Page 14 of Severed Heart
I inhale again, considering if I want to reveal so much to her, and decide to have a little fun. This woman considers me a mystery to solve, much like my aunt and uncle did. Not only that, but it will also give me a chance to practice my English.
“Left me when I five.Poof.” I snap loud, and the woman jumps back in her seat. She is intimidated by me—me—a girl at least twenty years younger in age. Alain says intimidation is one of my gifts.
“My papa dies the night partner comes to collect me from a card game. I was”—I lean toward her—“Iwasbet, last bet hemakes.”
The woman gasps in shock as I lean in further, blowing more smoke in her face, which she now ignores for my story.
“Sold me for a spoon of ... theneedledrugs.” I take another cigarette out of my pack sitting on the tray table.
“Heroin?” She asks, eyes bulging.
“Yes, heroin. So if you want to talk parents how rude I behave, you will havehard timesto reach them.”
“My God.” Her eyes soften with pity. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Janet,” she tells me, her eyes scouring my face and dress—nothing I am not used to. Women and men alike arealwayswatching me. Alain says they cannot help themselves because I ampainfullybeautiful.
“Do not pity me, Janet ... I very, I’m fortunate.”
“Oh? How so?”
“When I land in America, I marry asoldier.”
She gapes at me. “But you can’t be more than what, sixteen?”
Her guess discourages me even as I fill out one of Celine’s more sophisticated dresses after applying thick makeup. I’m failing to conceal my age as much as I hoped. I decide it is better to start rehearsing the lie I’ll be living very soon.
“I ameighteen.”
“Oh?” Perspiration dots her upper lip as I shake out my match. “Well ... congratulations. You’ll make a beautiful bride. You’re just gorgeous, honey.”
“Merci, Janet. You have nice . . .” I look her up and down to try and find a way to be kind with my reply, “Eyes.”
“Oh, thank you.” She smiles, and I smile back for an entirely different reason. Within the length of a plane ride, I will be legally eighteen in the eyes of United States law and be able to work and marry. Alain told me that in America, if the paperwork says so, it must be.
And I will marry him because after kissing too many Lyams, I found the only soldier for me the night Celine brought me to her apartment—a soldier who had been fighting alongside Abijah in thenew Pardi Radicaluntil he evaded arrest just weeks ago. Declaring his time in France over after, he promised he would send for me once he found us a place to live and work—as well as a good place to re-establish his movement. He fled France with a few of his most trusted men and writes that he has beenverysuccessful. Yesterday morning I received a letter with a ticket as promised.
I left school early, faking an illness to start packing. I decided to bring very little of my clothes and leave all those meant for a modest little girl. I packed just enough to fit in my wildflower suitcase—all I have left of life with my papa. But the life I had with him, I’ve been promised to have again with Alain.
Excitement fills me as I think of Alain’s description of North Carolina. My dream written in his handwriting, in black and white, of the town of Triple Falls. He wrote that there are many rivers and lakes for me to fish—along with abundant wildlife—and not nearly as many people as the city I so despise. After getting to know Alain, I found out his dream was mine, too.
It’s still a mystery to me how we kept our relationship from both AbijahandCeline these past months. We almost got caught once or twice but managed to escape all suspicion that we were a couple—which we weren’t—not at first. It was only yesterday that I finally told Celine of our relationship and future plans.
“You can’t be serious,” Celine gasps as Ezekiel keeps a firm grip on my hands, leading me around their kitchen table. As she gawks at my admission, I notice a fresh bruise on her cheek.
“Did Abijah do that?”
She jerks her chin. “No, he did,” she laughs, nodding toward Ezekiel, her eyes soft as they always are with him, which I recognize as a mother’s love. “He hit me with one of his bath toys.”
“Don’t lie to me, Celine,” I warn.
“I told you, Abijah doesn’t hit me. Not like that, and don’t change the subject,” she snaps. “You can’t just tell me you’ve been with Alain all this time and nothing more. Did you start seeing him right after you met?”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, no, not at first. He said I was too young. It took him a very long time to consider me for himself—years—but I finally convinced him.” I smile at her, but she does not smile back.
“God, it was happening right under my nose!”
