Chapter Nineteen

Juliette

The outskirts of Paris, France

Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

A t the top of the hour, the radio station had shifted to a news show.

Juliette was awake but had kept her eyes shut the whole drive, pretending to be asleep. She didn't want to have a polite conversation. She just wasn't up to it. Wasn't up to any questions. Her list now included ? Paris and the airport, some research on her phone for some place she might stay where they'd be happy to take her money and not ask for an I.D. Then pain pills and sleep.

She still had her dinner in her pack. Back at the café, Juliette had purposefully ordered quite a bit of the kinds of foods that would keep the best over a period of time. If she had a small fridge in her motel room and portioned carefully, Juliette might be able to keep her head low until the fever broke, and she could make a new plan.

One step then another.

But right now, her vulnerability was inching up.

On the radio, the news castor was advising people of the strange car-jacking that had happened earlier in the day. The police had found the car she'd stolen and parked by the shopping area in Orléans.

The news castor said, "The keys had been placed in the glove compartment and a note read: I'm so sorry to have put you through this. Forgive me. I was kidnapped and running for my safety. You saved my life. I will always be appreciative and hold you in prayer. You might note that the grammar and phraseology are non-standard. And reading this, I can tell you, there are some slight spelling errors. It is probable that the note was not written by a native French speaker," he concluded.

Juliette tried to tell by the vibrations in the air if Jean-Luc was looking her way. If he were listening and knew that she was the person who wrote that note.

"The police are asking for any information if you saw anything that might help them find the woman. The owner of the car does not wish to press charges against the theft, as the circumstances of the car-jacking do align with such a scenario, however, authorities want to ensure that the woman is safe, and the kidnappers are brought to justice. Any suspicious activity should be reported."

The radio announcer's update shifted to a mention of something that would come to a vote on Monday. There was information about the football match in Brussels that night, and a meteorological prediction of an approaching storm.

The music came back on. Juliette had weathered the announcements.

After a few moments though, Juliette heard Jean-Luc whispering.

" Maman," Jean-Luc began. "I'm in your car heading to Paris. I need your advice."

Juliette would willingly jump out of the car going highway speed before she let Jean-Luc take her anywhere other than the airport.

In quiet tones, low enough in range that Juliette could hear almost all of the words, he launched into the story of what had been on the radio, and how he came to be in his present situation. After a pause he said, "She's sleeping."

…

"I don't see any blood. No, no obvious wounds. She's on crutches. She was swaying like a drunk as we walked to the car. But I'm pretty sure from the way she spoke to me that she's sober. She fell asleep almost instantly. Maybe she's suffering a head trauma? What should I do?"

Juliette held her breath.

"She's trying to get to Charles De Gaulle to fly home to America, she said."

…

"Yes, she was sincere. I think she's in trouble. I just don't know what to do."

…

"All right, yes. Will that give her enough time to get away? What if I came home and went to bed and when I wake up eight hours later, we have this talk again? That would give her more time."

…

"You're right. The police could see from my phone records that I called you. But they won't know what we said or that I heard the news. I could, for example, just be telling you that I'm driving a girl to Paris and will be home before you get there."

…

"No, still asleep. She gave me two-hundred euro. Should I give it back? She might really need it."

…

"I'll stick it in her bag. I don't think she would take it from my hand… Yes… Okay. I will. Merci, Maman . I'll see you in the morning."

And that was it. For another twenty minutes there was the soft music and the rumble of the tires. At one point, Juliette felt a rustle by her feet, and she slit her eyes to see what was happening. Jean-Luc, with his eyes on the road, was leaning toward her with the euros in his hand, trying to shove the bills into the front pocket of her back pack.

She had to stifle a sob.

It wasn't the money. It was the kindness. It was a young man who wasn't willing to profit from a fellow human being in distress.

And in that moment, she remembered elephants.

Juliette didn't know if this was a second real memory where she'd been standing there watching them, or if this was something she'd seen on TV. But it seemed very real. A lame elephant cow couldn't get up the bank from the watering hole. One elephant reached out her trunk and they wrapped together. Another went behind the disabled cow and pushed. Up she went.

However Juliette had come across that image, she remembered at the time that she'd clutched her hands to her heart, incredibly moved. When she was home again, she'd ask her father if she'd ever been around elephants, maybe something to do with her studies or job as a veterinarian's assistant, Juliette thought as she swallowed down her emotions.

Home. Back to her little house with Toby. And her dad. He would be so surprised and so confused by what had happened to her. But she should tell him right away. He would know what to do and keep her safe. And she'd let him know, somehow along the way, that it didn't matter to her that he was gay. She didn't need to know the "hows" or "whys" of his relationship with her mom. She just wanted him to be happy. In a world where horrible things happened, people really should grab at what joy they could.

Jean-Luc pulled to the curb at the airport and set the gear in park. He reached out and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, giving her a little shake. "We're here," he said.

Juliette pretended to rouse herself and look around. She smiled at him as she released her seat belt. "Sorry I wasn't good company. It's been a rough day."

He swallowed and nodded.

" Merci beaucoup ." Juliette gripped the strap of her backpack with one hand and unlocked the door with her other.

He still had his hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay? Do you need help getting inside? Is there anything I can do?"

She could tell he was doing his best to extend himself for her but protect her anonymity – to not give away that he knew, if not who she was, at least what she was, a woman on the run.

Her lower lip trembled a bit as she looked out at the crowd of people busily getting to where they needed to go. She turned back to him. "No, ca va , I think I'll be okay from here." She climbed out.

He reached her crutches out to her.

" Merci , Jean-Luc." And she shut the door.

Now what?

Juliette knew from books and movies that there were cameras all over the airport. So as she'd moved out of Jean-Luc's car, she'd pulled her hoody back in place over her hair and had purposefully ducked her head. She stood in place as she watched Jean-Luc's car move out of sight. Squatting on the cement walkway to retie her shoe, she dropped her knees for stability in order to get her backpack over her shoulders. That was a mistake. She couldn't get back up. She floundered there a couple of times, before she decided to crawl over to the cement planter and use that for stability. On all fours she started the crawl, dragging her crutches behind her.

Tsking followed by an "oolala-lalala!" came before two sets of hands, one on her right and one on her left, lifted her to her feet. An older couple with frowns on their faces looked back at her. "What is the matter here? Are you all right?" the man asked in Arabic.

"Yes, thank you," Juliette replied with a moment of relief for speaking a language that came so much more fluidly to her than French. Her dad had said that her mom had insisted that Juliette's first and most proficient language be Arabic and that she be raised in the Muslim faith. Her dad, an atheist, didn't really care one way or another. After all, he was away at work all day, and it was her mother who had the job of raising their child. Juliette's mother had been Kuwaiti. She and her mother spoke Arabic together and switched to French when her father was in the conversation, which wasn't all that often, he'd admitted to her, somewhat abashedly.

"What are you doing on the ground?" The woman adjusted her hijab.

Juliette attempted to laugh. "I bent to tie my shoe and couldn't get back up on my crutches."

"Are you all right now? Shall I go find a porter with a wheel chair?" She shook a motherly finger at Juliette. "You should not have a heavy backpack when you're on crutches, no wonder you toppled over."

"Yes, this is true, but under the circumstances…" Juliette adjusted the crutches under her arms and hoped she hadn't made a spectacle that would be flagged by security. She didn't want to answer anyone's questions. "Thank you. Have a nice evening," she said. And before the couple could entwine themselves into her misadventure, she started off toward the doors of Charles de Gaulle.

Inside, she went directly to the ladies' room. She hung the pack on the hook and took a moment to relieve herself. From that position of seclusion and relative safety, she started to scroll through student backpacking sites looking for cheap places where she could hunker down.

She found three that might meet her needs. They were all listed as small individual rooms with a sink and bidet. A communal bathroom was available in the hall. All three had pay-as-you-go showers available on premises. They catered to student and other low-budget travelers. Continental breakfast was included. Pictures showed a plate with a section of a baguette, a hard-boiled egg, a triangle of cheese, and a bowl of coffee. These motels looked clean and reputable enough for safety. But when she read over the criterion for staying, Juliette found that one was fully booked until the end of the month and the next required a passport from those travelling from outside the EU. The third though, said that identification was not required if a two-hundred-euro returnable deposit was made.

Juliette tapped the phone button and put her finger in her ear.

" All? ?" a man answered just as the toilet in the stall next to hers flushed.

" Bonsoir ," Juliette said. "I've just arrived into town without a reservation, is it possible that you have a room available?"

"How long will you be staying with us?"

"I believe a week," Juliette answered.

"Name?"

She blinked. A name? Panic made her feet and hands buzz. "Roxanne," she said, borrowing from her caregiver. "Roxanne Olson."

"How many in your party?"

"Just me." Juliette's tongue wanted to weave a story. She wanted to say that she was in Paris to practice painting by the Seine or something. But from her dad's novels, Juliette knew that liars used too many words. They tried to dissemble and hide their lies by throwing out way too many facts. But that was often a tell that was their undoing. Truthful people knew they were being truthful and had no reason to add details.

"Very well, I'm looking. I have a room on the third floor."

"Oh," Juliette breathed out. "I'm on crutches. Is there perhaps anything a little lower?"

"The one on the first floor, but the water pipe is broken. It's possible I could move you down there after the plumber comes to do the repairs. Crutches might be a problem. The stairwells are narrow."

"Well." Juliette laughed. "I can always go up and down on my bottom like a toddler."

"You want to book the room? I'll need a credit card number." Juliette heard the words through the ringing tinnitus. It made her feel unsure, unclear, off balance as a mental state more than a physical one. She thought she was understanding but wasn't completely sure.

Speaking more than one language was helpful in that no matter the language she was communicating in with a stranger, she could always hide her brain confusion behind "speaking in a foreign language" confusion. That masked the embarrassment that she often felt. But here she hoped it masked her fear.

Juliette pulled the Visa Felicitations! card from her belly bag and read out the number.

"This is a gift card," the man said.

"Yes, I'm a student. That's all I have, gift cards from my family and some cash."

"In that case, you'll need to leave a deposit. Two hundred euro."

"Yes, of course. That won't be a problem." The woman in the toilet next to hers was moaning with stomach discomfort. Juliette tried to block the sound from the registrations guy with her hand. Then came silence and a flush.

"All right Mademoiselle Olson, your confirmation number is 7852332. You just need to sign in and leave your deposit. Your key will be waiting behind the desk."

Juliette put her phone back in her pocket. She pulled up her jeans. Gave the toilet another flush so it wouldn't seem odd to any woman who might be paying attention. Pulled on her backpack and stumbled her way out of the disability stall.

She moved to wash her hands and looked into the mirror. Her face was red and slick. Her eyes feverish. She felt her head, and the cool pressure of her hand was such a comfort. She splashed her face with cold water then dried her hands on a paper towel. Come on Juliette , she encouraged herself, one more taxi ride and then a bed .

A bed sounded like Nirvana.