Page 56 of The Paris Agent
“There were times when I was younger when I felt everything that happened in my life—big or small, happy or sad—led my mind right back to the question of who my biological parents were and what became of them,” Theo says. I wince inwardly, cursing myself and the rawness of my emotion. Here I am complaining about losing Mum after sharing more than twenty years with her to someone who never knew his parents at all. Theo smiles kindly as if he’s read my mind. “Grief isn’t a competition. It can’t ever be compared, actually. I’m just telling you that because I want you to know that as I got older, I learned how to live with the reality I faced even though I’d never have chosen it.”
“Mum was a teacher. She was teaching grade six last year. She was always a morning person and she always loved to walk, so she’d get up before dawn and take Wrigley for a nice long stroll before school,” I blurt. “Dad woke up that day to the sound of Wrigley crying, scratching at the window to their bedroom.” I wave vaguely toward their room—the largest bedroom, right at the front of the house. “There was blood everywhere—all over the window and at the front door. His front leg was badly broken and he was alone. Dad woke me up so I could try to help Wrigley. I had no idea what was going on but I knew it was bad. I carried the poor thing inside and he was howling in pain and distress. Dad knew Mum’s walking route, so he ran to check on her.”
I turn toward the kettle as it starts to whistle. I flick it off at the switch then reach for two tea bags, frustrated with myself. Why am I telling Theo all of this? I barely know him, and this is going to make me cry. I can’t seem to stop myself though. The words are tumbling out even as I’m making cups of tea, my voice rough with tears and anger and frustration at the injustice of it.
“Dad found Mum a few blocks away. Someone had run off the road—pinning Mum and probably Wrigley between a fence and their car. But the bastard reversed out and drove off and left them both to die, and the police never found out who did it. That dog ran three blocks on a shattered front leg to try to get help, and because of his bravery, Dad got to be with Mum as she took her last breath. He got to...” I pause to clear my throat and collect myself. “To tell her he loved her one last time and he got to hear her say it back. When I say Wrigley is a hero, I really mean it.”
I exhale when I finish, and I’m startled to find the breath comes easier than the ones before it. I haven’t talked much about Mum’s death since Billy and I broke up. He told me that I had to let it go. It had been months since her death but I just kept going on and on about it and I “wasn’t fun anymore.” I told myself I’d stop burdening him and tried hard to stop talking about Mum and my shock and my grief, but within a week of that conversation I realized I resented Billy McDougal so much I could barely stand the sight of him.
Notfunanymore? Of course I wasn’t fun. I missed my mother so much it hurt to breathe.
I told Billy I needed some time and he called me a miserable bitch. I handed back my engagement ring then and there, and that was the end of it.
I crawled inside of myself after all that. I stopped talking about Mum altogether, even to my friends. You’re not supposed to be depressed and grieving for a parent in your early twenties—you’re supposed to be out enjoying life and building a career and making good things happen. I tried to pretend that’s exactly what I was doing, even if I felt miserable the whole time. I couldn’t talk to Dad because he was grieving too. I couldn’t talk to Aunt Kathleen because every time I saw her, my throat seemed to close over. Almost every moment I spent with her for most of my life, Mum was there too. Aunt Kathleen never wants to spend time with meandDad, but it hurts to be alone with her.
It’s been hard to carry my grief all alone but I told myself it was easier to do that than it was to try to share it with someone else only to have them push me away.
I turn back to Theo, expecting to find him staring awkwardly at the ground. But no—Wrigley is at his side, tail wagging vigorously as he leans against Theo’s leg, but even as he pets the dog Theo is looking right at me, his eyes brimming with compassion.
What a relief it is to find myself in the company of a man who is not terrified of difficult emotions.
“No one should have to lose a loved one like that,” he says softly. “Life is so unfair sometimes.”
“It really is,” I say, then look down at the cups in my hand and offer him one with a feeble laugh. “After all of that, do you actually want a cup of tea or did I just make you one to give myself something to do while I was spilling my darkest trauma at you?”
He laughs gently too as he accepts the cup, but quickly sobers.
“I couldn’t find anything in the microfiche about ‘Fleur.’ I’m sorry, Charlotte.”
“Ah,” I say. “That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? Thanks for trying anyway.” A sudden thought strikes me. “Oh no! I’ve also gotten nowhere with Mrs. White so you drove all the way up here for nothing.”
For a minute, Theo looks dumbstruck, but then he says unconvincingly, “Oh, I had a friend to check in on up here anyway.”
I don’t believe him, but I am starting to suspect Theo might be enjoying my company as much as I’m enjoying his, and that sends a warm flush through me.
“Want to come and sit out in my dad’s beautiful garden?” I suggest. His glasses are askew. There’s a faded stain on the white T-shirt he wears. But he smiles all the way up to those big, kind eyes and I never want him to leave.
“I’d be delighted.”
The afternoon has flown by, and Theo and I are still in the garden chatting when I remember I’ve been meaning to try Harry’s office again. He refreshes our cups of tea while I’m inside sitting at the hall table, listening to the number ring out. I sigh impatiently as I hang up, then we automatically wander back out to the garden and take our seats again.
“No luck?” he surmises as he passes me my tea. I shake my head. “She’ll answer eventually. Keep trying.”
“I will,” I say. He hesitates, then he clears his throat.
“I suppose that must have seemed strange last week with me and Harry.”
“It did.”
“You might have noticed a rather imposing locked door behind his desk.”
“I wondered about that.”
“Harry has access to all manner of classified files. With supervision, his students can assist with recording or transcribing oral histories, but from there, every little record is kept under lock and key—usually at the national archives, although from time to time he brings specific objects to the university for concentrated work. He treats every single object as sacred. I’m certain that’s why he has Mrs. White sat way down the other end of that hallway—it makes no sense given how closely they work together, but she smokes like a chimney and he won’t allow cigarette smoke near historic documents. Every object that he signs out from the archive is taken under lock and key into that secure room.”
“What does that have to do with you?” I ask. Theo stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles, then looks up to the blue sky above us.
“Do you remember I asked your father if they took the car that day at Salon-La-Tour because Fleur had injured her ankle?”
