Excerpt

This place felt different. Smelled different.

No longer could I inhale the aroma of fresh, warm bread as it came out of the ovens or the enchanting fragrance of newly grown lavender. Instead, it felt as though I had stumbled onto another street of Paris—not the Paris of my youth, but one that was now specifically catered to the hordes of tourists who flocked here, carrying their heavy cameras and posing in idiotic stances in front of attractions that looked familiar to me but felt alien.

There were signs that this was still the same place. From the city center, I could see the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, its ivory dome looming over the landscape like a mythical creature you had heard about as a child but had long forgotten about when you came of age. The cobblestone streets were the same and there was still a sense of worldliness in the air that French people prided themselves on having. Still, it wasn’t the same. This city, as well as the rest of the country, had changed. It was childish of me to think it would remain the same as it was when I left my home country all those years ago. Yet even then, I gloomily admitted to myself, this city and country had already changed for me.

Never had it been my intention to return to this place, with all its dark memories that I had successfully pushed into a closet of my brain, locking the door and effectively throwing away the key. However, as I went about my life and raised my family, I knew they were still there, desperate to burst free and live once more. Mark had seen it, mainly when those dreaded anniversaries came around and I became a shell of myself. One of the many, many regrets of my life had been never telling Mark the whole story before he passed and yet, when my eyes met him during those days and he merely looked at me, it was as if he already knew the whole torrid, disgusting tale.

My children were not as intuitive about such things. They preferred to come out and discuss topics like their father had taught them. Such an activity was against everything I had gone through, and the children knew that, hence why they stopped asking me about Paris, my family, and what my life had been like during the war before I met Mark. All were subjects that made me spiral for days afterwards and my children decided it was best to leave it alone. I had been content with that plan, but that was the funny thing about memories. They never ceased existing.

They came out gently at first, prompted by the most mundane tasks: washing the dishes in the sink, going through the flower market with my daughter, listening to a classic radio station that would suddenly play some unknown French song that no one else knew but seemed to be played specifically for me. Little things that allowed one of those tiny flashbacks to crawl out of the dark crypt where they had been buried.

One by one, they kept coming and as I sat at my kitchen table six months ago, I came to the haunting realization that I couldn’t keep up this façade. No longer could I pretend as if what happened had never occurred. It had. I had witnessed it all.

I needed to confront these memories, and I couldn’t do that from the safety of the house I had shared with Mark.

I had to return France, the country of my birth and where everything had gone so horribly wrong. Going by myself was out of the question, and my darling Mark had passed the year before, so I chose the person I leaned on more than ever: my eldest child, Christopher. Truthfully, I had been nervous to ask him. He was a young father and a work professional who lived for his students at the university where he taught. He had a life, and asking him to drop all of that to go on a seemingly spur of the moment trip to Paris felt so absurd that I nearly didn’t ask him.

However, I was glad I did. He had agreed without the slightest hesitation or concern—surely, he was excited to finally find the missing pieces of the family puzzle that he had long given up on learning about.

For him, it was an adventure.

For me, it was a bitter road I had never wanted to travel.

As I stood on the corner of the sidewalk, patiently waiting for Christopher to finish asking the store owner for directions, I felt as if I had made a mistake, especially when I told Christopher shortly after checking into our hotel where we had to go. He had scrunched his face at me, asking why we had to go immediately and why couldn’t we rest for a bit? It had been a long flight and he could see the exhaustion in my face. If we had to go now, could I at least explain to him why this place was so important? All perfectly reasonable questions, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain all of that and I insisted. Bless him, Christopher gave in without another word of protest, though I could tell he was still wondering why. I was tired, but I knew that no matter how fatigued I was, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in this city until I went to that place and confronted my memories. Only then would I find peace.

I glanced at Christopher, who was laughing at something the middle-aged store owner had said. When we had left the hotel and I began walking hurriedly down the sidewalks, I could feel Christopher’s concern for his mother’s odd behavior growing. While we waited to cross streets, I could feel his gaze darting to me. I didn’t meet his eyes, afraid of what his expression would say. Was he second-guessing his decision to come, or for not asking more questions beforehand?

It didn’t matter. Soon he would know everything. My only hope was that he wouldn’t hate me for telling him.

Even though I knew where I wanted to go, I didn’t know how to get there, and I finally admitted this with heavy embarrassment. Though Christopher stood directly before me, his voice was faint when he told me not to worry and that he would ask this store owner outside his business if he knew where it was.

Returning to the sidewalk, Christopher pointed forward, remarking we were on the right track and it was just another two blocks. Before he had a moment to ask me if I wanted to rest or grab a cab for the rest of the way, I bolted in that direction, Christopher nearly running after me.

My eyes scanned every building and landmark as I hurried along.  We were almost there. For the first time since returning to France I found this place familiar. The fading white of the apartment buildings, young children playing outside, oblivious to the people trying to get past them, and the gentle breeze that managed to break through the imposing structures. It was all like it had been when I was last there.

I heard Christopher calling after me to slow down, that my heart might give out if I pushed myself too hard. My children have never let me forget that one time two years ago when I had a mini heart attack. Officially it was because of high blood pressure, but I knew it had been brought on by years of repressed memories making their way to the surface. Though Christopher was right in his assertion, I couldn’t stop..

And then I saw it.

My heart stopped and all my brain would do was repeat the same statement.

I can’t believe it’s still there. After all these years it’s still there.

Foolishly, I hadn’t considered the possibility that it might not exist. Now, faced with reality, the entire event spills out of that dark corner and into the forefront of my mind. It’s impossible to stop the vivid, glossy detail and I am forced to tell the story once more.

For it is not my story that I have been hiding.

It is theirs.