Oof is all I'm going to say.
Ch 71
More than anything, speaking to Hugo made me quite aware that I was no good to Abigail or Erik if I left my emotions unchecked or allowed myself to wade further into what was the deepest, murkiest waters of sheer madness.
I had not previously experienced anything of the sort and once I recovered my senses and felt more level-headed, I thought of my own mother, who had been prone to terrible fits of screaming and cowering from unseen threats.
Part of me had always felt sorry for her. She went from rocking in her chair, her eyes void of emotion to punching at the air-and sometimes me when she didn't recognize her own son. Her behavior terrified me as a young child, and although I didn't pray often, I had on occasion pinched my eyes shut and begged God not to allow whatever demons had control over my mother to claim me as well.
"Are you certain you don't want me to go with you?" Hugo asked.
"Positive. I will come by in a day or two."
"You are always welcome, Phelan. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to stop in."
Perhaps I should have been more embarrassed by the way in which I had burst into Hugo's home, certain I would be arrested when I had not committed a crime that warranted detainment.
Once I thanked Hugo and departed his home, I briefly sat on his porch and practiced what Bernard had taught me: deep breath in, held, slowly released. It didn't seem nearly as effective as when Bernard led the way through mediation, but still I continued, searching for a sense of calm.
Spending the rest of the day consumed by disconcertment and grief would not aid me in any way. I needed to focus on how to utilize what time I had on my hands, focusing first on the train station in search of Abigail and then on searching for Erik's whereabouts while also juggling the week ahead for my students, none of whom could be left to their own devices so late in the school year. They relied on me to give them my undivided attention and come Monday morning, I would make certain they had their professor for the duration of class.
Once I left the campus, my focus would be on Abigail and Erik.
Of course Erik had to make his first appearance in almost thirty years when I was already embroiled in the most demanding part of the school year. I hadn't even started to plan for the annual art show nor decided on the final assignment for my second year students.
My mind started to race again as I became increasingly overwhelmed with the multitude of tasks needing my attention on top of Abigail's disappearance and Erik's sudden appearance.
The train station came into view and I cracked my neck, feeling tightness in my shoulders and the start of a headache that started in my sinuses from pollen and whatever else floated unseen in the air.
The end of the school year was always chaotic, but I looked forward to all of my beloved children becoming one step closer to their dreams of pursuing art as their way of supporting themselves. I wished all of them the best and looked forward to their letters detailing where they traveled or what they sold.
In the next three weeks, incoming freshmen would be submitting their portfolios for consideration and then two weeks later I would host open interviews to meet my new students and give them the opportunity to participate in a typical studio session with both first and second year students or speak to me on a Friday when there was no class.
My second year students would set off into the world while most of my first year students would return the following fall. In the six years I had been teaching art, only three freshmen had not returned, and I considered the amount of students who did come back to finish their education one of my greatest successes as a professor.
"Flan!"
Several students rushed to greet me the moment I walked into the train station, which wasn't much of a surprise as I regularly saw students over the weekend either at the cafe while I enjoyed a cup of coffee or on my walks to and from the park or theater district.
"Where are the six of you heading on a Sunday morning?" I questioned, seeing that they were all dressed quite well rather than their usual attire splattered in paint.
"Versailles!" they answered in unison.
"All the way to Versailles? Shall I cancel classes tomorrow?"
"No, Flan! Of course not. We shall return this evening."
They explained that they were visiting the Queen's Hamlet for a half-day excursion and were polite enough to invite me as well once I told them I'd never been to Versaille or any of the cities surrounding Paris. Outside of Conforeit, I had not seen much of the entire country, but decided not to inform them of my lack of travel as they were liable to physically drag me onto the train and force me to accompany them.
"Are you staging a coup?" I dryly questioned.
"If we say 'yes' will you come with us?"
"You do not need a chaperon and I refuse to be an accomplice to your crimes against France," I replied. "This weekend has been filled with enough challenges as it is."
All at once their expressions darkened and I was certain I knew the reason behind their sullen faces.
"Mateo told us about the opera house," they told me. "And Jovina said Ink made sure you made it home safely. And Ink told us you were injured–"
"I'm fine," I said. "Thanks in part to Ink's medical knowledge and willingness to assist."
"Are you certain you're fine?" they asked, worried looks on their collective faces as they all stared at me.
I was not fine. I was an anxious mess on the verge of a mental breakdown, but for their sake, I was never better.
"I am positive, Praise God we all made it out alive," I answered.
"Are you certain you don't want to come with us?"
"Do you want me to write the assignments for the week or travel out of the city to keep an eye on all of you? Never mind, I am aware that you would prefer the latter."
"If you change your mind…"
"Someone has to stay in Paris and await your return," I replied. "However, if you all end up in Madrid rather than in the studio tomorrow at nine, I am failing all of you. Understood?"
My words were met with eye rolls and groans as well as promises that they would absolutely not end up in Spain.
"Make sure you know the train schedule so you aren't trapped in Versailles overnight," I reminded them like a concerned parent fretting over a young child.
"Flan! We know the train schedule! You needn't worry about us."
"I absolutely must worry about all of you as I'm fairly certain at least two of you got lost multiple times on your way to the studio your first week of class. Being out of the city could prove disastrous."
Before they could argue with me, the conductor announced the final boarding for their departure and they all ran off screaming for the train to wait for them, leaving me with dozens of travelers looking at me with glares of disapproval for the raucous behavior of my students waving to me as they departed Paris.
I pretended to be exasperated when in truth I found my first year class to be delightfully mischievous, forgetful, and challenging. They were like a toddler with eighteen different heads and very few original ideas between them.
Once the train departed, I stood in line at the ticket booth and waited for an attendant to call on me to step forward.
"Destination?" the black-haired man who was around my age asked as he peered out from behind the metal bars separating us.
It was like looking at an animal at the zoo or a criminal behind bars, neither one particularly suited for the task at hand of gleaning information.
"Might you have record of travelers departing from this station on Friday?" I asked.
He stared at me for a full ten seconds before answering with a very bland, "No," followed by, "Next!"
When I didn't leave the line, he appeared somewhat annoyed.
"Where would I find a record of passengers?" I asked.
"To what destination?" he asked.
"I'm not certain," I answered.
The man frowned at me. "I'm afraid I cannot be of assistance." He started to wave the person behind me forward, but I spread my arms, blocking his view of the line.
"I sincerely appreciate your attention to this urgent matter," I said politely. "Now, where would I be able to find the names of departing passengers?"
"I cannot assist you, Monsieur," he said firmly.
"Surely there must be someone who could," I insisted.
The man stared at me, his ears crimson and lips in a thin, straight line of sheer annoyance. "Get out of the line at once," he ordered.
"And then what?"
"Leave," he said through his teeth. "Leave the station. You are a nuissance."
"Well, that is quite rude of you to say. There must be at least three dozen people working this morning. Surely one is able to help me locate a name," I said, refusing to budge.
"Monsieur–"
"I will look through every ledger available on my own if necessary," I said. "Just bring them to me and I will work diligently and in silence."
The man pursed his lips. "Lucille," he said over his shoulder. "Call the supervisor and tell him we have a disruption."
My heart stuttered. If a supervisor was called and determined I was being a nuisance, there was a chance the gendarmes would be called down to handle the situation and I had no desire to head down to the precinct again.
"Lucille!" the man shouted more frantically.
"There is no reason to be upset," I said, attempting to sound as calm and reasonable as possible. "I am trying to locate someone."
A petite blond woman appeared behind him, her hair pulled back into a bun beneath a dark blue cap with a short black bill and a brass pin that said 'assistant'. I stared at her for a long moment, thinking she appeared familiar, but unable to place her.
"Phelan?" she questioned, brow furrowed. "Phelan Kimmer, is that you?"
The sound of her voice immediately made me realize that I knew her from an intimate encounter.
"Are you the supervisor?" I asked.
She smiled back at me, pale cheeks turning bright red. I recalled vaguely that her blushing was not contained to her face, but spread down her neck and to her chest. I'd never seen anyone else who turned crimson the way Lucille had when we were together.
"Oh goodness, no," she said, bringing her hand to her throat, "but perhaps I can be of assistance? Give me one moment and I will meet you by that door," she said, pointing toward the far end of the ticket booths.
I nodded in agreement and made my way toward the door where I stood with my hands linked behind my back and awaited Lucille's arrival.
There was nothing remarkable about our encounter that came to mind–not that I intended to bring up the night we had spent together. Or nights, possibly. There was a chance I had seen her more than once, but if that was the case, I had absolutely no memory of sleeping with her multiple times.
That thought in and of itself was somewhat concerning, as was the fact that I never would have remembered her name if the man at the counter hadn't said it first. However, she had known mine, which I chalked up to her being with fewer men than I'd been with women.
"There you are," she said, closing the door behind her. "How lovely to see you."
"You as well," I replied.
Lucille looked me up and down, grinning like an eager schoolgirl speaking to a boy she fancied. "How long has it been?" she asked. "Three years now?"
"Surely not," I said, feigning surprise. It could have been ten for all I knew.
"I was working down at the station on Duval and Lenoire at the time so yes, it has been three years since I last saw you," she said with a great deal of confidence.
"I…I suppose it has been," I agreed.
"Now, what seems to be the trouble?" Lucille asked.
"Is it possible to review the travel ledgers?" I asked.
Lucille thought for a moment. "For you to review them?"
"Ideally, yes."
"I'm afraid that the records aren't open to the public."
I attempted to appear quite deflated by her answer. "I am searching for someone," I explained. "A friend of mine and her children suddenly vanished on Friday. When I spoke to Chief Alonzo, he advised that I ask if I could search for her name."
Lucille blinked at me. "Chief Alonzo?"
"The Chief of Police," I clarified. The suggestion had actually come from Boucher, but Lucille didn't need to know the specifics.
"Oh my. You were sent by the Chief of Police?" Lucille asked.
At last I started to recall meeting Lucille three years earlier. She had been quite prone to exaggeration and miscommunication and that still seemed to be the case as I had not implied that Alonzo had sent me, but had suggested to inquire for possible leads.
"Would it be possible to take a look?" I asked.
Lucille bit her bottom lip. "This would be highly unusual, but if the Chief of Police gave the order, then who am I to deny such a request?"
I nodded in agreement, hoping to God that Chief Alonzo was far too preoccupied with the Opera Populaire to inquire about Abigail Soward and her disappearance.
Lucille looked around the train station. "There is an office over there where I could send you," she said, pointing toward a door on the other side of the train station. "All of the books are removed on the last day of the month and moved to storage, but Friday should still be in the booth. If you would mind waiting here, I will retrieve it."
"Thank you," I said.
"Where was your friend traveling?"
"Unfortunately, that I do not know," I said, forcing a frown.
Lucille issued a worried look. "I don't think I will be able to give you every booklet to every destination. Is there somewhere in particular you would guess she would be headed?"
"Westbound," I guessed. "Would that narrow it down at all?"
"A city or country even?"
"She's from Canada," I answered.
Lucille chuckled to herself. "There are no trains to Canada, Phelan," she said, "but I would suggest looking for trains heading to Brest as there is a port located there and ships travel to England and all the way across the Atlantic."
I nodded in agreement and Lucille turned on her heel, marching back to the ticket booth while I awaited her return.
When she did appear, it was with a binder hugged to her chest and an exceptionally pleased grin spread across her face.
"Come with me," she said.
There was nothing particularly stunning about Lucille. She had a nice smile and was pleasant enough, but I had no recollection of how we had met or what had prompted our conversation that led to me inviting her into my home or asking to come to hers.
She unlocked the door to a spacious, unoccupied office with narrow windows that faced the street. There was a desk in the middle with several chairs and a musty odor within the room that made me feel certain the door had been closed for quite some time.
"Sit wherever you like," she said, placing the binder onto the table. "May I get you something to drink?"
"No, this is all I need," I said, sitting so that I faced the windows and the sunlight streaming through.
Lucille took a seat beside me and exhaled. "I am required to stay with the binder to make certain the entries are not manipulated in any way, shape, or form," she told me.
"Understood," I said, opening to the first page where there were at least fifty lines filled with entries heading west toward the port city of Brest listing passenger names, ages, origin and destination along with signatures as well as reason for travel, if the travelers so desired to state for business or pleasure. Some were far more legible than others, but after browsing Abigail's ledgers for a number of hours, I was quite familiar with her handwriting and felt certain I would spot her name immediately if it was in the book.
"You know," Lucille said once I thumbed through several pages, "I always wondered what happened to you."
I looked up briefly from the book. "I beg your pardon?"
"I saw you twice," she said, blushing profusely. Her fingers combed through the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. "And then I never saw you again after that."
I turned another page, unsure of how to respond as I had no memory of what had transpired or why I had not not seen her again. Most likely Lucille wanted more than I did and inevitably I had cut off communication to prevent her from becoming too expectant of my company.
"Were you ill?" she asked.
"No, I was fine," I said in return.
Lucille frowned at me. "Oh."
"My father had passed away," I replied.
Her eyes turned wide. "Oh. I see. I am terribly sorry."
"Thank you," I mumbled.
Inwardly I cringed, knowing my disregard for Lucille had nothing to do with Bjorn's death, but it clearly had the desired effect in making Lucille feel as though I hadn't abandoned her for no reason.
"All of this time I thought that perhaps I had upset you," Lucille said. "Or offended you in some way."
"I assure you, Mademoiselle, you were not at fault."
Again she ran her fingers along the back of her neck and sighed in relief. "That's good to know," she said, her face and neck turning red again. "I am aware that you are much more experienced than me and that perhaps it was my lack of knowledge that caused you to never look for me."
Her words truly left me speechless, and rather than reply, I did as I'd learned to do at the bank when I didn't want to be acknowledged: I sat with my head down and lips moving, which gave the impression that I was deep in thought and should not be interrupted.
In truth I did focus on the lines in the book, carefully reading name after name. Halfway through the page I suddenly remembered that Abigail's maiden name was Kent and that it was possible Howard Kent had signed for the whole family, which made it slightly easier to search.
"Anything yet?" Lucille asked.
"Not yet," I said politely as possible.
"Am I bothering you?"
"I wouldn't say bothering–"
"Good, because I wanted to ask you something," she blurted out. "Something that has been on my mind for three years now."
Given that I had little recollection of Lucille, I felt I at least owed her the courtesy of listening to whatever thoughts she wished to share.
"By all means," I said, looking up from the book to give her my full attention.
"Were you married at the time we met?" she asked.
Her question came as a bit of a relief as it was one I could answer honestly and with confidence. "No, I was not."
"Are you married now?" she questioned, her features strained.
"The answer is and will always be a resounding 'no'," I replied.
Lucille looked slightly disappointed in my answer. "Oh."
"I apologize if I was not straightforward with you previously with my intentions. I always try to make it clear that I am not pursuing courtship or marriage."
Again she touched the back of her neck. "So then you are doing what precisely?"
"I'm not sure I understand the question."
Lucille pursed her lips and looked down her nose at me, her bright red face taking on a serious expression. "Did you ask me to come back to your apartment because you felt sorry for me?" she questioned.
"I beg your pardon?"
She exhaled and squared her shoulders. "When you first looked at me, did you think that I might never…experience what it is like to have a man hold me?"
"No," I said firmly. "No, of course that was not why."
Her dark eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her lips held in a fashion that was not quite a frown, but definitely stern and unconvinced I was telling her the truth.
"Then you asked me to come to your apartment because…?"
I placed my hand flat against the open book and inhaled. "Because I thought we wanted the same thing."
Lucille searched my face. "A night of making love?"
"A night of mutual satisfaction."
"You were my…my first," she said, her face a deep crimson. "My only."
It was possible Lucille had confessed she had never been with a man previously. It was possible I had asked if she was certain she wished to continue. It was certainly possible that in her lack of experience she had taken each kiss and caress to mean something more than I had intended.
She continued to stare at me, evaluating my reply. "But that night of making love meant nothing to you?"
"I wouldn't say it meant nothing to me, but–"
"What would you say, then?"
I wasn't sure how to answer. Physical intimacy wasn't meaningful or meaningless. It was a night shared passionately that didn't require anything more from either party. We enjoyed each other in the moment and by morning went our separate ways.
When I didn't reply, Lucille nodded, her eyes glassy and lips pursed. "That was what I wanted to know. What I've been wondering since that night you asked me to come with you."
The emptiness that I had not felt so heavily returned with a single admission from a woman I knew nothing about and had no recollection of taking to my apartment.
Lucille folded her hands and stared straight ahead. "I will sit quietly until you have found the answers you're looking for in the book," she said, her voice low and strained.
I looked from her to the open book and my hand on the page, fingers spread. "Would you rather I leave?" I asked.
Lucille shook her head. "You already left once with what you wanted," she said. "At least you cannot take it from me twice."
I stared at her briefly, wishing there was a way to offer her a better explanation, but she continued to stare out the window, eyes blinking away the tears I had caused.
"Lucille," I said quietly. "I apologize."
"No, I do not want an apology from you. I would prefer not speaking to you at all," she said.
I swallowed and swiftly thumbed through the rest of the departures, barely able to concentrate on the lines and the names. Out of all of the women I had been with, there was not a single one who had approached me later to ask if our intimacy meant anything.
Given how many women I'd been with sexually, there was a chance that multiple women would have preferred more than a night–at least until they became aware of how little I could offer them in return. Unlike Lucille, I assumed most of the other women I had been with knew I was not the type to offer a proper courtship or settle down and marry.
But there could have been others like Lucille whom I passed on the street without a second glance, completely unaware that what had been meaningful to them for one reason or another had merely been another night with a new partner for me.
Rather foolishly I had never considered the possibility of hurting someone the way I had clearly left Lucille feeling uncertain and unappreciated. I wondered if she had said something that would have indicated she wanted more and if I had ignored her comment or chosen not to acknowledge how she felt. I had forgotten about her entirely, and the realization that she had wondered what had happened to me left me uneasy.
"It was mutual, wasn't it?" I asked. "You didn't feel as though I had coerced you into...?"
"Into sleeping with you?"
I nodded.
"I went willingly," she answered, "like a fool thinking that you were actually interested in me."
"I was interested in you," I answered. "Perhaps not in the way you would have preferred."
"You claim you were interested in me?"
"I was."
"For a night? Should I be grateful," she snapped.
"That is not what I am saying."
"I suppose I gave you what you truly wanted. Perhaps you should be grateful for what I gave you."
"Lucille-"
She inhaled sharply and I stopped speaking, knowing there was nothing I could say that would lessen how I had made her feel. From the corner of my eye, I glanced at her, but she never looked in my direction. With no desire to waste her time, I turned another page, then another in the book and suddenly spotted the name Howard Kent toward the bottom, written in all capital letters. Beneath it, in Abigail's familiar handwriting it said Soward, Abigail three children.
My breath hitched. Howard had stated his reason for traveling as returning home, but Abigail had left the space blank. Several times I read and re-read the names, feeling as though I had stumbled upon an unexpected obituary. I could not for the life of me comprehend how she had left without explanation.
No, I thought to myself. No, this cannot be. Abigail would have told me. She would have explained that she was leaving. We were more than meaningless bed partners. We were friends. We could have been more than friends.
I glanced at Lucille again, at one of the hundreds of women whom I had left with no intention of ever contacting them again, and closed the binder, which I pushed toward her.
"Thank you for your time," I said. "I'm...I am truly regretful for causing you harm. That was not my intention. I don't expect your forgiveness-"
"Good, I shall not give it to you," she coldly responded.
Lucille stood, hugged the binder to her chest, and walked out without looking or speaking another word to me, which I knew I deserved.
Leaving the office, it felt as though every single person within the train station turned to stare at me. It could have been my imagination, although I was fairly certain it was because Lucille ran from me, a sob escaping before she reached the ticket booth and slammed the door behind her.
I kept my eyes averted and exited the train station, hands in fists and my heart pounding. My throat tightened as I tugged at my collar and briskly began the walk back home. Each unsteady breath felt like a struggle, like I was drowning in my own emotions. Her elegant handwriting was ingrained in my thoughts: Soward, Abigail + three children.
Without explanation, Abigail was gone. And I had no idea if I would ever see her again.
As I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Lucille burst onto the street surrounded by several women attempting to console her. I couldn't help but think that Abigail's unexpected departure was what I deserved, a cruel twist of fate for all of the people in my wake that I had harmed, even if it was truly unintentional.