Page 71 of Across Time

"I'll come find you," I say, forcing a smile, "and you will stuff me full of bread once more and send me on my way."

Her own attempt at a smile falters a little. She swallows. "Do you think we'll be here then?" she asks quietly. "You think we'll survive this war you say is coming?"

My eyes sting. The truth is I have no idea. Marie might survive, but how will Henri? Whether he remains on this farm or not, I know he’ll be fighting. If I were to visit again, even sometime in the next two years, he might already be gone.

"I can't imagine you not surviving just about anything," I tell her. "But I wish you'd consider going to the south of France. The farm will still be here when the war is over, I'm sure."

She smiles sadly. "I need to stay for my mother, and also Henri."

I nod, feeling choked up. "I guess you can always break the Germans' ankles and refuse to go back in time to fix them if they arrive at the farm."

"I owe you an apology for that,” she says. “My logic won’t make much sense, I suppose, but my mother…she thought you were in love with Henri. She said it was the reason she told you what she did when you visited. So when your ankle broke…”

“You thought it would give us more time together,” I conclude. I’d suspected as much already, but I can only admit to myself now that I was grateful for it.

“I see how ridiculous it was now,” she says. “Even if things had worked out, you'd have to give up far too much to stay back here with us."

I swallow. If Henri had ever tried to convince me to stay, he might have changed my mind. I suppose it's for the best that I'm leaving now, before it can happen.

I stare at my lap. “Maybe not as ridiculous as you think. But love requires two people in your time, just like it does in mine. Is he even coming to see me off?”

She swallows and stares at her feet. "He was gone when I woke and there’s been no sign of him. Just know that his absence is not due to a lack of feeling.”

My heart cracks. He's not coming to say goodbye to me, which means I will never see him again. I don’t plan to seek either of them out when I get home. Maybe years from now, when it’s all more distant and my life has moved on enough, I’ll be able to stand to learn what became of them both. But it won’t be anytime soon.

"I guess there's no reason to put it off then."

I rise, taking a look around the small house that feels like mine. I wonder if I will ever have this experience again. Even if things work out with Mark, any home we have won’t be this: a place where every real piece of me is allowed to reside.

Since I landed in the barn, I decide I should leave from there too. Marie says she'll come with me, and takes my hand as if I'm a child to walk me there.

"You are the only sister I've ever known. I know things are so much better where you are. But please know if you ever decide you want to come back, whether to visit or to stay for good, no one would be happier than I." She smiles through her tears. "No, that's not true. I suppose Henri might be happier."

I squeeze her hand. "Thank you for everything you've done. Please tell Henri—” my head drops and I clench my jaw to ward off tears. What do I want to say to Henri? Too many things, so I settle for none. I shake my head. "Just tell him I said goodbye."

She nods and releases my hand, taking a step away. I close my eyes and begin to focus on home. The year, the place. But at the last minute I turn to take one last glance at the hillside where Henri and I spent so many nights. I look out over the field and try not to long for the sight of him. I let thoughts of home fill me instead, and at last I can feel myself growing light, the air around me dimming as if suddenly night is falling.

And in the very last seconds, when the air begins to whip around me and my body feels the overwhelming tug of home, I see Henri running up the hill. And I’m not sure if it’s because I’m scared of what he will say, or if it’s just too late for me to stop, but the world goes dark and my body heads for home. The sight of his anguished face is the last thing I see before I go.

25

1987

I land in a strange place, striking a brick wall hard. It's daylight, but beyond that I can't think. I don't recognize anything. And I'm too tired to figure it out.

I know I need to fight the exhaustion, at least hide away somewhere. But all my thoughts and impulses are caving in along with my vision. I'm sucked into a spiral, and the truth is I don't really care. It feels like I left something vital with Henri, or maybe the vital thing I left was him.

* * *

I recognize the astringent smell of a hospital before I realize I'm in one. I have no idea how long I was asleep, but a doctor is speaking to someone rapidly, and it occurs to me through my half-functioning brain that my French improved dramatically while I was gone. Despite his speed, I understand him. There is no longer that heavy pause while I pick through the words to make sense of them.

We still don't know what she's taken, he says to the nurse. Have the police come up with anything?

They think I'm on drugs. I suppose it makes sense, given how they must have found me.

I try to speak but my throat is so dry it's a struggle to form the words. "I haven't taken anything," I reply, turning my head toward him. “Je n’ai rien pris.” He ignores me.

I try to push my hair out of my face as I sit up and discover that I can do neither. I’m tied to the bed, long white bands securing my torso, my forearms, my ankles.