I’m here because I lied. A lot.
I know it was wrong, but I don’t care. I got away.
My world is no longer black and white. It’s alive with color. Blues and greens have melted together into a perfect painting of sea and sky. I smell the sharp sweetness of citrus. It must be coming from the trees that line the street and quiver in the soft Mediterranean breeze. I breathe in the scents of hot sun on sand, salty ocean, and a puff of sugary, vanilla air exhaled from a nearby bakery. A tram whirs by and clangs its bell. A couple passes, so close that the woman’s skirt brushes my bare legs with a whisper of touch. She murmurs in the unfamiliar cadences of a foreign language, leaving behind a cloud of gentle laughter. I start to laugh too. I take in my freedom like a drowning person gulps air. No matter how many more half-truths or total lies I have to tell, I’ll do it.
I won’t go back home.
Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I turn around. The sign above the shop door proclaims Sylvie’s Dream, in English. Something inside me feels like it’s warming, shifting, dissolving. My entire body wants to sag with relief, even though my pulse is now racing. I made it. I’m actually here!
The shop is on Rue Massena, part of Nice’s old town. This part of the city feels old. When I look up from the street, the pink and gold buildings lean into one another and crowd around me like they’re curious to find out who’s invading their space. The paint on the walls is faded and peeling, and laundry hangs from lines that stretch between windows. Towels, jeans, and underwear wave in the breeze.
It’s so different from anything I’ve ever known. I already love it. Now all I need to do is go in. At the thought, my heart flutters inside me like a bird flapping its wings, trying to escape from its cage.
Before I can lose my nerve, I step up to the door. They’re both here. Even before I got out of the cab, I could see them through the speckled shop window. The woman is Sylvie. The man, Émile. They are the new family I chose.
Physically, they’re as opposite as any two people can be. Sylvie is tall and thin, all dark hair and eyes, with skin a warm, melted chocolate brown. Émile is much shorter, no more than a few inches taller than I am. Nearly everything about him is light-colored. He has papery skin and white hair that make his indigo eyes jump out at you. When he stands beside Sylvie, he looks like a ghost.
I already know them. I already love them. But will they love me? Okay, back up a little. That comes later. For right here and now, what will they say? They didn’t expect me until next Friday, but here I am, thanks to a timing glitch. I misread the dates of the real summer program here in Nice when I was creating my fake art camp to fool my mother. I’m not supposed to be here yet, but I had no choice.
Go, I tell myself, suddenly feeling the need to swallow, hard. It’s time.
My entire body starts to tremble as I push through the strands of tiny brown seashells that form a tinkling curtain in the shop’s doorway. The handle of my case catches onto something and I stumble, but recover quickly and plant a smile on my face.
“Um,” I say, fumbling in my pocket for my carefully crafted note, but then Sylvie sees me and her face lights up like the summer sun.
“Rosemary, oui? C’est toi! It’s you,” she exclaims, before spewing a thousand more French-sounding syllables that I don’t understand, as her brown arms encircle me and squeeze. She smells like lemons and coconut, and in my head I see long stretches of pale sand against a turquoise ocean. A vision of freedom. My freedom.
Sylvie releases me and before I can process anything, Émile is before me, his face level with mine. His eyes crinkle as he grins. He takes my hand and squeezes softly.
“Bienvenue,” he murmurs. “Welcome.”
“Merci,” I whisper, and am horrified at how the word sounds as it leaves my lips, but no one seems to notice. Émile and Sylvie grin expectantly at me, so I finally take out my note.
Sylvie peers over her husband’s shoulder to read as I set my case down and gaze around me, trying to pretend that I’m not terrified, that I’m not desperate for this to work.
Sylvie’s artwork splashes color across the walls, like a paint factory explosion. There’s a battered cooler in the corner with a hand-written sign offering bottles of water, Orangina, ice cream, and candy bars. Stuff is piled everywhere. Books, necklaces, pottery, a rack of brightly colored skirts. It’s a place that holds the promise of hidden treasures for anyone who wants to look. Messy, but cozy. The tiny space extends soft arms that pull you into a warm hug, a lot like its owners. It’s perfect.
They look up from the note.
“Eh, bien, you are early, but it’s no matter,” Sylvie says in slow, careful French. “I am sorry that you’ve lost your voice. We’re so happy that you’re here! Émile will take you to your room.”
Émile takes my suitcase and gestures for me to follow him and I do, finally remembering to breathe. I suck in oxygen while we climb the narrow, wooden steps that lead up from the back of the shop. My new father says nothing. I’m sure it’s out of pity for the fake illness that caused me to lose my voice. I hope.
We move into a cool, dark hallway and Émile opens a door for me. I step inside and gasp. I’ve seen a photo of the room, of course, on Sylvie’s blog, but pictures never compare to reality. This room is warm and alive with color.
Émile smiles. “I hope you like your bedroom. It was our son’s.” With that, he places my suitcase onto the floor and turns to leave, before glancing back.
“You would like to rest?” he asks me, his eyebrows raised. His French is slow, too, even slower than Sylvie’s. They are so kind. So patient. I want to say something, but can’t make any words come out. Not a single sound. To cover my embarrassment, I kneel to tie my shoe, praying he hasn’t noticed that it wasn’t untied in the first place.
“Stay here as long as you like,” Émile says with a shrug. “Or you may join us in the shop, if you prefer,” he adds. “When you wish.” And with that, he is gone.
It worked. It worked!
I look around. My room, my beautiful new room, has forests and oceans and mountains painted all over the walls. It has stars and planets on the ceiling. A mustard-colored rug spattered with paint sits on the floor. On the bed is a vivid quilt that’s a kaleidoscope of colors. The room has a window that looks out over red-tiled roofs and palm trees. It even has a cat! Amber eyes glow up at me from the puff of grey fluff resting on the rug.
I was never allowed to have a pet. I stare at the pile of grey fur for a second, not sure what to do. Will it chase me from its territory? But the puffball simply closes its yellowy eyes and goes to sleep.
I turn back, close the blue-painted door, and stare at the knob. There’s no lock. On this side or on the other side.
It’s perfect.
A couple of tears spill down my face, but I swipe them away. My new life just started, and I’m going to live it. I’m going to head back down to the shop and get to know my new family.
But when I grasp the doorknob, I stop. I don’t want to leave just yet. I turn to check out the room one more time, straining a little to see the murals as the light from the window changes from bright to dim. Outside, clouds cover the sun and a summer storm spatters rain onto the glass. I don’t bother to turn on the light, though. I know this room well already. I walk along the walls, tracing the paintings with a gentle finger. The photo of this room on Sylvie’s blog was what started it all. It’s part of the reason that I’m here and why I chose Sylvie and Émile to be my new family.
The mural at the head of the bed is my favorite. A trail curves through a forest, then up the side of a steep canyon, where it angles back and forth in sharp switchbacks. Every so often, along the trail is a boy who carries a backpack and walking stick. The boy, lanky and brown like Sylvie, gradually grows taller. It’s their son, Ansel, now gone. He painted himself somewhere on the trail each year for his birthday. The figure at the very top of the cliff is Ansel at eighteen, heading to Paris. He’s smiling and pumping a fist into the air.
I kiss my fingers and touch them to the painted boy’s tiny head. “Thank you, Ansel,” I whisper. I couldn’t be here if he weren’t gone. “I promise I’ll take care of the room for you.”
A gleam of light glows on the wall a few feet away. I jerk my hand back in surprise. Painted on the other side of Ansel’s cliff is a wide expanse of stormy sky over a dark ocean. Streaks of bright lightning cross the gloomy haze, but one line of lightning extends downward in a straight line, cutting through sky and cloud until it plunges into the ocean. I move closer until my nose is practically against the paint and stare. The straight line, of course, isn’t painted lightning. It’s a crack in the wall, one so deep that light from the next room shines through it. Then, before I can even begin to wonder, the crack disappears.
What just happened?