“Yes,” she says. She disappears into her room and comes out with a black dress with a scoop neck in one hand and black ballet slippers in the other. “I have extra but figured you had probably gained some weight and wouldn’t fit. I was right. So Camille went and ordered this in. I hope it works. We can get another if not.”
I take the dress from her and the shoes and while I’m inspecting the material, finding a Dumont tag, she goes back to her room and grabs a frilly apron, shoving it into my hands.
Really? A frilly apron? Are we stereotypical French maids now? Might as well change my name to Fifi.
“Go on,” my mother says, ushering me toward my bedroom.
Well, it’s time to face this place and get it over with.
I step inside, and she shuts the door behind me.
It looks exactly like it did, down to the gray pillow with faded yellow flowers and the pastel pink bed cover, the same one where Gautier pinned me down, one hand over my mouth, the other wrapped around my wrists above my head. I can almost hear him in my ear: “Don’t breathe, don’t scream, don’t make a sound.”
I shut my eyes, filling my lungs with air. When I open them, I realize I’ve been holding on to the uniform so hard that it hurts my hands to release it.
You can do this, I tell myself. You’ve survived the worst. You’ll survive this.
And remember—this is your choice.
You don’t have to be here.
I square my shoulders as if posturing against an invisible opponent and face my room again.
It’s just furniture. A single bed, a desk, a small bookshelf that is still stocked with the same books. Most in French, some in English when I wanted to teach myself. The window looks out—well, unfortunately it looks right out at the house and, in particular, Pascal’s bedroom window.
I draw the airy curtains shut to block him out, and before I can change my mind about any of this, I get dressed in the uniform, finishing by pulling my hair back into a bun. I didn’t think I would be put to work right away, but I should have known better.
When I step out of the room, my mother appraises me with a shaky smile. “Why, don’t you look perfect? Now come on and help me clean the dining room. There was a dinner party last night for some of Mrs. Dumont’s friends, and things are still in a bit of disarray.”
We set off to the house with my mother’s trusty cleaning organizer, and I do my best to listen to what she’s saying and not get swept up in the memories.
They weren’t all bad memories here. At first, this place seemed like paradise. We were dirt-poor, living with my father, who used to beat my mother on a regular basis and who berated me with emotional abuse. How we got here was kind of a fairy tale, and the first few months of living in the guest quarters and attending a new school felt like we were both starting over.
I used to feel safe here.
Until I learned I wasn’t.
The conversation between my mother and me seems so forced. There isn’t a moment of silence—my mother would never let it lapse into that—so she goes on and on about trivial things about the Dumonts, as if I’d find it fascinating. The more I talk to her, the more it becomes apparent that she doesn’t have anyone else and that this family is her whole life, and that convincing her to leave is going to be even harder than I thought.
While she starts working upstairs, I start dusting the study downstairs. I’m peering at some of the books on the shelf behind the desk, noticing something peculiar just as I hear the crunch of gravel and a car door slam.
I freeze, duster in my hand.
It can’t be him.
He can’t be home yet.
I’m not ready to face him.
I’m especially not ready to face him alone.
I hear the front door open, and I close my eyes, offering up a silent prayer.
“Well, well, well.” Pascal’s voice echoes across the foyer.
I exhale loudly in relief and turn around. Pascal is standing outside the archway between the study and the foyer, placing his car keys in a bowl on a side table. He’s dressed in a black suit, maroon tie, and as usual he has a wicked grin on his face.