When I wake up from my nap, I don’t know where I am for a second. Blinking, grimacing at the taste in my mouth that makes me think I recently ate something long dead and putrid, I sit up and search for the source of the weird sound that woke me up. It’s like the soft hum of an engine far away. Maybe it’s a plane.
Or a cat.
He’s staring at me from the foot of the bed and making the sound, which I realize is purring.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He stares.
“I like it when you do that,” I add, wincing only a little at the way the words come out.
He blinks. He yawns.
At least he doesn’t make fun of me.
I look over at the wall, to where Ansel’s painted storm swirls. The lightning I saw earlier is gone, so the light behind it is off. I’ve got to ask about that! What’s back there?
Swinging my legs over the bed, I check my phone. I have just enough time to engage in a little art therapy before dinner. Once my stick-figure of the ginger boy with coffee eyes and a mocking grin is complete, I toss him into the metal trash can and set him on fire with the match I found on the windowsill.
It’s a mini funeral pyre. Satisfying. The paper shrivels as orange flames eat Gavin from toes to torso to head. Acrid smoke hits my nose. He is ashes.
Au revoir, Pumpkin Head. You are gone.
“Good enough?” I ask the cat. I toss my cell to the bed and watch it slide off onto the floor. Fat Cat hops down from his spot on the quilt and stares at the screen with vague interest for a second, before he curls up and closes his eyes yet again. His fur is like a sooty winter sky. I like him, despite his complete lack of social skills.
I reach out a tentative hand and stroke his impossibly soft fur. He purrs again. I sit cross-legged on the floor next to my new friend. A funny, foreign-sounding police siren passes by outside. Fat Cat stands, stretches and stalks away, and I feel like I’ve been dismissed. I don’t mind. I get up too, and open the blinds so I can stare out at my new world.
By now the summer storm has ended, and the late afternoon sun casts a lemony glow on the city around me. Between pastel squares across the street is a narrow space where I glimpse a blur of blue water beyond rooftops and the shadows of palm trees. Quaint. Picturesque.
Freedom.
I lean my head on the cool glass. I have a chance for a new life, a real one, as long as I remember that I can’t talk. Flirting for the first time was a disaster. But Gavin was just so . . . pretty. Yeah, that’s it. I grin to myself. So he was a jerk. But he was a pretty jerk. I’ll give him that.
I already feel better. Guess I had to learn the hard way. I can’t forget the name I picked for meeting new guys. It’s May. One syllable. No long combination of sounds that are supposed to line up just right. Nothing to get tangled. No “R”s to screw up.
May. I like it.
And I can’t wait to try it out on someone. But for now, I really need to use the bathroom, so I hope Mom—
It hits me so hard I stop breathing. She’s not here. She’s far, far away. And I can leave this room any time I want.
My door opens with a soft squeak. The hall is empty and smells like dust and a musky perfume. There are framed black and white photos all along the walls, shots of the lost Ansel. I hear soft sounds from the kitchen. Sylvie, laughing. Émile talking, pots clinking, water running. My heart pounds in my ears and my palms start to sweat, because I’m not used to being alone like this.
The same thing happened on the plane for a while, until I finally took Benadryl and fell asleep.
Down the hall, I stumble into the bathroom. Yeah, the one Sylvie decided she had to share with strangers. I splash water on my face and the cold shocks me out of panic mode and I start breathing again.
When I look up from the towel, I see red. The wallpaper, the shower curtain, and the rug are covered in roosters. Blood red is the predominate color scheme. Isn’t that a kitchen thing? I brush my teeth and attack my tangles with such vicious energy I lose half my long hair in the process. When I pick up a painted wooden rooster that for some reason has long, human-like legs attached with wire, someone knocks at the door and I jump, dropping the thing on my bare toes.
Out of habit, I bite my lip to lock the word I was thinking inside my head, until I remember a nanosecond later that I am free to let it out. So I do. Under my breath. And it comes out all wrong.
Sylvie calls something in her chirpy voice and moves off down the hall.
I sit on the edge of the tub and rub my sore toes, repeating the curse word until it comes out right. I only feel mildly better when it finally does.
I’ve heard of support groups for people who drink or do drugs. They always introduce themselves by first sharing their weakness. It’s like, “Hi. My name is James, and I’m an alcoholic.” Or, “My name is Alina, and I’m a drug addict.”
My name is Rosemary, and I have a communication disorder. It has a name, too, but I can’t even say it.
So there you have it.
Lie Number Two: I am normal.
Truth: I am not.
Sylvie’s cat is waiting for me. I have to step over him to get back into the bedroom. He doesn’t move.
My phone beeps like R2D2. It’s a text from Zander. I take a deep breath.
Play your part. You’re not totally free. Not yet.
So I read the message with bleary eyes:
I yawn so wide I think my jaw is about to break.
My hand twinges as I type. That cut was deep. When I look down at my bandaged palm, I remember the tiny galaxy I saw there. If I were a real artist, I would draw or paint and try to recapture the feeling I had when I looked at the blood and sand on my skin and saw the Milky Way. But I’m not.
Zander texts back.
Crap. Now I’m wide awake. Zan’s the king of understatement. What he means is that Mom is about to have a Class A, Super-Sized, Medication-Necessary break down. I was supposed to call her when I arrived at the “Red Rock Youth Art Camp.” The one she thinks I’m attending in Arizona.
But I was busy. After the flight to Paris, I got my luggage and then had the most terrifying trip of my life. Clutching step-by-step instructions I’d carefully typed to help me get from airport to train station to cab to Sylvie’s shop, I ran away from my life. I knew I’d get lost. I knew I’d screw up. But I didn’t.
“Help me out, Fat Cat,” I say, looking over at my new roommate. The grey ball of fuzz who has now spread his considerable feline form across the single chair in the room opens one eye, blinks at me for a second, and closes that eye again. This cat is no help whatsoever. I flop back onto the bed and stare at my phone.
Lie Number Three: Zander is my friend.
Truth: Zander is Mom’s boyfriend. He’s not my friend.
I stretch stiff legs and yawn again. Yeah, Zander did a lot to convince Mom to let me go to “art camp.” He helped me get a passport and apply for a summer program in Paris. He took me to the Apple store to find out about international phone usage and how to deal with that. All the while telling Mom how great Arizona would be for me.
So, he lied to Mom. And I lied to him. And I’m still lying to him.
I have to. Because he has no clue about my mother. He doesn’t see what she’s really like.
So, after I think for a second, I send an email. Just a “sorry I forgot to call, Sedona is beautiful, thanks for letting me go to camp, blah blah blah,” message to make Mom happy.
Then I email Zander, “Paris is amazing, this will really help my art, I owe you, blah blah blah.”
I hit send.
Lie Number Four: I am in Arizona, according to my mother. I am in Paris, according to Zander.
Truth: I am in Nice, that palm-treed, stuccoed, touristy town in the south of France. No one knows this but me. Well, and one other person. It’s complicated.
Émile taps on the door as he calls my name.
“Entrez,” I answer, with slurred, fuzzy syllables that are way too loud. I keep forgetting that I told everyone I lost my voice. Idiot.
Émile enters and sits down in the wooden chair by the door. He smiles, and I grin in response. It’s so easy to like him.
“Ça va, Rosie? Your hand is okay?” he asks.
He called me Rosie. I like it.
I nod yes. I already feel comfortable with this ghostly man with his intense, dark blue eyes. I want to ask him about the strange glowing crack in the wall but I still can’t find the right words. Then Émile says something that blows the thought out of my brain.
“The Americans,” he says in escargot-paced French, giving me time to catch the words, “the ones we met in the shop? They are going to dine with us tonight. Sylvie has made new friends. Let’s go.”
Well, I was okay.