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Philippe and Elodie were eating dinner in the kitchen Wednesday when the phone rang. Philippe excused himself from the table and stood to pick up the receiver, which hung near the door to the dining room. He hoped to hear Meredith’s voice.
“Mr. Rouviere?” A young woman spoke on the other end of the line.
“Yes?”
“I’m the person Meredith stayed with. You dropped her off last week? I’m sorry to tell you—she was doing stuff I just couldn’t tolerate, coming home late, banging around, waking me up, and vomiting all over the place. Then passing out, so I had to clean it up.”
“Yes, I know,” Philippe said quietly. He knew what was coming. He leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen for support.
“So I told her to leave. She did a little while ago.”
Philippe felt complete dread for Meredith in the pit of his stomach, making him nauseous. Elodie was watching him, eyes huge.
“Do you know where she went?”
“No, she was furious, so I couldn’t ask her. After she was gone, I saw that she took some things from my apartment, nothing really valuable, but sentimental—my ashtrays and candle holders that I brought back from India.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll reimburse you.”
“Never mind, just if you see them again, get them back to me.”
“Did somebody pick her up? Did you see them?”
“It was a man with a car. I don’t know his name.”
“I see.” The nausea built.
“I’m sorry for all you’re going through.”
Philippe, the politest of men, couldn’t say goodbye because his throat was so constricted with grief and dread. He tried hard to speak, then simply hung up.
“Tell me, what’s happened?” Elodie asked softly. She set down her fourchette ever so quietly. It rested next to her small piece of poulet. The small green mound of épinards on her plate huddled miserably.
Philippe thought that his wife, and everything on her plate, looked exhausted.
“That same creep that brought her here—well, I don’t know that for a fact—” Philippe sank onto a red kitchen stool with a sigh. “She got kicked out of that girl’s house. I don’t know where she is now.”
“Oh dear God.”
“My gut has one hundred fires in it.”
Elodie poked her chicken, then the spinach, with distaste.
“We’ve got to pray even harder,” she said. “Only Seigneur can help her now.”
“I’m weary of prayer. I’ve been praying for Meredith ever since I knew you were pregnant with her. It’s excruciating to have twenty years of prayer ignored.”
“Not ignored, mon cher, just not answered yet.”
“He’s got to hurry up.”
“I know.”
By mutual, silent agreement, they left their plates where they were, straggled to the living room, and sank onto the couch. They held hands as Elodie, the only one with a speck of strength, prayed.
