Spectacle(38)

He threatened me! That’s what Nathalie wanted to say, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She’d promised she wouldn’t.

Nathalie clenched her teeth. If she spoke, she’d burst into tears. She certainly didn’t want that on display. The wax figures were the exhibit, not her personal fears.

Nathalie stormed out of the room, her heels thudding on the floor with an angry, determined pace. Simone followed her out, room after room until they reached the exit, all the way babbling about things like “persistence” and “special ability” and “destiny” and a slew of other phrases that climbed on top of each other.

Why me? “Why me? WHY ME?”

“Don’t look at it that way.”

“Don’t tell me how I should look at it.” Nathalie’s whole body burned with fury, resentment, and a fear she wouldn’t admit. “I cannot live like this. I will not live like this. I can’t tell anyone but you about this bizarre curse. I can’t wish it away or pretend it isn’t there.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I can’t unknow what I know.”

“I understand, but—”

“Non!” Nathalie spat out the word like poison. “You wouldn’t have brought me here thinking this would ‘impress’ me if you did. You don’t understand. No one can understand. That’s the point. I don’t know, maybe my crazy aunt would. But that doesn’t matter. I’m trapped. Trapped!”

Simone bit her lip for a long time before speaking in a calm voice. “You aren’t trapped. We can—”

“Stop. Just stop.” Nathalie held up her hand. She hoped Simone didn’t notice the quivering. “No ‘we.’ I’ve had enough of you, too.”

“What? What does that mean?”

Nathalie answered by pushing open the door and storming down the sidewalk.

Simone was going to follow her. She was sure of it.

Except Simone didn’t.

Good. She’s just in it for the adventure, anyway. And to impress Louis. And to make tarot card readings come true.

Nathalie couldn’t see through her tears. Luckily her feet knew this pavement so well that it didn’t matter.





16


Nathalie didn’t want to go home yet.

She walked without knowing where she wanted to go. While standing next to some Spanish tourists, she noticed them studying a map. Her eyes fell to where they were pointing: Bois de Boulogne.

The perfect spot—a park where she could be alone among people and settle down on this hot-but-not-too-hot day. She’d gone there just before Simone had moved, on an unusually warm April day. The two of them had spent an afternoon there sprawled out on a blanket, eating fruit and madeleines and watching people. They’d invented stories about every young man who passed by and what their sweethearts might be like.

Already that seemed like ages ago.

She went to the nearest tram stop and hopped on right before it pulled away; her temper subsided with every click-clack of the tram. She had to change trams twice to get to Bois de Boulogne, and the trams were crowded, but she nevertheless felt a sense of peace by the time she stepped onto the grass.

All the trees were taken, with couples and families and solitary picnickers spread across almost every spot of shade. Nathalie strolled until she saw a mother and her little boy gather up their things, leaving behind a place in the shade just like the one she’d had in mind.

She reclined, limbs stretched out, and gazed at the sky framed by leaves of the nearby elm. She placed one hand on the grass, enjoying the feel of it through her fingers. With the other she loosened her top button and let her fingers rest on her collarbone. She didn’t have the energy to move another muscle.

The sounds of the park, distinct and discrete, soon became a hum that was neither noise nor symphony. After running through the events of the day several times, her thoughts began to drift.

To Simone, and the last time they fought before today. It was just over two years ago and about a self-centered, brooding boy who was a bad influence on Simone. Simone disagreed, and they didn’t speak for a month, which was when Simone decided that the boy was in fact both self-centered and brooding. Nathalie had felt regret rather than validation, though, swearing never again to pass judgment on Simone’s beau choices. As for Louis … it didn’t matter now, did it? Not if she and Simone weren’t talking anymore.

She thought about Agnès. Her interest in the murders, and Nathalie’s choice to keep the visions from her. Maybe now she’d tell her, now that it was an experience in the past.

Her thoughts drifted to Papa, too. She missed him, plain and simple. He’d been home several weeks before Maman’s accident. And then he was off again, like he often was, for months and months. He wouldn’t be back until September. Then he would be with them through January or February, and Nathalie was already thinking about how they’d play cards, visit the Louvre and Catacombs, and make soup together. And bread. Papa loved to make bread.

Then she thought about the last time she’d seen Aunt Brigitte “on the outside,” prior to her committal to the asylum. Nathalie remembered wearing the bright red winter coat her grandmother had made her for Christmas. The coat was too big and too puffy. (She suspected that Mamie thought she was ten, not seven, because Mamie was very wrinkly and forgot stuff. At the time, Nathalie thought maybe wrinkles made people forgetful.) Maman insisted she wear it all the same. The only good part was that she also got to wear her new boots, which meant she could stomp in the slush when Maman wasn’t looking. And even once when she was, which Nathalie pretended was an accident.