Page 47 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
Still, I remember the most basic concept from those introductory pages, which is just to say hello to each breath and then say goodbye when it leaves. The idea is to be kind to yourself, ratherthan putting a lot of pressure on doing meditation “right” or perfectly.
I try it now.
Hello, breath,I think as a panicked inhale wheezes through my lungs.
Goodbye, breath.It’s like my body can’t wait to get rid of everything it contains—carbon dioxide, outdated ideas about imaginary friends, thoughts of being trapped in a remote Alaskan house with a madman.
Hello, breath.Another inhale, short and hurried.
Goodbye, breath.The air rushes out too fast.
But I keep at it.Hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye,until it starts to work, almost without me noticing. My breathing begins to resemble that of a normal human, and the fog from light-headedness clears.
My stomach growls, as if recognizing that this is its chance to get attention before I fall down the rabbit hole of what that gallery of paintings and Sebastien’sRomeo and Julietclaim mean.
Now I remember that I didn’t eat any of the French toast at breakfast. I don’t function well without food in my system. I force myself to get up, legs weak from everything that’s happened in the last hour, and stagger into the kitchenette.
Bread, eggs, cheese…it all seems like too much effort. I open the freezer, thinking there might be a microwaveable meal, but all I see are those containers Sebastien stuffed inside. They’re labeled Chocolate Hazelnut Cornetti, and I gasp as I pry off one of the lids. The container is packed with crescent-shaped, Nutella-filled pastries made from scratch.
Suddenly, I want to cry. If I were on a desert island and could only eat one thing for the rest of my life, this would be it.
How did Sebastien know?
My pulse hiccups. Is it possible that what he claims about us is true, that we’ve known each other over lifetimes? That he really is Romeo, and I’m Juliet?
No. Preposterous.
I grab two cornetti and throw them into the microwave. I’msure they would taste better if I reheated them in the toaster oven, but I need sugar in my blood, stat. Ninety seconds later, they’re steaming hot and I don’t even care that they’re soggy. I just stuff one after the other into my mouth right there at the counter, scalding my lip on the Nutella filling and showering my shirt and the floor with flaky pastry bits.
What I need is something to hold on to that makes sense.
The Juliet paintings with the costumes! That can’t be happenstance. I grab my phone. There’s no cellphone reception out here, but Sebastien did leave me a Wi-Fi password. I open a browser and spend well over an hour running search after search, trying to find pictures of those dresses so I can prove that my costumes were just reproductions of something Mom found on the internet.
But there’s nothing. As far as the world knows, the Juliet paintings in Sebastien’s private gallery don’t exist. Somehow, Mom happened to make costumes for me that matched them.
I immediately shove two more cornetti into the microwave.
When those are gone, I make myself a cup of coffee, then sink into one of the chairs at the little round dining table. What am I supposed to do now?
“New Helene can think logically.” I say it out loud to ground myself in the here and now, to remind myself that I can be a practical person who doesn’t get swept away by daydreams and old Shakespearean love stories. I can analyze the facts.
And writing always makes me feel better, so I grab a notebook from my purse (a good reporter is never without something to write on), and I jot down what I know:
I began seeing Sebastien in my head when I was cast as Juliet in the middle school play, and I imagined him as Romeo.
There is a secret, locked art gallery full of paintings of women who look exactly like the characters I’ve written. The portraits span centuries, with plaques dating back to…when? I didn’t pay enough attention, because I was too busy freaking out.
Sebastien claims to be Romeo, who is cursed with watching his beloved die over and over, while he himself can never die.
