The Caretakers: A Novel

Dedication

For my mother

Epigraph

Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.

—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Contents

Prologue

Before

Lou

Charlotte

April 1

Géraldine

Before

Holly

Nathalie

April 1

Géraldine

After

Alena

Now

Lou

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

The Chauvet house is the only one on the block without a gate, not because the Chauvets can’t afford the privacy, but because they want passersby to admire their front yard. They would deny this if anyone were to suggest it, but the motive is there in the fountain, the constellation of topiaries, the cluster of Lalanne sheep sculptures (acquired after some maneuvering by the wife, whose friendships with well-known artists somehow ambush most conversations).

The most interesting attraction in the Chauvets’ yard, however, cannot be credited to the family (through their unintended efforts—yes, perhaps): the crumpled form of Charlotte Chauvet herself, knees hitting the grass, as a stretcher carrying her youngest son is ferried outside. It’s a crisp March evening, the last of the month, sky finally slipping through the gray. The residents of Maisons-Larue take their first evening walks of spring. Those who pass the Chauvet house stop to watch the show, the firework of ambulance lights. Some avert their gaze at the sign of the stretcher. Others stare harder, transfixed by the white sheet, a body too small to be dead. Charlotte Chauvet on her knees, long after her son is gone. This night is the realization of her nightmares. Not the death of her youngest child (why would she anticipate such a thing?), but this aftermath: the witnesses, her own disintegration made public. This part of the performance—mother, collapsed—the neighbors watch without shame. This is what she gets, they think, for needing the world to see her front yard.

The next morning is the first of April. The recounting of the yard show’s grand finale leaps from boulangerie to pharmacy to café: the Chauvets’ au pair, a quiet, obedient American girl, was led out of the house in handcuffs. The police are opening a homicide investigation. Parents call their nannies and give them the day off, leave work early to go to the schools themselves, hug the precious, fragile bodies of their children who—confused, oblivious—conceal their delight by wriggling away. The working mothers blame the au pair. The child was her responsibility. The stay-at-home mothers blame Charlotte: this is what happens when you don’t raise your own children. The other au pairs don’t know whom to blame. They all know the girl sitting in the police cell. They’ve sat beside her in French class, stood beside her at the translator’s office and the prefecture, waiting for their visa appointments. I bet it wasn’t an accident, one girl whispers, huddled with her friends at a café. I always thought something was wrong with her, mutters another. They are hoping, secretly, for murder. If this were merely an accident, the au pair a helpless witness, then any one of them could have been that girl in the cell.

Overnight, while Paris slept, the city changed its Métro signs: the Quatre-Septembre station was renamed Premier Avril, the Opéra station became Apéro. There is a station called Potato, another station with its signs flipped upside down. The morning commuters gaze out the windows of the train, regarding each stop with their usual resignation, eyes half-focused until they reach one of the puns and do a double-take. Some laugh. Some peek around, worried they’re the only ones who see it. Others pull out their phones, tap a photo of the altered signs. Tourists become anxious, convinced they’ve taken the wrong train. Students and au pairs, those with free time on a Friday, ride up and down the lines for hours. They double back, retrace their route, transfer five times, driven by the stubborn desire to personally photograph each fool station for themselves. It’s the kind of joke that’s funny only to those who speak French. A joke that says: You belong here, if you knew to laugh.

Commuters smile. For an unexpected moment, in an unexpected place, they feel okay. This is 2016, the era of France when soldiers in full riot gear, cradling their rifles, patrol the streets of Paris in groups. Purses and backpacks are searched at the entrance to each library, each market. On the buses and trains, alongside transportation maps and ads, there are cartoons depicting what to do in case of a terrorist attack. Escape, hide, alert. Cartoon people flee down the street. A cartoon man moves a sleek couch in front of a door.

It’s been a long winter.

The last time the sun made an appearance in Paris—an abnormally beautiful November evening, balmy and empty-skied—130 people were shot and killed while they dined, toasted friends, attended a concert. It’s been raining ever since. Now, five months after the November 13 attacks, the joke signs on the Métro appear like some small badge of resilience, Paris rebelling against its own winter. We will laugh again, says each Métro station, the rats scuttling across the tracks, the odor of pee in every tunnel. It’s okay to smile today.

Charlotte Chauvet will not smile. Neither will Alena, the girl in the cell. She is unaware of Paris’s April Fool’s joke, that the city is bouncing back. Her own winter has begun. She traces her fingers in dust on the floor, writing words in a language she no longer speaks—not French, not English. In her lap is a golden chain she’s always worn around her neck, until recently, when the keepsake it held went missing. It occurs to her only now that her host child is dead that he might be the one who stole it.

In a small flat on the main boulevard in town, a short walk from the neighborhood where the Chauvets live, a French teacher named Géraldine brews a second pot of tea for the police officer who showed up at her door. The officer’s name is Lucas Rivoire. He looks to be at least a decade younger than her, sandy-haired and bright-eyed despite the circumstances that brought him here. He’s a rookie, she thinks. This might be the first home interview he’s ever conducted. When Géraldine first opened the door, he let his uncertainty rush unchecked across his face. Bonjour, he said slowly. Vous êtes Géraldine Patel?

Oui, she said. Je suis la prof de Français.

Later, Monsieur Rivoire asks Géraldine to refer to him by his first name, and she doesn’t know whether this is an apology for his initial hesitation or because he dropped his tea the moment she placed it in his hands, shattering the cup on her kitchen floor. Pardon, pardon, he says, repeatedly. His hands continue to shake even after Géraldine has cleaned up the mess, even after she’s told him C’est pas grave five or six times. She doesn’t blame him. She’s impressed that she herself has dropped nothing, no blunders whatsoever since the news that morning. Alena is one of her best students. Was. Hardly the trace of an American accent. The au pair’s impeccable French should not make the circumstances any more horrifying, but Géraldine is a language teacher, and it does.

It’s a terrible thing, Monsieur Rivoire says. One of your students. This must be difficult for you.

The words are hollow, perfunctory. Géraldine thanks him anyway, because his face is earnest, because he keeps eyeing the floor where he shattered his cup. I’m sure the child’s death was an accident, she says, though she isn’t sure of this at all.

The circumstances were suspicious, he says. Then, as if worried he’s overstepped: Sorry.

All day Géraldine has repressed the urge to voice what everyone knows but won’t say, that this is not the first tragedy to strike the Chauvet children. It was the gossip in every café a year ago: how the eldest son, handsome Victor Chauvet, sped his motor scooter into the park after hours, jumped the curb, and shot directly into an oak tree. He was drunk, the police said. Lost control of the bike. (Olive Faguin, who was walking her dog that night, swore to anyone who would listen that the boy aimed himself at the tree, like a dart to a bull’s-eye.) Victor survived the crash, but according to rumor he was left disfigured. No one has seen him since.

Now, with this second (and fatal) incident, Géraldine’s sympathy has curdled into suspicion. When does lightning ever strike twice? It must be the parents, the house. Alena did not work for the Chauvets at the time of the eldest son’s accident, so surely, she had nothing to do with the youngest’s.

I don’t believe Alena could do something like this, she says again. She places a new teacup on the table, hoping Rivoire won’t knock this one over. He reminds her of her American ex-husband: his informality, the way he pours himself tea before she’s sat down. The likeness should probably make her want to throw him out of her flat, but instead it makes her fond of him. This realization disgusts her.

Don’t you usually come in pairs? she asks.

Pardon?

You cops. Shouldn’t you have a partner with you right now?

Oh. Yes, I do, but he . . . Pink creeps into Rivoire’s cheeks.

I’m sure your team is overworked these days, says Géraldine, helping him.

Yes, he says, relieved.

It’s not often that something like this happens. You might even be understaffed.

It’s crazy. Haven’t slept since yesterday. There are so many people to interview, and my boss is acting like— He stops himself. Well. Like there’s been another attack.

Géraldine wonders whether Rivoire’s boss is like her own, betraying his excitement when he called her with the news that morning. Finally, something horrible had happened in their sheltered suburb. Finally, Maisons-Larue got to be the object of attention, of sympathy. It must be overwhelming for you, she says. And I’m sure I’m hardly the most important person on your list.

Sorry?

I mean that I’m not surprised only one person was sent to interview me.

Rivoire says nothing. Géraldine can imagine the fight he and his partner had, driving to Géraldine’s home. His partner’s name is probably something like Stanislas. Stanislas is a senior on the police squad. When Stanislas learned that he and Lucas were off to question the au pair’s French teacher, he gnashed his teeth, he protested. He’d been on the force long enough, he deserved to talk to someone more crucial: the parents of the dead child, perhaps the parents of the killer herself, back in the United States. When they pulled up to Géraldine’s building (Stanislas always made Lucas drive), Stanislas pulled out his phone. Putain, he said, I’ve been called back to the station. This one’s all yours, buddy! Then he took off in their car, leaving Lucas alone. What was there to ask the French teacher, anyway? Did you notice anything strange in class, any warnings coded in her grammatical errors?

Lucas Rivoire gazes at Géraldine’s floor. To cheer him up, Géraldine says, You might be in luck. I might not be the most boring assignment you could receive.

I don’t find my job boring, madame.

Glad to hear it.

You were the suspect’s teacher. We’re interested in anyone who might help us understand what happened.

I can’t promise that, says Géraldine. But Alena did stay here, recently.

Rivoire removes his elbows from the table. Eyes finally resting on Géraldine. Pardon?

Alena stayed in my guest room for three nights. Just a couple weeks ago.

Géraldine isn’t sure why she’s telling him this; she doesn’t want to incriminate Alena, or herself. But she feels sorry for this sleep-deprived boy, the rookie sent alone to the French teacher. She wants him to feel important, for a moment.

Why did she stay with you? says Rivoire. He whips out a tiny notebook, the miniature version of what her students use in class. Do you often offer housing to your students?

No, of course not.

Then why this student? Was something wrong? Problems with her host family?

The officer’s face is eager, open. He is the first guest in Géraldine’s home since Alena and Lou. She feels the ghosts of her students at her kitchen table, begging for her help, to keep their confidence. But Officer Lucas Rivoire is here, Lucas who needs her, and—she thinks, a rare ugliness stirring within her—those girls should have accepted her help before, when she offered it.

Before

Lou

On a Monday night ten days before Julien Chauvet’s death, Lou returned to her host family’s house from a night out in Paris, woozy with wine, to find her belongings on the front lawn: suitcase and backpack huddled together, everything packed by Séverine and dragged outside that evening by the maid. (Séverine told Lou this part to make her feel guilty, but it only pleased Lou to imagine the maid’s relief that Lou was fired, not her. How she’d done the maid a service all year, making her look like a perfect employee by comparison.)

I go out of town for one weekend, said Séverine, "one weekend, and this is how you repay me?"

Lou thought: Repay you for what?

In the moment of losing her job, her fake family, and her fake house, Lou could only think not of the livid woman standing before her, nor of the children sleeping upstairs, nor of her suitcase out on the lawn, but of the way Maxime always kissed her three times, one after the other, when he said goodbye. The kisses quick and tongueless, his neck thrusting forward like a chicken’s. Lou wondered if this was cultural. Perhaps tongue-kissing was vulgar and American. But then, why would it be called a French kiss?

Are you even listening to me? said Séverine.

Lou noticed that her host mother’s lipstick and eyeliner looked freshly applied. As if Séverine had made herself up for the express purpose of kicking Lou out of her house.

Yes, said Lou. The geraniums.

And the irises.

Right. Them, too.

Séverine’s lips zipped together. The irises were Aurélie’s favorites, she whispered. We planted them together.

This mention of Aurélie chafed Lou, obliterated what little filter she had. Appealing to the feelings of the children, as if they gave a fuck about Séverine’s garden. If you’d just let me have an ashtray, Lou said, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

It was a dumb argument, of course. The de Vignier family was clear from the beginning that they would not accept an au pair who smoked. They never caught Lou in the act, but (inevitably, in the gossip-infested suburb) learned of her habit from some other mother or nanny, some mole in the network of caretakers who spotted Lou near the children’s school. She always stood behind the same tree to have her two cigarettes (one for each child) before picking them up at four. This routine was critical. She needed the cigarettes right before seeing the kids, in case it was a bad day, in case she had to carry a flailing Baptiste because he refused to walk on his own, in case Aurélie whacked her with sticks the whole way or ran ahead just to scare her.

Lou also smoked out her bedroom window, late at night. She liked to pretend that the mansions across the street were charming Parisian apartments, their concrete windowsills iron balconies, intricately welded. She flicked the cigarette butts into the darkness, plucked them up each morning, smothered the smell with hand sanitizer and gum. That weekend, apparently, one of her cigarettes had not been fully extinguished when she tossed it. It had taken her host mother all of Monday to notice, and even Lou was stunned when Séverine pointed out the damage she’d supposedly done. Blackened petals, cradling ash. She’d never known flowers were flammable.

Do you have any idea how expensive those seeds were? Séverine said. How much time I put into caring for them?

More time than you put into your children, said Lou, because everything she owned was on the lawn; she had nothing to lose.

You were a mistake, said Séverine. A great mistake.

At least I’m a great one.

Truthfully (if Lou were someone who cared for the truth) it baffled her that this was the last straw. After months of late pickups, language screwups, burned dinners, being too hungover to walk the kids to school, the day she destroyed half of Aurélie’s clothes with the wrong laundry setting—after all of that, three months before the school year’s end, she was being fired for some ashy plants. Lou should have known: you don’t fuck with French people and their gardens. She thought of Maxime again. His apartment, like many in Paris, had a balcony just deep enough to hold a line of flowerpots. All of his plants were crusty and dead. That was one of the things she’d first liked about him.

Séverine exhaled, long and slow. I will permit you to say goodbye to the children, now, quickly. You do not tell them what’s happened. You tell them you are homesick and returning to America.

It surprised Lou that Séverine would allow her to wake the children so late, just to say goodbye. A sign of humanity. Earlier in the year, Lou might have clung to this.

Aurélie was still awake when Lou nudged the children’s door open. Where are you going? Aurélie asked, peering over the railing of the top bunk. At seven years old, she had the same flapper haircut as her mother, the same thin lips and nose. The resemblance distressed Lou. She still hoped Aurélie would turn out differently.

I’m going back to the States, she said.

Tonight?

Baptiste, bleary-eyed in the lower bunk, whimpered as Lou kissed his hair. More or less, she said.

What does more or less mean?

It means yes when you don’t want to say yes.

Go away! Baptiste yelled, and he poked Lou in the eye.

Lou ducked into the nursery where the baby slept. Capucine—born the previous July, the month before Lou arrived—was awake in her crib, shaking her stuffed rabbit with maniacal devotion, apparently determined to snap its neck.

Lou said, I guess this is goodbye, shithead.

The baby stopped shaking the rabbit and stared at Lou, fascinated.

Shit, fuck, asshole, said Lou.

Capucine had her own nanny, sparing Lou all diaper duties, but Lou had taken to sneaking into the nursery when no one was around. Unbeknownst to her host parents, she was teaching the girl English. It was her secret project, the one mark she would leave on this family. None of the subsequent au pairs could take credit for her single success: while Aurélie and Baptiste kept their French accents forever, Capucine the toddler would curse like a proper American. Lou felt a connection with the newborn, anyway. They were both foreigners in this house.

Abah ahah, Capucine shrieked.

No, said Lou. Ass. Hole.

Of course, even though Lou and Capucine arrived in the de Vignier family at the same time, they lived by different rules. Séverine would cluck her tongue affectionately when Capucine painted the floor with her breakfast; that same day, she’d snap at Lou for a single drop of soup on the table. Lou didn’t blame the baby for this. It reminded her of her own family.

Good luck with everything, said Séverine, downstairs. She’d already opened the front door. Her lips were the color of strawberries; Lou wondered if she’d reapplied her lipstick while she waited.

Well, bye, said Lou. And to Louis, I guess. Séverine’s husband was already asleep. Louis: he and Lou almost shared a name. They shared little else.

Séverine shut the door behind Lou without another word. The yard was dark, curtains shut. Lou retrieved her backpack and suitcase, grateful to her past self for moving here with next to nothing. She left through the gates, one last time, and the events of the evening seemed abruptly impossible: she’d returned to the house only thirty minutes before, drunk off an evening in Paris with Maxime and Holly, her closest friend, a night indistinguishable from any other. Who cared if it was a Monday? They’d both had terrible afternoons with their children. Holly left the bar early—she was always weird when Lou invited Maxime to join them—and she’d since texted Lou one of her typical, anxious end-of-night messages that ended with: See you in class tomorrow! Lou smirked now, thinking about the response she’d eventually write. Nope, you won’t! She’d never go to French class again. She was free.

She was used to walking these streets late at night. Usually drunk, the sight of these spectral houses would sober her up, fill her chest with a weight that wouldn’t lift until she could leave again. Tonight was different. The shadows that chopped the grass were softer, rounder. The horses on the park carousel didn’t smirk at her. She felt lighter than she had in months, even lugging a suitcase behind her. The first day Lou arrived in France, back in August, she’d watched the gray buildings smear past the windows of her host father’s car, confused by how un-Parisian the town looked. How they could be anywhere in New Jersey, which she had just escaped. Of course, this wasn’t Paris; this was the cushy suburb of Maisons-Larue—but it was only fifteen minutes from Paris by train! That’s what the family’s ad had said.

Now Lou walked in the middle of the street, dragging her suitcase behind her like a mysterious new presence in town, the title character of an old western. Her arrival should have been like this, all those months ago: alone with her suitcase, belonging to no one.

Look at me now, Corinne, she murmured. It was her new ritual whenever something good happened to her, to whisper those words to her eldest sister, to whom she was no longer speaking.

The first person that Free Lou went to was Madame Géraldine, her French teacher. This was a practical decision, Lou told herself, nothing more (none of the other au pairs in Maisons-Larue had their own apartments to house Lou; the trains to Paris had ceased for the night). Géraldine had given her phone number and address to her students on the first day of class, just in case. The girls were too starry-eyed back then, too charmed by the smell of each bakery, to hear the warning.

Géraldine’s apartment was in the center of town, between the butcher and the pharmacy. Lou stood on the deserted sidewalk before a pair of wooden doors, chipped blue paint and loose doorknob. She rechecked the address. She’d assumed that everyone in Maisons-Larue lived in the same concrete mansions, concealed behind identical gates.

Oui? Géraldine’s voice crackled from the buzzer. Lou was relieved that her teacher didn’t sound half-asleep.

Hi, it’s Lou. From class.

Fourth floor left, Géraldine said, before Lou could explain why she was there.

Lou hauled her suitcase up a spiral of wooden stairs. Géraldine stood in her doorway, waiting. She looked unsurprised to see Lou with a suitcase.

Did you know, she said as Lou banged her bag over the final two steps, that your host family has lost three au pairs over the past two years?

Géraldine wore a silk nightgown. The sight rendered Lou speechless for a moment. She’d never even seen her host parents in pajamas.

Lost? she repeated.

More than any other family in town. They’re infamous among my former students.

Lou shrugged. I knew they had other au pairs. I figured they all quit.

Didn’t you?

Didn’t I what?

Quit.

Géraldine was squinting at her. Lou looked down at her suitcase. Why not? Maybe she wasn’t fired. Maybe she never burned any geraniums. Maybe Baptiste threw one too many cordon bleus at her face during dinner, and she slammed the front door in a flurry of fury and triumph, leaving Séverine and the children distraught in the salon.

Yes, she said. Yes, I left. But she was also buoyed by the idea of being the first au pair in the family to be fired: it was a unique accomplishment.

Géraldine’s apartment bore no resemblance to the spacious rooms, the curtained windows, the antique bookcases that Lou associated with Maisons-Larue. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were combined into one: an oddly shaped room with crumbling beige wall paint and the cloying smell of perfume and onion. Every inch of the walls was covered with some rack of utensils or plates, all precariously slanted. Lou wondered if there were ever earthquakes in France.

I was just brewing some tea, said Géraldine. Would you like some?

Yes, thank you, said Lou, though she’d never understood the point of tea.

It was more unsettling than she expected, seeing her teacher in a domestic setting. Wiping down the kitchen counter, watering two lonely flowers in a cracked vase. Her hair, usually pinned in a dark bun, tumbled down her back in unruly waves. Other than the Black and Filipina nannies at the park, Géraldine was the only person of color Lou ever saw in Maisons-Larue. She thought her teacher looked South Asian, maybe Indian, but when Lise Schmidt asked where Géraldine’s family was from, one morning in their first trimester of class, Géraldine snapped and said, I’m French. Where is your family from? and no one dared ask again.

You can sit down, said Géraldine.

Lou sat. Does anyone else live here?

Only me.

Maisons-Larue, in addition to being mostly white, was also dominated by families and couples. It never occurred to Lou that Géraldine didn’t have a family of her own.

Voilà. Géraldine placed two teacups on the table and sat across from Lou, fixed her with her nosy stare. Alors. What happened?

Lou took a breath. She told her about the cigarette, the ash powdering the flower petals, Séverine’s anger. She left out the part about returning to the house that night to find her suitcase on the lawn.

So I quit, said Lou. I had to get out. I didn’t come to Paris for this. She almost smiled, imagining Géraldine telling her future students about Lou. I had this American last year who left her family one night with no warning. All over some burned flowers! She was so brave.

Have you told your parents yet? asked Géraldine.

Lou knocked the edge of her teacup with the spoon. No, she said. I don’t need to. She hadn’t spoken to her parents since she moved to France, seven months previously.

What about your sisters?

Lou wished her teacher’s memory weren’t so good. Back in September, Géraldine made her students complete an introductory exercise: What is your name, how old are you, how many siblings do you have, are you the oldest or the youngest? The goal of the exercise was supposedly to practice vocabulary. Really, it was for Géraldine to begin keeping tabs on her students, a snooping curiosity that Lou recognized immediately and loathed. Géraldine was the beating heart of the town’s au pair network: she knew every host family, every au pair who’d passed through the suburb. She loved to ask her students personal questions, assign them essays detailing their deepest beliefs and darkest fears, interrupt grammar sessions to ask, What are the ages of your host children again? or, Remind me what your host parents do for work? Lou guessed that Géraldine was filling out her mental catalog of Maisons-Larue, secretly matching each au pair with the host families she knew. The lack of transparency irritated Lou. She liked lying; she did not like being lied to. She also didn’t like authority figures. This was why, during their introductory exercise, she had responded to Géraldine’s questions with: I’m Lou, I’m nineteen, I have three older sisters, how do you say runt, and accident?

She meant to make Géraldine regret her prying, but her impertinence backfired. Even the other au pairs admitted to Lou that they saw it: how after that day, Géraldine called on Lou more than any other student, even when (or especially when) Lou didn’t raise her hand. How she forced Lou to come up with an answer whenever Lou said Je ne sais pas, how she forced Lou to say words with r’s in them, just so she could needle her for her American accent. The unwanted attention grated on Lou so much that one day, when no one volunteered to practice a mock job interview in front of the class, when Géraldine pretended to consider potential victims before, predictably, saying Lou’s name, Lou rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said, in English, What a fucking shock.

The girls were not supposed to speak any language but French in class. It was Géraldine’s one rule. Worse than that: native language aside, everyone in the room knew fuck. The girls laughed to hide their discomfort. Géraldine didn’t smile. The clever glint in her eye snuffed out.

Lou, she said, I’d like for you to stay after class.

The other girls left slowly at the end of the session, casting a curious, almost envious look at Lou as they shuffled out the door. Lou knew: they all wanted their teacher’s attention. They all secretly wanted to be the one Géraldine picked on. Only Lou did not.

Géraldine eyed the distance between herself and Lou, who hadn’t left the back corner of the room. Are you scared you’re in trouble? Géraldine asked, amused.

From across the room, Lou said, No, and approached Géraldine’s desk to prove it.

I want to ask, said Géraldine, how this class is going for you.

What do you mean?

How do you think you’re doing in this class?

Lou relaxed; here was familiar territory. You think it’s too hard for me.

No. Géraldine gave Lou a strange look. Your French is not bad.

Oh.

Lou waited.

I’m asking how you’re doing, said Géraldine, because this course is expensive. You don’t need to waste money if you aren’t enjoying yourself.

I’m not European. I have to take French for the au pair visa.

But there are other teachers. You can switch, if it’s this particular class you don’t like.

Géraldine began to shuffle the papers on her desk, gaze averted, and Lou felt something move inside her. The realization that she’d hurt Géraldine. That she didn’t want to. This class is fine, she said.

You seem unhappy.

I’m fine. It’s not class. I have stuff with my family in the States.

This wasn’t really true. Lou didn’t know why she’d said it.

Géraldine said, Anything you want to talk about?

No. I’m just saying, I don’t need to switch classes.

Okay. Géraldine smiled at her, a small, soft smile that made Lou want to bolt from the room. Bon courage.

After that day, they warmed to one another. Géraldine still teased Lou, but Lou learned to laugh off the attention, even to play along. She realized over time that the teasing was a game. There were moments where Lou felt, almost, like Géraldine might like her, a concept both terrifying and addictive.

But then there were moments like these—Géraldine across from her at the kitchen table, brown eyes fixed on her own, unwavering—when Lou remembered how much she had hated her teacher all those months ago. Her prying. Her need.

I’m sure your family would want to know what happened, said Géraldine. Her gaze on Lou was hot, like a sunburn. You can use my landline. Calls abroad are free.

I don’t need to call anyone, said Lou. They won’t care.

The last time Lou spoke to any of her sisters was an intervention, a couple months before she moved to France. A group attempt to convince her not to go. She had recently announced that she was dropping out of college after one year to move to Paris, a decision that might have disappointed her family had they expected anything more of her. Lou was ten years younger than Corinne, eight younger than Liza and Tori. Corinne was beautiful. The twins went to Ivy Leagues. Lou had asthma and an addiction to cigarettes.

Tori called Lou from New York, from the apartment that she and Liza shared. Just because you’re at community college, she said, her voice clipped, doesn’t mean you need to drop out and move to France. Apply to a real school! You have legacy at Yale, you know.

Oh, Tori, said Lou. Did you go to Yale?

Stop it. Seriously, you can’t just eat croissants for a year. You don’t even speak French.

I took it in high school.

You’re going to end up homeless.

Since when do you care?

I don’t. Corinne begged us to call. Here, it’s Liza’s turn.

Géraldine leaned forward, elbows on the table. She hadn’t looked away from Lou once. You aren’t close to your sisters? she asked. Her voice low, as if they could be overheard.

Lou twirled the spoon around her cup. The tea was dark gold, the color of unhealthy pee. Used to be, with one of them, she said. She cleared her throat and added, This tea is delicious, forgetting she hadn’t sipped it yet.

Géraldine regarded Lou a moment longer, then finally, mercifully, stood and retreated to the counter. Lou relaxed her grip on her spoon.

I should tell you, said Géraldine, her back to Lou. Alena is staying here as well. She’s been here for a couple days.

Lou nearly choked