my shrink.
I need to get it together. At least for Charlotte.
With a smile, I pick her tiny body in my arms and hug her. She makes little noises of satisfaction.
I sigh against her fur. “I’ll miss you, too, Charlotte.”
Time to do the ‘real life’ thing.
“See you tomorrow.” I set her on the sofa, and when she doesn’t respond, I translate it in French. No matter how much I trained her, she only barks in response when she’s talked to in French.
I pull a piece of paper from my notebook and scribble ‘Charlotte’, then I fold and drop it in an enormous glass jar sitting between the photo frames.
‘Write one thing that makes your day’ is the only coping mechanism I’m keeping from my shrink. Maman and I used to do this since my grandfather’s death.
For six months, Charlotte’s name is the only thing I’ve written.
I make sure her bowl is full of food, pick up my bag and keys and head to the front door. My head cranes to stare at the tall frame of my grandfather, posing against a helicopter. It’s an old picture of him during World War Two.
He was quite the looker. Sharp jawline and dreamy green eyes that Maman and I inherited. Papa was very popular with the ladies, but he only cared about his childhood sweetheart. He married my grandmother and built this mansion for her.
“Je t’aime, Papa,” I say. I used to always tell him that whenever I went out. After his death eight years ago, I kept the habit by addressing his picture.
Papa, Maman, and I were a team. Now, I’m all alone.
But at the very least, I still have this house that contains endless memories of them.
Charlotte follows me until I close the huge wooden door with a cringing squeak. My dog continues watching me through the blurred window. She has an opening to go out, but she usually waits for me inside.
The scent of the sea fills my nostrils. It’s sunny outside, but all I see is grey. Summer is the season of fun and tourism in our southern French town, but all I feel is winter.
My two-storey, large house sits on a hill overlooking a rocky shore of Marseille’s sea. Time ate away at the paint, showcasing patches of stone. The oak forest, leading to the mountain, surrounds the property from all the other three sides.
The nearest town is a forty-five minute drive through unkempt roads and countless twists and turns amongst dense trees. After the war, my grandfather decided to become a recluse from humanity so he built this mansion as far away as possible from privy eyes.
That also made the place disconnected from civilisation.
One thing my grandfather got right about this location is the peace and quiet. Beside the waves crashing into the shore and the occasional seagulls’ shrieks, nothing disrupts my quiet.
I close the front gate, place my bag in the passenger seat of my old Range Rover, and hit the rocky road. As soon as I reach town, mismatched sounds filter in. People in their summer clothes and flip-flops crowd the streets. Our town is popular with other European nations, Americans and even North Africans. Tourists keep pouring in like a flood. My temples throb. I raise the volume of the radio to stop getting caught in the chaos.
I stop by the post office to collect my mail. Back in my car, I filter through the envelopes.
Notice from the bank.
Notice about cutting off water and electricity if I don’t pay the bills soon.
Notice about Maman’s non-paid medical expenses.
Seemed that my second name is debts. I extinguished all my work-related loans and had to take some additional loans from community services.
I never batted an eye when I took them or when I mortgaged the house to the bank. Back then, I had the hope that Maman would get better and we’d build our lives from scratch.
That hope withered away after every failed surgery until it faded to black with her death.
More flipping through the envelopes produces a letter that almost stops my heart.
With frantic fingers, I open the letter from the bank.
Notice of property confiscation in two months if I don’t clear my debts.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard, a coppery taste fills my mouth.
Merde.
Since the announcement of Maman’s death, I never thought the hollowness lodged deep inside me could get any worse.
My grandfather’s house is the last shard of reality I have left. Papa used all his architectural credentials to design and built