“You’ll live with someone in Fiona’s family. We do not yet know who. Not me, though.” I told them about my sister and grandmother, how we lived in our own cottage.
“Mais vous et Fiona êtes mariés?” Beaumont asked. But you and Fiona are married?
I shook my head and left it at that. Explaining the complicated relationship I shared with Fiona was not possible for any eight-year-old to understand, especially given the language barrier.
“We want to live with you and Fiona,” Bleu said. “In the mountains. Like a real family.”
I didn’t know what to say, other than to tell them to eat their gelato before it melted.
“Will she marry James instead?” Bleu asked. These boys didn’t miss much, language barrier or not, I thought.
I closed my eyes, pained at the image his question brought to mind. A picture of Fiona in a wedding dress with James by her side made me worry my lunch would come up. The idea of it made me ill. No, I reminded myself. They were not interested in each other. Fiona loved me. I had yet to know what to do about it. I couldn’t seem to bring myself to tell her the truth of my feelings. Any time I tried, the words would not come and the feelings of fear and guilt overtook me.
“You must not let her marry James,” Bleu said. “She is made for you.”
I didn’t know if the meaning was lost in translation until Beaumont said, “Elle est votre âme sœur.” She is your soul mate.
“No, princesse,” Bleu said. “Et vous un prince.”
“How do you know about âme sœur?” I asked. “Or princesse?”
“We have mother once upon a time,” Beau said. “She read to us from a book with fairy tales. We learned about princesses and how they’re rescued by their prince.”
“I don’t think Fiona needs rescuing,” I said more to myself than them. “Even if she thinks she does.”
“She rescued us,” Bleu said. “She’s very brave.”
We could agree on that, I thought.
“You marry her and we’ll be a family,” Beaumont said. “In America.”
How was this boy talking all of a sudden? The kite flying had loosened his tongue.
“It’s not so simple,” I said, even though I knew they couldn’t possibly understand. They didn’t seem to notice that I looked different than Fiona. Growing up in Emerson Pass, no one had noticed either. The other children were accustomed to us. They didn’t see any differences. Maybe children were incapable of noticing the distinctions of one race over another. Or, if they noted them, those variances meant nothing to them. Kids were kids. Later, they would learn to see every nuance of race and somehow that would translate into hate.
“J’ai prié pour une famille,” Bleu said. Prayed for a family. “And then you come.” He made a swooping gesture with his hand. It was like the way Fiona had stormed in and taken them from the ring to the apartment.
Beaumont’s face lit up into a smile. His cheeks had filled out over the last few weeks. The little street urchin was no longer visible. “We will go America. Be family,” he said before taking another lick of his gelato.
How was it possible to resist them or Fiona? For the thousandth time since arriving in Paris, I wondered if I was doing the right thing, resisting love? These boys, even after all they’d experienced, were embracing the love offered them. Why couldn’t I?
A week or so later,we took the boys out to ride the carousel. By the time we got home, we were all tired from the heat and walking so much. When Fiona suggested a simple supper at home for all of us, I agreed.
Gabriella had the night off. Fiona had convinced her to take a few days off to visit her mother in her village north of Paris in the Champagne region. We’d taken for granted how much she’d done with the boys, given our exhaustion that evening.
“I don’t know how Jo does it,” Fiona said, stifling a yawn. “Boys, please go wash up for supper.”
They didn’t need me to translate commonplace phrases. Every day they picked up more.
We gave them their baths and got them into their pajamas. Fiona and I took turns reading to them before bed. One book in French and another in English. We’d gotten a half dozen books from the bookshop on the corner and by now we assumed they had them memorized. I figured it would help with English phrases to see the same story again and again.
I cuddled with Beaumont on one twin bed, and Fiona took the other. Since we’d ordered the beds, I’d slept in the sitting room on one of the couches. It wasn’t bad and I didn’t complain, because Fiona would have offered up her room to me, which was out of the question. I was her guest. She needed to sleep in her own bed.
Bleu scratched his head. This went on for the length of the storybook. Then I noticed Fiona also itching her head.
Oh dear,I thought. Nits. Fai and I had had them the summer before we moved in with the Barnes. Grandmother had used a comb to painstakingly remove them.
“Does your head itch?” I asked Bleu in French.
He nodded, looking ashamed. He knew. They’d had them before, obviously.
“What about you?” I asked Fiona.
“A little.” She flushed. “You don’t think it’s nits, do you?”
“Could be. I’ll need to examine you all in a better light.” I instructed the boys to head into the living room for inspection.
I sat them down side by side on the sofa and turned on a side table lamp. With the comb, I lifted Bleu’s thick hair first. Although the style was now short, the thickness remained. Regardless, right away I saw the tiny insects on the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Yes, there they are,” I said.