Chapter 9
The warning light went off, signalling that they could remove their seatbelts and move around. Matthew looked out of the window, watching as the plane gained height. Soon, he could no longer see the ground, covered by fluffy white clouds that seemed to hang in the air, unmoving.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. "Don't like flying?" his seatmate asked.
Matthew smiled tersely at him. "Not really. This is my first time on a plane by myself" he admitted.
The man grinned at him, flashing perfectly white teeth against his dark skin.
"That's cool. Where you going?" he asked.
Matthew realised the attempt to distract him, and welcomed it. "I'm visiting relatives" he replied.
The man seemed to pick up on the hesitance in his voice, and raised an eyebrow curiously.
"Not on good terms with the folks, huh?"
"No. I've actually never met them." Matthew found himself relaxing. It felt strangely good to tell a complete stranger his story.
"Whew. Sounds rough" the guy said. "I'm Carlos, by the way." He extended a hand. Matthew shook it. "Matthew."
With the introductions over, they began chatting. Matthew discovered that Carlos was from Cuba, going to France for some sight-seeing after having graduated college early. He had studied photography, and hoping to get some good images of French architecture for a blog he ran. When Matthew admitted that this would be his first time in France, Carlos offered to show him around, saying that he been before and knew the good tourist spots. Matthew accepted gratefully, amazed that he had managed to strike up a conversation so easily.
When the warning light came on again, the two stopped chatting for a brief moment while they sorted their luggage and seat belts. The landing was gentle, luckily, and it wasn't long before Carlos was helping him lift his bag down from the overhead shelf. The two walked towards the arrivals together, waiting for their suitcases on the carousel.
"Well, I guess this is it. Thank you very much for all your help" Matthew said.
"It's cool. Hit me up when you're in town, ok?" Carlos grinned at him. The two exchanged goodbyes, Carlos saying that he had sorted his hotel already and apologised for having to rush to check in. Matthew smiled back, waving at him. He looked around the airport. Amelia had shown him a picture of Francis, so he knew who he was looking for. The problem was, his father appeared to be nowhere in sight.
Matthew clutched the handle of his suitcase tighter, trying to hold back a rising sense of panic. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, and followed the signs to the help desk.
He didn't get very far, however.
"Mattieu! Mattieu!"
He spun round, anxiety and relief flooding through him. He stopped dead as he saw the man who must be his father running towards him. His mind went blank, his view shrinking to the man coming towards him. His brain ran a thousand miles a second, automatically taking in the sight, the similarities between them.
Francis drew to a halt a few feet away from Matthew. One hand rose to cover his mouth, a hint of tears coming to his eyes. Matthew simply stood where he was, frozen. They stared at each other in silence, drinking in the sight of each other's faces.
The same golden hair, slightly longer than his own. Bright blue eyes, creased with worry and apology. Smartly dressed, looking far younger than his years, and very fashionable. Matthew suddenly felt very nervous, in his plain, worn jeans, chosen for comfort, and his favourite red chequered shirt worn over a simple t-shirt. His glasses hung on the bridge of his nose, and the laces of one of his scruffy converse were frayed. He looked down, biting his lip with nerves.
"Matthieu?" He looked up tentatively at the sound of his name again. Francis reached out a hand to him, as though scared to touch him. Matthew simply stood still, unsure. After a long moment, his instinctive politeness kicked in. He reached out his hand and shook Francis'. His father looked vaguely confused by the gesture, then, surprisingly, laughed.
The tension between them dissolved, and Matthew smiled tentatively. Francis reached out again, this time gesturing to Matthew's suitcase. Matthew let go, allowing his father to take it.
They walked across the airport in silence, both wanting the other to speak first. Francis led his son to a corner of a café, in a remarkable similarity to his conversation with Lovino, just a few hours ago. He was startled out of his thoughts by his father suddenly breaking the silence.
"So. Um, oh goodness, I really do not know where to start. Matthieu, I am so, so, terribly sorry for everything I have done. I do not expect you to ever forgive me, but please, please give me a chance to explain."
Matthew blinked in surprise. He nodded, not quite trusting his voice enough to reply. Francis coughed, clearing his throught.
"Alright. I shall start from the beginning." His voice wasn't as accented as Matthew expected, perhaps from his time spent abroad. Or perhaps he was making an effort for him, as Amelia had warned him during the only time she relented enough to speak to him over the phone that his son had not learnt his father's language. Francis continued.
"I first met Madeline, your mother, in college. We were both studying in the same university, although not on the same course. She was a literature student' (well, that explained Matthew's love of reading, then) 'while I was studying French. I had chosen to study abroad to widen my horizons, and Canada had seemed the best place for that. It was close enough to France that I would not feel too homesick, yet still had the excitement of being a foreign country.
We became close. I helped her with her language studies, she helped me with the English parts of my course. We fell in love, as you would expect. We married when we finished college, and you were born a year after. We had everything. A beautiful house, a wonderful marriage, and of course you. Our perfect, darling little boy."
His voice halted. Matthew blinked away a tear, imagining it in his head. His mother, young and pretty and full of life. Francis as he would have been then, tall and strong, the two living in a world of bliss and happiness.
"Then it happened. It was a complete accident, they said. It was early winter. It gets cold so quickly there, you see. She was walking along the street, and a truck lost control on the ice. They told me afterwards that she had likely died (his voice stuttered slightly, but he carried on) on impact, and did not suffer. You were barely a year old. You had been with me the whole day. She had only gone out to get some groceries. She said she wanted some fresh air after being inside all day. She was only supposed to be out for a few minutes." His voice trailed off. He looked around, then turned back to Matthew, as if seeking reassurance to continue. Matthew swallowed hard, but nodded.
Francis looked down at his hands, unable to face his son.
"I will never forgive myself for what I allowed to happen. My only excuse was grief. Like so many, I found it so difficult to cope without her, and make sure you were alright. There were days, I think, that I did not eat, or sleep, or do anything. But you I made sure did not suffer. Please, Mattieu. You have to believe me. I made sure that you never knew what was wrong, never suffered for a moment. I- I could never have lived with myself if I had allowed anything to happen to you, even for a moment." He was staring at Matthew now, his eyes burning with intensity.
Matthew simply looked back at him, not knowing how to respond. Francis seemed satisfied, however, and kept speaking. He took a deep breath.
"It was perhaps half a year later that everything…fell apart. I do not quite know what happened, only that I realised at some point that I could not carry on. I had lost contact with many people, I had left my job to look after you, and I knew that I simply could not cope anymore. You looked so much like her, and every day I awoke to you lying in your crib, oblivious. I began to think that it was my fault, that I was being punished. I had' again a pause, and he blinked the moisture from his eyes- ' I had lived a life I was not proud of when I was younger. Meeting your mother felt like I had been saved – a cliché, I know' he said, with a self-deprecating shrug , 'and when you were born, it was like I was forgiven. Losing her felt like a punishment of the worst kind, like my happiness had been suddenly stolen away from me. I convinced myself that it was my fault, that I did not deserve to grieve, and worse, that I did not deserve you.
I think some part of me realised that I could not go on like this. Please, Mattieu, please believe that I did what I truly thought was best at the time. I truly did believe that I did not deserve you, that you deserved so much better than a father like me, and so I made my plan. I asked your aunt to take you for a few days. I made up a story about going back to work and needing a few days to sort everything out. So I filled a suitcase with your clothes, another with your toys, and brought you to your aunt's. She had a son of her own, a little boy the same age as you – his name is Alfred, is it not?- and I thought that it was perfect. Not only would you grow up loved and cared for in a way I could not bring myself to do, but you would not be alone.
That night, I locked myself in my room. I had ordered a ticket back to France, to depart as soon as I could. I did not give myself time to think, for I knew that if I did, I would regret everything. So I did not stop until I had packed a bag with nothing but a change of clothes and some money, and I left.
My family were very angry when I arrived home, alone. My mother was the only one who seemed to understand. After a while, they gave me the space I needed. I do think that this was the best thing I could have done. During the next few years, I struggled between desperately wanting to go and take you back and beg for your forgiveness, and knowing that you were in the best place, far happier than you would have been with me. My mother called me a fool, many times, but she was firm that I should not contact you until you were old enough to know, and hopefully understand, the truth." Now his voice caught again, and he steadied himself before continuing. Matthew felt matching tears rise to his own eyes.
"She first fell ill a few month ago. We thought it nothing more than an aggravated cold; she is not young, and these things can take a while to recover. As the weeks passed and she did not return to health, we knew that there was something wrong. We did not want to suspect the worst, however."
Matthew hung on his fathers' words. He knew what was coming next, but it did not make it easier to hear.
Francis tried to keep his voice steady. "She has pneumonia. It will not be long, the doctor says. So she has asked me to bring you to her, and tell you everything. That I have done. I can only beg for your forgiveness. If you would allow it, I would very much love if you would agree to meet her. You have a whole family here, Mattieu, and they would very much like to meet you. They would like to be a part of your life, if you would let them. As would I. I know I do not have the right, but I beg you. Please try to let me begin to make amends. I will do whatever you ask. Just, if you would, even if you decide you do not want me in your life, I would beg the selfishness to ask you to please meet your grandmother, just once. That is all I have to say. Whatever I have done if the past, I have never stopped loving you, Mattieu, and I would be honoured if you would let me show it."
Matthew sat in silence, letting his father's speech sink into his mind. He pursed his lips, thinking. The first thought to enter his mind, rather irrationally, was that the whole story was exactly the type of thing that arts and film festivals would adore.
Cannes would love this. He bit back a laugh, knowing the thought was simply due to the excess of emotion swirling inside him.
That aside, on a serious note, the one thing he was certain of was that he did not hate Francis. The man clearly had a flair for the dramatic, but it must have been very difficult for his father to do this, and Matthew owed it to him to at least give him the chance to do what he asked.
He looked at Francis. His father was biting his lip in worry, looking far younger than his 37 years. He opened his mouth.
"I am sorry, Mattieu, I know I can never-'
"I forgive you" he stated quietly.
"I only- Pardon?" Francis stared at Matthew in surprise.
"I forgive you" he repeated. He stared back at his father. "I can't even begin to imagine what you went through. Grief does strange things to people, and I know that you couldn't possibly have been thinking straight. Whatever reason you did it for, I grew up with a loving mother and brother in a wonderful family, and I am very grateful for that." He paused, not liking his next words, but knowing it had to be said. He tried to phrase it in the politest way he could.
"It wasn't easy to learn that everything I knew was…different to what I believed, but I do not blame you for it. I understand. I'm actually glad that everyone kept it from me. I don't think that I would have understood if I had been told when I was younger. Keeping it from me allowed to grow up with Al as my brother and Amelia as my mother. We were very happy. We still are." He tried to smile.
"I won't lie, it's a lot to take in to find out that I have a whole new family that I've never met. But of course I will meet them. All of them. And" he stopped, suddenly feeling shy. Francis leaned forward unconsciously, hanging on his son's words.
"And I would very much like to get to know you, if you want to" he said.
"Yes! Yes, Mattieu." He nodded frantically, thanking Matthew over and over again in a mixture of English and French. His eyes filled with tears, and he hid his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Matthew jumped back in his seat, not sure whether to comfort his father or not. He reached out a hand, then withdrew it.
As if sensing his son's distress, Francis lowered his hands, wiping away his tears with long, delicate fingers. He smiled at Matthew, his face lined with relief. He regained his composure.
"You have made me very happy, Mattieu. I cannot thank you enough." He pushed a hand through his long hair, then stood up suddenly. He reached out his hand.
"Would you like to go home? Everyone is very excited to meet you."
Matthew smiled tentatively, accepting his father's hand and standing up. At once, Francis drew him into a fierce hug. Matthew stiffened, then relaxed into his father's embrace, feeling somehow safe, complete, in the feel of the strong arms around him. Francis was taller than him, he realised in slight shock. It felt good to have someone taller than him for once, and he leaned into the embrace. He felt tears spring to his eyes.
Francis drew back in worry. "Mattieu? Oh, mon petit, please don't cry. Please. I am sorry, I should not have dared, I was too forward'
"-Its fine" Matthew cut him off, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. "I'm happy, its happy tears." He took a deep breath and smiled brightly at Francis.
"If it's ok, could we go now, please? I would like to see the house. Mo-Amelia showed me some pictures, it looks wonderful."
Francis beamed. "Oui, it is a beautiful house." His face turned nostalgic, and sad. "But please do not force yourself. I understand that for you, Amelia will always be your mother, and you should not stop calling her that for me."
Matthew bit his lip, the unspoken question hanging in the air. Francis answered for him.
"Call me whatever feels right for you. I do not expect that you will call me Father; I have not earned that right. You can call me whatever you are most comfortable with."
Matthew frowned. "What did I call you before?"
Francis blinked in surprise. "Well, uh, you had only just begun to talk. But you called me papa." His face lit up with the memory.
"Papa." Matthew tried it out. "It's Pére in French, isn't it?"
Francis looked surprised, but nodded. "Oui, Pére is the formal. Papa is more, close, I suppose you would say."
Matthew thought about it. He didn't quite feel ready to call Francis father, and he felt a little old to be saying papa, but on the other hand he would feel uncomfortable calling him by his name. A thought occurred to him.
"Can I call you Dad?" he eventually asked.
Francis tilted his head in confusion. "Of course, Mattieu, but is that not what you call your father at home?"
Matthew shook his head. "No. Well, I do, but.-" He sighed. "Mom and dad – uh, Allen, got divorced when Al and I were little. She remarried when we were almost seven. Al calls Arthur dad, but I never really felt comfortable with it. I guess maybe I subconsciously knew that neither Allen or Arthur are my real father. So, it just seems, uh, right, somehow."
Francis nodded. "I am very glad, Matthieu. Of course, you can call me whatever you wish. 'Dad' will take a little getting used to, I will admit, but it is the least I can do." He frowned, his face taking on a vaguely sad look.
"On that note, what do you want me to call you? I don't suppose you would like me to use a pet or family name. Perhaps what your friends call you at school? he asked.
Matthew shook his head again. "No. I get called Matt, or Mattie, and I don't really like it."
"Is Mattieu alright then? That is how we tend to say it at home, and what everyone is used to. Would that be alright?"
Matthew nodded, smiling. "Yeah. I like the way you say it. It sounds nice, somehow."
Francis smiled softly at his son. "The memories of childhood, however brief, can be surprisingly strong, non?
Matthew smiled and nodded. "Is that what it is?"
"I would very much like to think so. Now, are you ready to go? It will be about an hours drive."
Matthew nodded again.
"Tré bien. Come on, then." Once they had cleared customs and had his passport checked, Matthew followed him out of the airport, blinking slightly at the afternoon sun.
Francis led him through the car park, stopping at a small, shiny red sports car. Matthew's eyes widened in appreciation. Francis laughed nervously.
"She is a beauty, non? I admit, she is one of my few treasures. P lease-"he held the door out for Matthew, placing his luggage in the small boot. Matthew was surprised there was even room for storage, but it was only a two-seater. He ran a hand over the soft leather of the seats, sinking in to it.
If he was honest with himself, this was something he could definitely get used to.
Francis drove in relative silence. He spoke occasionally to point things out to Matthew, who dutifully noted everything down. He stared out of the car's window, fascinated by the scenery. The tall buildings and outline of the city was soon replaced by avenues of trees and long, winding roads. It was utterly different from anything Matthew had seen before, both in America and England, but he drank the sight in.
And then Francis turned down a small, barely noticeable path, and Matthew saw the house distantly.
The road was long, and perfectly straight. Despite its look, the small sports car navigated the dirt track with ease, the road made smooth by the two grooves dug deep on either side of a raised grassy strip along the middle. The avenue was lined with trees, poplars maybe, shading them from the lazy afternoon sun. He could see trees stretching out on either side, and guessed that it was probably an orchard of some sort. Francis seemed to both stiffen and relax as they neared the house, and Matthew felt the nerves rising again in his stomach. He shut his eyes tightly, waiting.
Francis seemed to understand, and drew the car to a halt expertly in the drive. Taking Matthew's luggage out, he set it on the ground, then opened the door. Matthew got out, his eyes still closed, and stood up. Francis set his hands over Matthew's eyes, then turned him to face the house.
"Ok. You can look now, mon cheri."
Matthew looked, and gasped softly.
It was old, that much was certain. Made of a faded beige brick, it stood several stories tall, framed perfectly by the trees surrounding it. The elegant sweep of the gravel drive ran right up to the entrance, with a set of stone steps leading up to the heavy wooden door. The windows, tall and thin, were covered with wooden shutters, closed to keep out the lazy summer heat. All in all, it looked old, and elegant, and utterly beautiful. But most of all, it looked like a home.
Francis looked to Matthew, and saw his son staring in wonder.
"Do you like it?" he asked, almost afraid.
Matthew nodded absently. "It looks wonderful" he murmured. He took a step forward, unconsciously.
Francis beamed. "Are you ready?" he asked again.
Matthew turned to face his father, and nodded. "Yes." He hefted his backpack on his shoulder, took hold of his bag, and followed his father into the house.
Author's note
First off, thank you very much for reading! This is almost the longest piece I've written (ten chapters is the longest I've managed to keep a coherent plot going, so this will soon surpass that!) and I'm quite proud of how it turned out. I do not have any experience with Matthew's situation, however, so if anything is inaccurate please tell me and I'll do my best to make it more realistic.
On a side note, the scene where they ask what they should call each other is not technically mine. I've taken liberties with one of my absolute favourite children's classics. If anyone knows what it is, which I seriously doubt, I hope it isn't too out of character. I just thought it sounded familiar when I wrote it and decided to add it in.
Thank you for reading, and please consider leaving a review if you liked it. Until next time!