PROLOGUE — TWO YEARS AGO
I have to open this e-mail!
Staring at the starry landscape of Paris, stepping down from my stepladder and walking over to my computer, my eyes land on the email I received from the company I applied for that still hasn't been opened. I should have read it a while ago, but I've been dragging my feet for an hour.
I'm afraid of being disappointed and when I nervously approach and read the email, I understand that I was right to be worried. A knot forms in the pit of my stomach as I scan the content.
“Mrs. Davis,
(…) we regret that we are unable to respond favorably to your submission, as we do not have a position corresponding to your profile in the immediate future.
Sincerely,
The HR team.”
Closing my computer in frustration, my mind wanders over all the other jobs I applied for. I answered about fifty job offers for waitress, bookseller, and salesperson. Even though my dream is to become a wedding planner, I need the money.
Unfortunately, no one wants to hire me. I guess my lack of experience in the working world plays against me. No matter how hard I worked on my mother's farm, it's not considered enough.
I'm motivated, ready to work without counting the hours, but my determination and angelic smile – according to my mother – are not convincing enough to be given a chance. I even had to straighten my hair for a second interview with a receptionist agency. They said my curly hair didn't look professional to them. I didn't think I'd ever be asked to do that, and besides, it was useless.
Taking a break from cleaning, I retrieve a tennis ball and call my dog, petting the head of Storm, my eighty-pound St. Bernard, coming towards me for a little attention. He is my only friend and my most loyal guardian. I throw the toy with force, hoping to calm the worries that are invading me.
I climb back onto my step and shiver at the fresh air tugging at my barely tank-top covered skin. For the umpteenth time today, I reach for my phone and check my bank account, sighing in exasperation when I realize that I only have about a hundred euros left. I doubt I'll make it through the month without having to call my parents to the rescue.
I huff and puff and spray the window with product in annoyance. I would like to manage on my own, to be totally independent. After all, I'm the one who decided to come to the City of Light to start from scratch. My choice, my responsibility, and yet, even far from my little town of Laredo, Texas, I am still a burden to my parents.
I've been in Paris for three months now, and it's safe to say that things are… amazing. I have to admit that I may have idealized my Parisian life, but I'm glad I made the leap. Thanks to my paternal grandmother, who taught me the language of Molière, I integrate easily. However, I miss my parents, but their support keeps me going. I am lucky to have them in my life. In the gallery on my phone, I scroll through pictures of my parents and me. Stopping at a photo where my dad, his dark brown skin glowing in the sunlight, looks jovial, holding me to his chest. Although I roll my eyes and try to escape from his shower of kisses, a big smile is discernible on my face. My mother, a small brunette with white skin, laughs at our bickering. This moment frozen in time fills my chest with joy.
The stepladder shakes, and I barely catch myself at one of the double windows. My breathing quickens, I turn my head to glare at Storm.
“Stop messing with me, you almost knocked me over!” I say. My dog doesn't seem to be listening to me and continues to play with his ball, the drool at the corner of his mouth falling to the floor. It's sickening and adorable at the same time.
I sigh and try to calm my breathing as best I can.
My face darkens as I catch my reflection in the glass I'm cleaning for the third time today. I am not a maniac by nature, just an anxious person who has found no other outlet than intensive cleaning. It's not a solution per se, but it helps me get my head in the game.
I let out a puff of air as I realize I'll have to do more interviews. I imagine myself scanning the classifieds when Storm comes up beside me and involuntarily bumps into my step stool. My heart misses a beat.
With my mouth wide open, no sound escapes my lips as I lose my balance. My body is leaning dangerously out of the window, and although I try to grab onto something, there is nothing to hold me back from falling. The scene unfolds so quickly that with barely a blink of an eye, I am already out of my apartment two floors down. My body, usually so light, now weighs a ton in the night that surrounds me.
I'm going to die!
Is this how my life will end? My only thought is for my parents, whom I abandon again, in spite of myself this time. My breath stops and darkness surrounds me.
***
“(…) No, she doesn't move (…) unconscious (…) speak, I will try until you arrive (…)”
My ears perceive these chopped words, while my eyelids open with difficulty on what looks like an umbrella above my head. The splash of rain mingles with the deep voice beside me, and it takes me a few seconds to remember what happened. I fell from my apartment.
The pain that invades me little by little leads me to grind my teeth. A warm liquid is in contact with my tongue and my bruised gums. A bitter and metallic taste confirms that it is blood.
“Very funny… Do your job instead of talking nonsense! Wait, she’s waking up… Just hurry!”
The first thing that crosses my mind is, Thanks god, I'm alive! But this information is not enough, because my limbs start to tremble. Tears well up in my eyes and I wonder if I'm hallucinating because it seems so unrealistic.
My dog made me fall out of the window!
“Abigail? That is your name, isn't it?” I try to nod, but none of my limbs seem to want to move. My body, lying on the soaked bushes of the common yard, remains inert. I force my vocal cords to give him a clear answer.
“Yes, that's right.”
“Why are you speaking in English?”
Shit! My brain is really dysfunctional.
“Sorry, it’s my native language.” I reply in French.
“Don't apologize. Just open your eyes. I need you to stay with me until my colleagues arrive.”
“What happened?”
I feel silly asking this question, because I know the answer all too well. I need this man to keep talking, I don't want to be alone with my thoughts again. I couldn't bear that.
“You fell from the second floor.”
His reply is clear and concise. He speaks with a calm, flowing voice, as if the situation doesn't affect him. For some reason, his composure both annoys and calms me. I know I'm in good hands, I feel it, it's instinctive. But I have the impression that my condition does not matter to him.
“Am I…am I paralyzed?” I ask, despite my stuttering.
I am afraid of the answer. This will all become so real, and I doubt I can handle it.
“Try wiggling your toes.” It takes a lot of effort for me to do it and not scream through the pain. Why is it so difficult? The sobs that come up cover my body in spasms.
“They move. I can't promise you anything, but I think it will be okay.”
The sense of security doesn't last long enough to soothe the frantic beating of my heart. Usually, when I'm in the early stages of a crisis, I clean until I've erased all my problems, but here I can't do anything at all. I have no way out, my breathing is getting harder, my body is in pain and nothing can ease the feeling.
“I… I'm going to die,” I gasp, my face flooded with tears. It’s the end.
My breathing grows short as fear takes possession of my guts.
“Abigail, calm down. Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Think only of good things.” I feel like a child, a burden, the kind of ball and chain everybody hates. He's wasting his time with me because I'm a walking disaster who can't take care of herself.
“Calm me down? Easier said than done, sir. How am I supposed to do that?” Stress speaks before I can think twice. His casual air irritates me. Footsteps pop up near me while the man's face roams over mine. Instinctively, a smile radiates from my lips. In spite of the darkness, I recognize the night green eyes of my neighbor Corentin, the fireman of the building. He is the best person I could have met, no pun intended.
His irises, a mixture of malachite and black agate, observe me with patience and compassion. It's the first time I've seen such an expression on his face. Usually, he seems apathetic, tired of everything.
“I understand that the situation isn’t easy, but it wouldn’t help if you were to have a panic attack. My colleagues should be here any minute, so just hang in there.”
“I don't know what to do.”
“What calms you down?”
“Cleaning,” I answer without thinking.
“You're going to have to find something else, because cleaning would be complicated right now. Deeply, you're going to breathe in, then breathe out slowly,” he repeats. “Match your breathing to the rhythm of my voice.”
Despite the pain and my mind wandering away at times, I focus on him. He is the only hope I have of not losing my mind and regaining control of my body.
“Clear your mind and focus only on the positive. Soon, all this will be a bad memory.”
“And if there is nothing positive?” I ask.
My direct answer seems to destabilize him. His brows pinch together as his lips part. I imagine that it is not the explanation he wished to hear, but I do not have the force to lie by pretending I have it all.
Despite the pain, I turn my head in his direction. His silence is suspicious, even unbearable. His eyes stare at me with a strange expression, and his curly brown hair is plastered on his pale forehead because of the rain. His squared, clean-shaven jaw gives him an imposing air, perfectly in keeping with his athletic build.
“We all have something positive in our lives,” he finally says.
I close my eyes and think for a moment, but nothing comes to me. Though Paris has been amazing, I feel alone… lost. I adore my dog, my parents, but one almost killed me, and the others are so far away.
“Is that true in your case?” I ask, to keep him talking.
“Yes, it is.”
“Tell me.”
Hearing it would make me forget my pain for a moment. Besides, I've always been one to listen rather than the other way around.
“I doubt you'd care,” he replies.
“What makes you so sure?”
He doesn't answer right away, so I make him give in.
“It'd help me calm down, but if you prefer, you can let me sink into my panic attack…”
Our eyes meet and after what seems like an eternity, he sighs.
“Okay, you got me. There's my family, like most people. Oh, by the way, would you like me to call your family?” There's no way we're going to tell them! My mother will have a heart attack and my father will have me back in the States by the skin of my teeth. I'm not going to be a farmer, so I’m not telling!
“That won't be necessary,” I say.
My savior pauses for a moment, I wonder if he has even left, but I am quickly lulled by his deep voice.
“I'm sorry for your loss,” he murmurs sadly. My eyes widen in horror at this misunderstanding.
“Oh, no! No, no, they are still alive! It's just that it would be more prudent not to warn them, they might faint.”
“Are you sure you don't want to let them know?”
“Yes,” I said, sure of myself. “Please continue to talk to me about what you like.”
“I love my job.”
“Why is that?”
I ask without thinking, genuinely interested in his answer. Although my father has been a police officer for many, many years, I have never understood why he would put his life on the line for others.
I have been told a thousand times that there is no such thing as a sub-job, but I doubt that I am as important as Corentin or my father in our society. My dream is to organize beautiful weddings, not to save lives. I'm not going to chase bad guys or throw myself into fires. I'm just going to deal with love and happiness.
“I like to feel useful, and saving lives is the best way to do it.”
“Isn't that scary?”
“Sometimes, but I have to fight my fears as well as the flames if I want to succeed in my interventions, because there are people who count on me. If I let fear take over, I could lose my life or worse, let someone else perish. I could never live with that.” His words hit me right in the heart. I will never be as brave as him, nor as strong. As soon as things don't go as planned, I lose my nerve, but more than that… Corentin is a hero and a good man. I am in awe.
“How is your life in Paris?” I am delighted that he is interested in my story. From the first day I met him, he always seemed to pretend I didn't exist. He is the only person around my age in this building, and I have wanted his attention countless times.
I hoped he would notice me, that he would start a conversation, since I am too shy to do so myself. I wanted him to be my friend, but he never even glanced at me. It took Storm knocking me out the window for him to finally talk to me.
“I like it, even if it's not what I imagined.”
He nods.
“Are you here for your studies?” I consider shaking my head, but I stop just before the pain starts again.
“No, I'm not. I came because I was dreaming of a life I don't even have the courage to start.”
Corentin’s green irises focus on mine, becoming much darker. He stares at me with a strange look, as if he wanted to pierce my skull to understand what’s going on in my head. I feel vulnerable in front of this pseudo-stranger who destabilizes me completely.
“Can you remind me how old you are?” he suddenly asks me.
“Almost twenty. Why?” His gaze becomes more insistent as he frowns, as if to tell me to pay attention to what will follow.
“If I understand correctly, you have changed countries and moved to a city that is foreign to you, all alone, at only nineteen years old, and you think you are not brave? It sounds like the opposite. To be honest, I'm impressed. That's one thing I wouldn't have the guts to do.”
Surprised to hear such a thing about me, my brain freezes for a moment. I've been called a lot of things in my life, but brave isn't one of them. As for impressing someone… If not for my legendary bad luck, that never happened either.
Listening to this speech from someone who risks his life every day touches me more than I can bear, and I hold myself back from shedding tears.
“How long have you been living here?” I ask.
“'Almost five years, but my time is almost up.”
“What do you mean?” Breathless, I lose what little hope I had of finally making a friend. It's just like me to make a fuss over nothing.
“I'm moving next week.” I knew it. At least I still have Storm. He's hairy, not very talkative and clumsy, but he's still there, even though he almost killed me.
“Who will I ask for sugar now?”
“We'll see you again,” he says straightforwardly.
I would like to ask him more questions, to understand what he meant by that, to get to know him too, but I suddenly hear the firemen's siren.
They're going to pick me up, take me to the hospital, and I'll be left all alone with my usual anguish and sadness. I wish I could hold on to something good, something sweet. Something or someone to soothe me, like him, my soon-to-be ex-neighbor, but I have nothing.
The rhythms of my beats quicken as the siren falls silent and voices come striding in.
“Don't leave me, please. I don't want to be alone,” I sob.
I feel a slight pressure in the palm of my right hand. I meet Corentin's eyes, which have become so tender that they radiate happiness in my heart.
“I won't leave you.”
“Promise?” I ask with desperation in my voice.
“I promise.”
