Spectacle(70)

She decided not to tell the Jalberts about her vision, not here, not ever. There was no benefit to confessing it or telling them she’d seen the moment of Agnès’s death or that she inhabited the gaze of the monster who did it.

After paying their respects, Nathalie and Maman approached the casket. Maman knelt in prayer. Nathalie did, too, and after praying to God, she spoke silently to Agnès. She’d done so many times since seeing her in the morgue, and probably would talk to her forever. The funeral was to be hundreds of kilometers away at the cathedral in Bayeux, and the burial in the yard of Agnès’s grandmother. So this, this was the last time she’d see Agnès outside of her own memories.

My Agnès.

I did this to you. Don’t forgive me, because I will never forgive myself. I promise to seek justice for you, and I promise never to cast off my gift again. All that it entails, the penalty that I pay … it’s a just reward for my guilt.

She caught sight of Roger, blinking quickly and trying so hard not to cry. I promise to keep an eye on Roger, too.

Nathalie stood up and touched Agnès’s cold hands, folded in prayer. Thank you for everything.

Maman made eye contact with her and Nathalie responded with a nod. As they made their way out of the crowded apartment, someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Simone.

She wore a black lace dress that fit her silhouette perfectly, and she smelled of rose water.

How Nathalie had missed that scent.

“I’m so very sorry,” Simone said. Louis stood at her side and somberly uttered the same.

“I—I … thank you.” She swallowed back the tears. This was too much. Simone, here, now. “Thank you both.”

Afraid that she would erupt into tears and make a fool of herself, she turned abruptly away. Maman hadn’t realized she’d stopped and had already gone out.

“I’ll be watching Céleste during the day tomorrow,” Simone called after her. “Please … please come by.”

Nathalie bit the inside of her cheek and faced Simone once more. “I will.”



* * *



After lunch the next day, Nathalie knocked on the door of the Marchands’ apartment. She reached in her dress pocket for the catacomb dirt that wasn’t there, like she had so many times since shattering it. Tomorrow she resolved to go to the Catacombs for more. She’d take comfort anywhere she could get it right now, even in the form of an earth-filled vial.

Simone answered the door quickly, almost too quickly, as if she’d been waiting with her hand on the knob. The brightness in her eyes had dimmed and her faint smile of greeting lacked the usual Simone sparkle.

Nathalie was unprepared for the grimness of the apartment as she stepped inside. Unwashed dishes, clothes strewn about the chairs and sofa, papers scattered—this in a home normally tidier than her own. Candles were lit in front of a small painting of the suffering Christ and another of the Blessed Mother, with a halo. A dark mood hung in the air, grief mixed with apprehension and dwindling hope.

The door to Céleste’s room, which Simone used to share, was open a crack. Nathalie could hear the raspy, measured breathing of the sleeping child within. “I’m so sorry about Céleste. My mother told me she’s even sicker than before.”

“Oui,” said Simone, her voice flat. She sat in a tapestry chair, moving a rolled-up blouse to the side. “For a while she would get better, then worse again, then better. Now it’s just worse. The doctor comes by daily, but we may need to bring her to the hospital at some point.”

Nathalie sat in the middle of the sofa. Not right next to Simone’s chair, not too far away. “I pray for her every night.”

“Thank you,” said Simone.

Uncertain silence drifted between them. Minutes passed.

Or only seconds, perhaps.

Nathalie knit her fingers together, studying them as she wound them around one another.

“So,” began Simone, “Agnès. I—I don’t even know where to begin. I didn’t know her well, only knew her through you, and yet I see her face every time I close my eyes.”

Nathalie’s throat pulsed with sorrow. “Me, too.”

“As soon as I heard about Agnès, I realized how foolish this quarrel was … and I’m ashamed it carried on as long as it did.”

“I agree.” Nathalie couldn’t bring herself to look at Simone, because she was afraid she’d cry. And she’d done too much of that in recent days. She stared straight ahead. “I didn’t touch the glass for Charlotte. I needed to clear my head. But then for Agnès…” Her voice cracked.

Simone came to her side and put her arm around her, and Nathalie rested her head on Simone’s shoulder. They were quiet for a while. A comfortable quiet. When Nathalie felt like she was able, she told Simone everything that had happened, from her day with Agnès to her vision in the morgue to her conversation with Christophe afterward.

“So much has changed this summer,” said Nathalie.

Simone undid the bottom of her braid and weaved the blond strands again. “At least I’m still me and you’re still you. We grew up together. We’re still growing up together.”

“When will we finish that?”

“Never, I hope.”