Forgiving Paris: A Novel(3)

Marie had always figured—then and now—that if God were real, she would’ve had a father. Alice would have one, too. She and Alice wouldn’t struggle to pay the bills and keep food on the table, the way her mother had also struggled. Every day of their lives.

If He loved them, where was He when Alice took her first hit of heroin?

Marie ran her finger over the next photo. Alice grinning from the second row at her middle school graduation. She was so beautiful, so full of light and love. Friends surrounded her in the photograph, the way they always had back then. Marie held the book a little higher so she could look deep into her daughter’s eyes. The eyes of a child with all of life ahead of her. I have no answers, Alice. Marie sighed and lowered the book again. None. Why would you throw your life away?

That night in her daughter’s room, despite Marie’s best efforts to stay quiet and motionless, Alice opened her eyes. Not like when she was a little girl. Sleepy and slow with a smile that gradually lit up the room. Back then she would hold out both arms and call for her. “Maman… hold me.”

No, that child was gone forever. Instead, that terrible night Alice’s eyes had flown open. Unnaturally wide and panicked. She breathed fast and hard. “Go away!” Her words were a shrill scream. “Go! Now!”

Marie had felt her anger rise. Forget being calm. If this were a fight for Alice’s life, Marie was going to start swinging. “You will not talk to me like that, young lady. Do you hear me?”

And Alice was on her feet. Her breaths came in jagged gasps and she raked her trembling fingers through her hair. Then she faced Marie and screamed again. “Get away from me!”

“Alice, you’re not yourself.” Marie was no longer crying. She was too terrified for tears. “You don’t want this… this life.”

“You don’t know what I want.” She tried to push past, but Marie stood her ground, blocking the doorway. Alice’s face grew red. “Move! You don’t own me!”

“If I have to get locks for your bedroom door, I’ll do it,” Marie had shouted. “I will not let you leave this house for a life on the streets. That isn’t who you are, Alice. Get back in bed.”

A switch had seemed to flip in Alice’s heart at that, and suddenly the fight left her. Slowly, like the sick child she was, she returned to her mattress and slipped beneath her blanket. She buried her head in her pillow and turned her back to Marie. Just one word came from her before she fell asleep again.

“Go.”

That was the last word Marie heard from Alice for a month. In the morning when Marie went back to her daughter’s room, the girl was gone. So were her bedsheets and pillow and most of her clothes.

And life had been like that ever since. For two years. Marie had no idea who Alice had been living with or what she was doing to survive. She didn’t want to think about it.

Then a few months ago, Alice began stopping by the flat, acting like she was interested in changing, like she wanted a relationship with Marie again. But each time she left, Marie found money and valuables missing.

Whatever little Marie had, Alice found a way to take it.

The local authorities knew about the situation, but the least of their troubles was a teenager strung out on heroin and stealing money from home. They had promised to bring her back to Marie if they found her, but Alice didn’t have a driver’s license or ID. So how would police know if it was her or not? Alice was an adult, yes, but she was also Marie’s daughter. Stealing from a parent was more domestic disturbance than theft.

Which was why Marie had changed the locks. So that Alice couldn’t come through the front door looking for money and items to steal. So she couldn’t use Marie to stay in her wretched addiction. But now that Alice’s key didn’t work, Marie wondered if maybe this was worse. Hearing Alice pound on the door, listening to her cry out for Marie to let her in, let her have what she wanted.

Marie shuddered. She felt sick. The echoes of her daughter’s desperate voice still played in her heart and mind. Would Alice come back tomorrow, pounding on the door and wanting only to find something to steal?

It was late, hours from sunrise. Marie dried her cheeks. Time to put the photo book back where it belonged. Once more she stood and pushed through the ache in her muscles. When the pictures were back in the drawer, out of sight, she returned to her bed. But before she dropped to the sheets, she stopped.

Through it all, through every heartbreaking day knowing Alice was a drug addict living on the streets, Marie had never done the one thing her mother had asked her to do. She had never prayed to Jesus about Alice. Marie didn’t believe like her mother believed. Alice didn’t, either. What had God ever done for them? And why should she believe He was even real?

But here, now… Marie was out of options.

The gravity of the situation pulled her to her knees in a way she was helpless to stop. And there, she buried her face in her hands and did the one thing she swore she’d never do.

“God… if You’re there… help Alice.” Her voice was tired, desperate. “Please, I beg You. Help Alice.”

Then she struggled to her feet and crawled back into bed. There. She had followed her mother’s wishes. Not so much because she believed. Not because she really thought some Almighty Heavenly Father would hear her prayers.

But because she had nowhere else to turn.