12. Recovery
Two more days pass by, nothing important happens and I take that as a rather good sign. Most of the days Cherie spends sleeping, she can only seem to stay awake for a few hours. She still has the shakes every now and again, and moments of incoherency. Whenever she is awake I tell her stories about when I was younger—I find happier moments, like going sledding in winter, and the time I broke my arm playing in a tree house… nothing really of any importance, nothing in my life has been that terribly interesting. Aside from that I make her something to eat, and make sure she gets plenty of water. While she sleeps, I explore the old house. I find old picture albums of the family that used to live here—they seem like a nice old couple who got to live pretty full lives. I see pictures of them when they are younger, they at all different places across the country. I stop at one where they are the Grand Canyon—they stand together, smiling. I suppose they never had any kids, as I do not find pictures of any. Not much else of the couple remains in the house—I know one of them was a fan of old western novels. I find a few handmade blankets. Other than that it is all stuff, the things we leave behind, I suppose.
On the third day I wake up early. Cherie is still heavily asleep. I begin to crawl out of bed; however she stirs, and turns to me. “Are you leaving?”
“I was just going to check on a few things,” I say as I look out the window, it looks like a beautiful day outside—perhaps a bit warm, mornings in this old house are usually much cooler. “How are you doing today?”
Cherie’s eyes look sad as she turns to face me and rests her head against my stomach. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus… at the same time I feel clearer—clearer than I have in forever, but sad as well.”
“Why sad, Cherie…?”
“You don’t… I know my name is Claire. I remember. I am sad because I know that I’ll never get to Paris.”
“Why not… and why Paris…?” I ask as I begin to rub her shoulder. She is feeling warmer. I am glad to see that she is out of the worst of it. Just as Noah said, this Paris thing is slowly starting to clear up as her memory improves.
“…and why Paris…?”
“Yeah, why did you always want to go to Paris?”
“…want to go to Paris…?”
I nod once as Claire nods as well. I realize that, also, just as Noah had said—even if she improves, she will always be a mirror. I spend a few moments looking out the window. I watch as a robin lands in the tree, it hops from branch to branch; its head constantly changing direction, the bird almost seems robotic in the way it moves.
“It hurts my head…” Claire finally says after moments of silence.
“You don’t have to tell me—don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I remember though,” Claire says as she closes her eyes. Her voice is heavy and sad. “My dad used to… travel I think. I feel like he was gone a lot. I get flashes of him and my… mother? She was usually at home. She was nice although we didn’t always get along, not important—I have this memory… I think it is accurate. One day my father came home and he had one of these tiny silver Eiffel Tower souvenirs. I used to carry it around for luck. I don’t know when I lost it. I know I lost it though… not important. He said when I turned eighteen that I could go to Paris. I wanted to see the lights—I wanted to see something new. I suppose, most importantly I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.”
“You turned 18 the same year as V-Day… didn’t you?”
“I was packed,” Claire says as she nods once. “I was ready to go. I thought I was still going. I suppose… for eight years I’ve been thinking I’ve been going… going and always coming back—never getting to see it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I remember back to the time that I helped her pack. She was so excited—I hated lying to her playing along.
Claire opens her eyes and places a hand to her forehead. “That is why you looked sad that day when we packed.”
“I feel so guilty about it—it’s just that they told me to let you do it. I wanted to tell you the truth. I just… I wasn’t strong enough.”
“I’d been doing it for eight years… you were just being kind. You just didn’t want to hurt me.”
“It still doesn’t feel like the right thing to do.”
“I forgive you,” Claire says as she reaches her hand up and places it upon the place where she slapped me earlier. “I’m still not going to be normal though, am I?”
“Normal is overrated,” I say as I place my hand over hers. “I like you the way you are.”
“…the way you are.”
I climb out of bed and get dressed. I put on a pair of blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. I pick up the rifle from the side of the dresser.
“Are you… the way you are…” Claire stutters as she attempts to correct herself. “Are you, going outside?”
“I’ve been checking the area every morning,” I say as I nod. “Just in case of Hunters… or people curious us about us being here.”
“Can I come, I would like to go outside,” Claire asks as she gets out of bed. She puts on a pair of jeans resting on her night stand and brings up her blue shirt and smells it. “I smell sweaty.”
“I put all of your clothes in the closet,” I say as nod. “You don’t have to ask, you can come with me—you can do whatever you want. Just, try and stay near me for now until we are safe.”
To my amusement, she digs through the drawers and pulls out her brown flower printed long sleeve shirt. She rolls up the sleeves and walks back into the room. As she passes a mirror she attempts to fix her hair, it is getting a bit longer and she has a bit more difficulty getting it to co-operate.
As we leave the house and begin to walk around the property, Claire spends most of the time exploring the new surroundings. Aside from the tall grass, it is pretty nice here—there is a small pond that a few ducks have claimed. An old rusted tractor sits covered in vines.
“You’ve stopped shaving,” Claire points out as we begin to walk towards the road.
“Do you not like it?” I ask as I run my hand through the short growth of hair.
“You just look a little different… that’s all.”
As we reach the road I look both ways. The view afforded to us allows us to see for miles. Everything seems clear. We head back to the house and I show Claire the storage room past the red cellar door. She places her hand upon a few of the canned goods. There is a lot of different soups, she pauses and laughs as she holds up a can of French onion soup.
“Lunch..?” I ask as I laugh.
“Is it strange if I say that I want French toast?”
“I bought the stuff to make it,” I say as shrug my shoulders. “You like what you like…”
After a French toast lunch, I show her around the house—I tell her about the pictures that I found, that the people who lived here seemed happy. As I show her the bathroom, with its claw foot tub—she spots the bottle of shampoo.
“I could really use a bath…”
“I actually got some peroxide,” I say as I hold up the bottle. “When I was in high school I had a friend whose parents would not let her dye her hair, so I remembered that one time she mixed peroxide and shampoo and kept it I her hair for I think she said like half an hour—and it turned blonde.”