the corridor, appeared to overhear this and looked in on us a bit strangely. I summoned her in, pointing out the intruder. Together we stood over him until he deleted the image.

“I don't want anyone in here taking photographs, okay? It's not fair to my niece.”

Eglantine tremulously agreed.

I shut the door on them and settled back down in the chair by the bed.

“That was awesome.” Quinn grinned. She reached into the covers and pulled out the iPod shuffle. “Is this mine?”

I nodded. “It's got a bit of charge left on it, I think.”

“Cool,” she said, plugging herself in. I sat for a while, watching her with a certain satisfaction. However bad a person I might be, in a small way I had helped her. For a start, I was here for her when the rest of her family obviously couldn't be bothered. I sat reading my book until she drifted off to sleep, her iPod still buzzing in her ears. I watched her for a little while, her flushed cheeks, her soft breathing, and then I tucked the covers around her. She looked so vulnerable.
Am I using her?
I thought guiltily.
Tomorrow is another day. For now I'm her aunt.
Until she remembers the truth, that is.

AUGUST 1, 2015

Video Diary: Session 1

[In the darkness, Quinn's face is just visible, but the footage is grainy and hard to see. She wears a hospital gown
]

My name is Quinn Perkins and this is what I know . . . Uh, not much, as it happens. Woke up when it was still dark and I didn't know where I was.

Only, well, I was in this room. It was dark . . . really dark. My head—God—it felt like it was about to crack open. And . . .

[Long pause. Quinn starts to cry. Her fingers reach tentatively for the stitches on her head]

I felt my hair on this side. It's, like, totally shaved. See?

[She leans in to show the stubbly side of her head with staples pinching the skin together]

Shit, I can't do this.

[Camera switches off]

[Camera switches on]

Yeah, so, I stood up before and fell out of bed. My gown fell around my armpits. I was butt naked underneath. Nice, right? And I was struggling to get up. Then this nun came. God, I thought I was hallucinating.

“Stop screaming,” she said, “you'll wake everyone.”

Thing is, I didn't even know I was . . . screaming.

[Long pause]

More nuns came. A doctor. They were talking some language. Couldn't work out what they were saying. And I was trying to speak, but I couldn't even find the words for what I wanted to say. I started to freak out, I think. This doctor stuck a needle in me.

So I was, like, out cold. I don't know how long for. Next time I woke, there were these total strangers crowded around—a man in a panama hat, like someone out of an old movie, and a woman with bright red lipstick and shaggy yellow hair. Another doctor, who said he was my “therapist” or whatever. It was all just . . . confusing . . . like people's words and their mouths were going at different rates.

Therapist gave me this
[taps the camera] . . .
I'm, uh, meant to talk to it. Talk to
you
. Well, so here I am, telling you what I saw today, what I can remember.

[Pause]

Well, what
do
I remember? The dark. Running in the woods. Feeling something sharp on my feet . . . and a smell . . . a wet kind of smell. Reminds me of . . .

[Wipes eyes]

And, um, moonlight. A man's face near mine.

I wish I could, like, reach in my brain and shake the memories out.

[Long pause]

They say that blond woman is my aunt. She seems kind. I mean, how do you know when everyone feels like a stranger? I was glad she was there, 'cause there was someone to tell the doctors to leave me alone for a bit. Thing is . . . I don't remember her.

I don't remember any of the things they're telling me.

AUGUST 1, 2015

Y
our typical recidivist relapses into criminal behavior in less than three years, despite experiencing negative consequences for said behavior. Well, I had that record beat. It was a mere three days since my last episode of B and E and there I was, breaking the law again. A quick coffee at Marlene's had supplied me with the name of the student who suffocated at the school, as well as juicy stories about an octogenarian couple that broke into their friends' houses to watch pay-per-view porn, and a local erotica author called Stella, who was a preening narcissist (according to Marlene). Now I was headed for the Old Schoolhouse to see if any records of the dead girl remained there. At least it would be a break from the manic media who were now hunting me down for interviews.

As soon as I was behind the wheel, a text pinged into my phone.
Strong stuff so far. Running it asap. Need more audio. Bx

Thanks, Bill. Normally I'd have been thrilled at even this
obviously lame Perry White–style pat on the head. But right now, I had more important things on my mind.

I parked the car around the back of some olive grove near the Blavette house. It was dark and the moon had come out, big and yellow and ominous. I climbed out of the car to the sound of the crickets. Night drew around me, keeping me invisible from prying eyes as I made my way to the old school building. It was a long, narrow stone structure with very few windows that looked like it might have been a barn before it became a rural school. Even from the outside, I felt its vibe—the squared notepaper, the farts, the ache of boredom during algebra lessons. Same the world over.

At first it was hard to find a way in, and I trudged the undergrowth trying doors and tugging at padlocks. Then I caught a lucky break. Almost too lucky, if I'd paused to think about it—a low window left open a crack. It swung down easily with only a mild groan of resistance and I half clambered, half tumbled in, my sneakers landing on a sloping desk, my torch shining on stacked chairs and dust motes thick in the lonely air.

I jumped down, skimming the torch beam over a glass cabinet full of sports medals, that classic tool of passive-aggressive governance, dividing the heroes from the zeros since always. This particular cabinet seemed to be the story of Raphael Blavette in trophy form. The gleaming cups and medallions framed a smiling picture of sixteen-year-old Raphael, the local sporting hero: golden and confident, a bit on the cocky side. I could see why the girls liked him. Next to the cabinet were hung a neat column of school photographs. I identified Raphael, Noémie,
Freddie, and Nicole Leclair by their captions. Nicole was a small, pale girl, with a worried expression. She looked about as distant from Raphael and Freddie in self-esteem terms as a person could be.

Further down the corridor was a door with
Papeterie
written on it. I couldn't remember what that meant, but it sounded like something to do with paper. I jimmied the lock with my penknife and opened the door. It was your standard supply cupboard, stacked full of pencils and erasers, blue notebooks filled with squared paper. I closed it quietly and kept going to the end of the corridor until I found another door with one of those squared glass panels. Peering in, I saw a computer on a desk and file cabinets. This door was open, weirdly, since of the two it would have been the one I'd lock. Either Monsieur Raymond wasn't very reliable about locking things up, or somebody else had been rooting around in here.

It was only once I was rifling through the cabinet that I reflected on how awkward it must have been for the Blavette kids going to a school that was run by their mother. Not only was she the head teacher, but many of the classes seemed to have been taught by her, as evidenced by all the grade sheets and annual reports signed by her. Marlene had given me a vague date for the Nicole Leclair incident that occurred two years before, but nothing in the cabinet was organized chronologically. I looked under
L
, but the report cards for her had been removed, it seemed. I was just about to move on to another folder when I saw the gleam of something hidden under the other files. I fished it out—a piece of paper orphaned from the rest. Scanning over it, I saw that it
bore the date July 30, 2013, two months before the school closed down. Whatever was on it was densely handwritten in French and impossible to decipher in the gloom. I stuffed it in my bag and moved on.

In the
B
section, I found recent reports for both Blavette children. I photographed them and used the translator app on my phone to decipher a few lines. The one for Raphael, written by a Monsieur Figal, was predictably glowing: “Raphael speaks with confidence in the lessons and displays a capacity for leadership, guiding the other students in a reflective discussion.” The one for Noémie was dismal by comparison: “Noémie tries, but she underperforms in English, as in all subjects. She is a reasonably bright, but finally a second-rate student.” Shining my torch on the drab little card, I tried to decipher the signature. When I did, I got a shock. Émilie Blavette was the teacher who had criticized her own daughter so harshly. Not the perfect family, after all.

AUGUST 2, 2015

I
walked through the market square in front of the cathedral, overhearing snatches of talk, some translatable if slow enough.
I heard the American girl has lost her wits. She was like a wild animal when she woke and they had to lock her up. I bet she went crazy and killed that poor family. The aunt looks touched, too. Bet it runs in the family!

Far-fetched as it was, it made me smile. I guess I'd missed that hum of news-fever you only get in little towns where nothing happens, the rumors spreading like cooties until they're everywhere. I suddenly realized that for all the peace and bonhomie and medieval history and photogenic shop fronts, St. Roch was just like the small Maine town I grew up in. It thrummed with buried jealousies and resentments. It burned with eccentric age-old friendships and the hunger for news. It was a hornet's nest of unspoken secrets, buzzing a warning at all times.

The other thing making me smile was that I had a lead on Freddie. Marlene said he hung at the pool each day, a view that was borne out by Quinn's diary. Walking through its green gates with their art nouveau curlicues of leaves and flowers, I had a flashback to our town pool in summer, so full of frustrated parents and wet dogs and inflatable toys and screaming kids in water wings that you couldn't see the actual water. Though if you could, you wouldn't have wanted to swim in it—that shit was green.

I kicked off my shoes at the entrance and surveyed the clutch of punk kids lounged on the orange grass in stonewashed jorts and baggy shirts. Their floppy hair gleamed with cocoa butter. Mediterranean blond coifs were held back with heart-shaped Lolita glasses. Every one of them was wearing some item of clothing that would have made my teen posse in the nineties fake vomit: tight white Speedos, fluorescent tankinis, Bermuda shorts, and backwards caps pitched hip-hop high. Yet somehow it worked. The French people: stylish all day long, even in Day-Glo and denim.

My eye was caught by the kids closest to me, a boy and a girl. They looked familiar, perhaps from Quinn's Instagram. I approached their stoned circle as self-consciously as if I were a teen myself. They flicked me a couple of irritated glances and the joint they were passing back and forth vanished, leaving only a waft of fragrant smoke. I asked for a light. The boy nodded and absentmindedly flicked his lighter for me, before asking for a cigarette. When I produced one, the girl kneeling behind him
leaned towards me. I held a cigarette out to her tentatively. Teens up to no good are as skittish as wild deer.

“Some scary shit happening in this town,” I said, blowing a slow smoke ring.

The girl cracked a smile. “
C'est ridicule, ça.
I do it better.” She demonstrated a series of perfectly formed rings before showing me her party trick—flint dust flicked from her lighter onto a barely wetted cigarette to make it sparkle.

“Very cool,” I said with a smile, knowing nothing I said to these kids could ever be cool.

The girl smiled graciously at my compliment. “Sophie.” She pointed to herself.

“Molly,” I said, and took out some rolling papers. As I grabbed them from my pocket, I flicked the “on” button of my little camera, then I took out another cigarette and split it open with my thumbnail and sprinkled a bit of tobacco into the paper.

Sophie looked at me with undisguised curiosity. “This is Freddie. We don't come here to swim. That is just for kids.”

Freddie. I knew I recognized him. My heart beat a little faster to find the very person I'd been hunting for. He'd been staring at some far-distant spot behind my head, his face pale and impassive, and on hearing his name, he came to with a jolt. His eyes slipped between us suspiciously, as if to discern whether we'd been talking about him while he was spacing out. Finally, his attention came to rest on the cigarette I'd split open, my best imitation of a joint in progress.

“Fucking pig cops everywhere now, man—nowhere to smoke
but here and the woods. Anyway, you got any on you . . . ?” He mimed smoking a joint and looked meaningfully at me.

“Don't be stupid,” said Sophie. “We only just met her,
mouton
. What if she tells on us?” She slapped the side of his head, made a cute little moue with her purple lips and spit
ptooie
. With those big Betty Boop eyes and tiny twenties lips, she looked like a cartoon character or a kitten.

Freddie looked away sulkily. He was her opposite: tall and plain, all lanky long limbs and big nose, his forehead babyishly huge under a shock of brown hair. He took a drag of his cigarette, shrugging, as nonchalant about the inch of ash hanging over his fingers as about everything else. “
Ç
a ne fait rien.
Everyone knows everyone's business here now. See the pap-rats taking photos at the hospital.”

“Is that where that American girl is now?” I asked, trying to sound unbothered about the answer.

“Did you hear she woke up and went crazy yesterday?” Sophie laughed.

“I heard she was crazy before. I am lucky my girl is not crazy in any ways.” Freddie leaned his head on Sophie's shoulder.

Sophie jettisoned her cigarette and scooped his hulking frame into her tiny arms. They kissed for a while. I looked away, but I could still hear the slurping sounds. I was surprised they were a couple—Quinn's blog made Freddie sound like a single loner, out for what he could get with her. Though I guess, just because he was with Sophie didn't mean he couldn't have been freelancing.

The embrace ended and Sophie addressed me in a smoky
voice. “I am looking after Freddie today,
quoi
. You know Raphael Blavette is his best friend from school. None of us know what happened to him. He's gone so long. Wanna get high?”

“Sure thing.” I smiled, turning to Freddie. “So you guys went to school together?”

“Yeah, until it shut down,” he said, eyeing my tobacco, “which I don't care about that because I hate school.”

“Yeah, school's the worst,” I said, truthfully. “Mine was all girls, no boys to date or anything.”

“Our old school was worse than that!” said Sophie, her eyes bugging out. “Émilie, Raphael's mom, she was our head teacher. We hated her! I put a yogurt on her chair once and when she sat down it went
everywhere
.” She smiled proudly at this last statement.

“Sounds liked it sucked.” I offered her the paper full of tobacco as if I were holding out crusts of bread to some wild geese.

“Vraiment.”
Sophie took the paper with a nod and started sprinkling in herb from a Baggie. “It was such a boring little school. And Émilie taught us so many lessons. It was . . .
comment dit-on
‘
elle me fait chier
,' Freddie?”

“Sophie means that Émilie was annoying,” Freddie said, rolling his eyes.

I handed him my lighter. “Not a fan of the head teacher, then?”

He took it from me. “She was a bitch to us,” he said bitterly. “Anyway, St. Roch has a shining new school now and that old, dusty school is finished forever.”

“How come?”

Sophie lit the joint and took a drag, coughing. “There was a girl in our school called Nicole, a really annoying girl. One of those who is always hanging around, trying to be your friend, but—”

Freddie shot her a warning look.

Sophie stuck her tongue out at him and carried on, her cartoon eyes big and stoned. “What does it matter? She is inside the ground now. She cannot annoy us.”

I thought of the plain, vulnerable face in the school photograph. It was all too easy to imagine how a girl like that would struggle to fit in. I waited a minute before asking the next question. I didn't want to sound too interested. We finished the joint and I gave Freddie another rolling paper so he could start skinning up the next.

Finally, I asked, “Were you there the day she died?”

Sophie split one of my cigarettes and sprinkled the tobacco into the paper skin. “I was sick that day, but Freddie saw—”

Freddie broke in. “We were just playing a game,
tu sais
, daring each other to do some things. It was no problem.” He stared at the pool, the corner of his mouth twitching angrily. I remembered how Quinn had said he'd dunked her, tried to drown her, all in the name of a “game.” I couldn't believe they were still playing it after something so terrible happened.

Sophie leaned towards me, talking confidentially behind her hand. “One of the dares was to hold your breath for a long time. Anyway, Nicole must have had a bad heart or something, because one minute she was fine, the next . . . pah!” She mimed an embolism, holding her breath until her face turned red.

“It was her own fault,
hein
, she did it to herself,” Freddie snapped. He got up, walked over to the pool, and sat on the edge, kicking his feet in the water.

“
Merde
, you have made him mad,
quoi
,” said Sophie, and hurried to his side to do some relationship healing.