I Am Here

Chèr Lucien,

I hope this letter finds you soon. You have not written in some time, and I know how you hate to stay in one place for too long.

I am sorry to say that I am writing to ask you to come home. Your father is very ill and will soon be unable to work, and his patients need a doctor. I hope this request is not too much to ask. And I hope you will not think it too much for an old woman to want her family all together one final time.

I hope to see you soon.

Bises, Maman

Lucien read the short letter about half a dozen times in a row. Each time, he felt a new emotion. Fear over his father's impending death. Anger at the requirement of returning to Ballarat. Guilt at the way his mother had practically begged him to come home.

Home. He scoffed. Such a foolish concept. Ballarat was where he was born, and it was where his parents lived. But it was no home to him. Nowhere had felt like home in a very long time.

One week later, he arrived on the doorstep of the house he had sworn he'd never return to. With a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

It opened and a strange woman appeared. She looked at him with big turquoise eyes and an expression of instant annoyance.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply.

"Jean Beazley. I'm the housekeeper," she replied. "Welcome home, Dr. Blake."

He sneered and pushed past her with his suitcase to go inside. She closed the door behind him and huffed, rolling her eyes.

Lucien saw that nothing had changed in the house in the last twenty years since he had been there. It was strangely comforting and infuriating all at once.

"Your father's with a patient, but I'll let your mother know you're here. We weren't expecting you," Jean said with a slight glare.

"I can tell her myself after I put my bags in my room," he replied stiffly, making his way toward the stairs.

"That's my room now, actually. You'll have to take the spare room next to the study. I'll make it up for you," Jean informed him.

In a moment of petulance, Lucien roughly dropped his bags on the floor. "Fine. Is my mother in the studio?"

"No, she's in the garden. You can tell her I'll bring the tea out to you in a bit," Jean instructed.

Lucien went out the back and found a thin, gray-haired woman sitting in a sunchair, intently sketching a red-gold plant. He stood behind her for a moment, quietly watching her work. He couldn't help but smile and feel serenely content in that moment. "That's a strange plant. I hope you can make it prettier when you paint it," he teased.

Genevieve startled slightly and turned her head. "Lucien! Come over here, mon chou! Let me look at you!"

He crossed to stand in front of her and grinned. "It's good to see you, Maman."

She sighed, "You look awful. Be sure to get a haircut and trim that horrible beard before the rest of Ballarat sees you."

"Yes, the trip was fine, thank you for asking," he replied facetiously.

Genevieve laughed and waved him toward her. "Oh, come here! It's too much trouble to get up."

Lucien bent down to embrace her. "Is everything alright? Why can't you stand?"

She chuckled into his shoulder as she held her son tight. "I am getting old, Lucien. You haven't noticed because we haven't seen you in six years."

He released her and pulled up another chair to sit beside her. Regarding his mother's appearance, he did notice a frailness about her that was new to him. He couldn't believe it had been so long since he had met his parents in Melbourne for dinner the last time.

Genevieve couldn't stop looking at him. He was always a sight to see, and never the same. As a boy, he had always been slight and energetic. When he'd gotten older, he was very tall and slender. It was when he joined the army, however, that he had gotten rather fit. But when he'd been brought to Melbourne to be treated in the hospital after the war, he had been emaciated and nearly beaten dead. It had taken a long time for him to get to the strong, solid, gnarled form he was now in, seated before her. She didn't remember him being quite so unkempt, but now that he was home, she could make sure he cleaned up properly.

"Since when do you have a housekeeper?" he asked abruptly.

"For about ten years."

"Why?" Lucien couldn't understand why there was a strange woman living in their house, in his room!

"I've known Jean from the Church. She fell on very hard times and lost her farm, so we offered her the position here. She's a very good woman. She works hard, and I think we'd be lost without her."

He frowned. "Why?" he asked again.

"Well, I've never been much for housework or cooking. And the older I got, the more difficult it was. Jean is a wonderful cook, as you'll see, and she keeps the house in perfect order, and she keeps the books and appointments for the surgery," she explained. "And most important, we love her very much. You will, too, I think. In time," Genevieve thought aloud, smiling knowingly.

Lucien just shrugged.

Jean then came out to the garden with a tray of tea things. "Here we are. Agnes Clasby just left, so Dr. Blake will be joining us shortly." She poured tea for Lucien and handed it to him and corrected, "The elder Dr. Blake."

"You'll have to call me Lucien. It'll be bad enough to have two doctors in the house. No need to confuse names," Lucien insisted.

"Very well," Jean replied with a nod. "By the way, I did fix up a room for you. And I moved your bags. You seemed very insistent on leaving them in the middle of the floor, but I wouldn't want anyone to trip."

Genevieve sipped her tea to hide a giggle. Jean had such marvelous…what had Thomas called it? Sass. Jean had sass.

"Madame, I'll take your things into the studio, if you'd like," Jean offered, having poured tea for everyone, leaving a cup free for Dr. Blake.

But Genevieve shook her head. "No, please stay here and have tea with us. You and Lucien should get to know each other. Jean, Lucien was just asking about the beautiful plant I was sketching."

"Beautiful is a strong word," Lucien derided.

Jean frowned, glowering at him. "It's an aloe plant. And it's mine."

They were interrupted by the loud sounds of coughing. Jean immediately stood up and rushed into the house. She returned a moment later, helping the Thomas Blake shuffle through the garden to where they sat.

Lucien was dumbfounded. His father really was very sick. Some sort of lung disease, by the look of him and the sound of that rather nasty cough.

Jean helped Thomas into a chair and handed him a handkerchief to cough into. When he settled down, she handed him a cup of tea.

"Thank you, Jean," Thomas rasped. "Lucien, welcome back," he greeted, turning to his son.

Lucien just gave a polite nod. He was suddenly filled with an irrational annoyance. How dare his father be dying! How dare he leave all of this terrible monotonous nonsense to Lucien! If he hadn't refused to disappoint his mother as constantly as he had in his youth, Lucien wouldn't have bothered coming back at all.

And now, with his father barely noticing his presence, a housekeeper staring daggers at him, and his mother kindly pitying him, Lucien regretted his decision to return. "I am here," he stated with a resigned sigh.