Nine

Tuesday morning

January 29, 2019

“MAMAN, ON PEUT manger un croissant au chocolat? S’il vous plait? S’il vous plait?” She was walking with her daughter to the local bakery, Chez Amandine, known for the best patisserie this side of the Atlantic. She held her hand very tightly, as the traffic was heavier and faster than usual. They chatted away with each other, and she felt perfectly at peace with the world. She didn’t think it could get much better than this. They stopped at the red light and waited for the little white figure to tell them it was safe to cross. She felt her phone vibrate, and paused to check it, letting go of her daughter’s hand just for a moment. Julie ran towards the bakery across the street directly into the oncoming cars. Danielle screamed at her to stop, but there was a sickening screech of tires, and the excruciating sound of shattering glass. It was too late. Danielle screamed and screamed, but no sound came out of her. The driver jumped from her car, and people gathered to stare, but she was paralyzed, frozen to the sidewalk. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t look. Danielle Champagne woke up soaking in sweat. Her night dress was drenched, as were her freshly laundered sheets. She looked around her bedroom, now filled with delicate early morning sunlight, and reminded herself that her daughter, Julie, was seventeen years old and very much alive. It was just another terrible dream.

Danielle took a few minutes to bring herself back to the real world, and peeling off her wet nightie, headed straight to the shower. She had a huge day ahead, and she would have to gather every bit of her energy to get through it. As the water poured over her body, she realized she was still very shaken by the collision with whatever animal was in that tunnel. She hadn’t really slept much all weekend. Danielle examined her face in the enormous bathroom mirror. Those bags under her eyes wouldn’t go away, no matter how much of that stupidly expensive cream she applied. Someone once suggested she try Preparation H hemorrhoid cream. It would be a lot cheaper. Although she inherited great legs from her mother, she also got her eye bags. Danielle applied even more cover-up and powder, and overall, thought in the right light she’d be okay.

She selected a salmon-colored power suit for the insanely busy day ahead. It was a bold choice, and very feminine. She wanted them to know she wasn’t afraid to be a woman. That morning she had a critical meeting to discuss the expansion of her company into the northeastern United States, and then an interview for a local TV station. Then she was flying to Toronto for meetings in the afternoon and catching the red-eye home that night. It was the kind of day she lived for. Danielle headed straight for the espresso machine and started to prepare a triple. On the breakfast peninsula lay the remains of Julie’s breakfast—a half-eaten bowl of granola and yogurt, and an empty coffee cup. She’d already left for school but had written her mother a note—à bientôt, hasta luego, arrivederci, bis später, see you later, alligator!! xoxo. Julie wanted to study linguistics at university and already spoke four languages fluently. Danielle wanted her to study at the Sorbonne or Oxford and couldn’t quite believe that was even a possibility, but it was. Julie was a brilliant student, and at this point in her life, Danielle could afford it. She wanted to make everything possible for her daughter.

As she waited for her assistant, Chloé, to text her that she was waiting in the car outside, Danielle scrolled through her emails on her phone, and nibbled at a piece of dry rye toast. Her new boyfriend, Sidney, had made reservations at Joe Beef for tomorrow evening. Danielle smiled at the thought of him. He was a lovely man, made few demands, and seemed to actually love being with her. Of course, it would all go south sooner or later, probably sooner, but for now she decided to enjoy the idea of being a little bit in love, and to imagine he was a bit in love, too. Danielle answered his text and quickly flicked on the local news on her kitchen television. A polar vortex was bringing life-threatening cold to Chicago—which was now colder than Antarctica. The weather woman was somewhat hysterically announcing that it was so cold a person’s corneas could actually freeze. The thought of Americans shivering in the cold made Danielle smile. Her friends from south of the border often teased her about the igloos all Canadians lived in, and how they got to work by dogsled. Then the news shifted to the trial of Bruce McArthur—who was accused of killing homeless gay men in Toronto. An awful story, that. The police kept digging up their remains, buried in people’s gardens where McArthur had worked as a landscaper. Danielle switched to the local news. As usual, there was lots of coverage of the big storm, stock images of cars buried in snow and people leaning into the blizzard clutching at their coats. She turned up the volume as the Atwater Tunnel appeared on the screen. The body of an unidentified female had been discovered near the tunnel on Monday morning. Then there were images of paramedics loading a body into an ambulance. She appeared to have been a victim of a hit-and-run, and police were investigating. There were no more details. Danielle Champagne managed to get off her chair and to the kitchen sink just in time to violently throw up.