"Away? Where?"
"Far away," she said. "To live with relatives and go to school in France."
"France!"
"That's correct. I think he's grateful that's the only punishment he's to endure. If he should ever speak to you or write to you and his parents find out, he will be disinherited. So if you want to destroy him too, try to contact him.
"Now go," she added with a tired voice. "This is the first and the last time I will cover up your faux pas. From here on in, you alone will suffer for whatever indiscretions you commit. Go!" she ordered, pointing her arm toward the door, her long forefinger jabbing the air. It felt as if she had jabbed it into my heart.
I turned and walked out. Without pausing, I left the house and got into the limousine. I never felt more confused or more lost. Events seemed to be carrying me along on their own. I was like someone who had lost all choice. It was as if a strong current had come streaming down the bayou canal, whisking me away in my pirogue, and no matter how I tried to pole myself in another direction, I couldn't. I could only sit back and let the water carry me to the predetermined end.
I closed my eyes and didn't open them again until the driver said, "We're here, mademoiselle."
We must have driven for at least half an hour or so and now we were in some small town in which all the stores were closed. Knowing Daphne, I had expected to be brought to an expensive-looking modern hospital, but the limousine pulled up behind a dark, dilapidated building. It didn't look like a clinic, or even a doctor's office.
"Are we at the right place?" I asked.
"It's where I was told to bring you," the driver said. He got out and opened the rear door. I stepped out slowly. The back door of the building squeaked open and a heavy woman with hair the color and texture of a kitchen scrub pad looked out.
"This way," she commanded. "Quickly."
As I drew closer, I saw she wore a nurse's uniform. She had roller-pin forearms and very wide hips that made it look like her upper body had been added as an afterthought. There was a mole on her chin with some hairs curling up around it. Her thick lips tightened with impatience.
"Hurry up," she snapped.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Where do you think you are?" she replied, stepping back for me to enter. I did so cautiously. The rear entryway opened to a long, dimly lit corridor with walls of faded yellow. The floor looked scuffed and dirty.
"This is a . . . clinic?" I asked.
"It's the doctor's office," she said. "Go in the first door on the right. The doctor will be right with you."
She marched ahead of me and disappeared into another room on the left. I opened the door of the first room on the right and saw an examination table with stirrups. There was a sheet of tissue paper over the table. On the right was a metal table, and on that was a tray of instruments. There was a sink against the far wall with what looked like previously used instruments soaking in a pan of water. The walls of the room were the same dull yellow as the corridor walls. There were no pictures, no plaques, not even a window. But there was another door, which opened, and a tall, thin man with bushy eyebrows and thin coal-black hair flattened over the top of his head and cut short at the sides stepped in. He wore a light blue surgical gown.
He looked at me and nodded, but he didn't say hello. Instead he walked to the sink and began to scrub his hands.
"Just sit up on the table," he ordered with his back to me.
The heavy woman came in and began to organize the surgical tools. The doctor turned around to look at me. He raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
"The table," he said again, nodding at it.
"I thought . . . I would be brought to a hospital," I said.
"Hospital?" He looked at the nurse, who shook her head without speaking. She didn't look up, nor did she look at me. "This is your first time, right?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, my voice cracking. My heart was pounding, and I felt the beads of sweat forming on my neck and brow.
"Well, it won't take long," he said. His nurse picked up an instrument that looked like Grandpère Jack's hand drill. I felt my stomach do a flip-flop.
"This is a mistake," I said. "I'm supposed to go to a clinic."
I backed away, shaking my head. Neither the doctor nor the nurse had even introduced themselves.
"This can't be right," I said.
"Now look here, young lady. I'm doing your mother a favor. I left my house, rushed my dinner to come down here. There's no time for foolishness."
"Foolishness is what got you here," the heavy woman said, scowling. "You play, you pay," she added. "Get on the table."
I shook my head.
"No. This isn't right. No," I said again. I backed myself to the door and found the knob. "No."
"I have no time for this," the doctor warned.
"I don't care. This isn't right." I turned around to pull open the door. In an instant I was down the dingy corridor and out the rear entrance. My driver was still sitting in the car behind the wheel, his cap over his eyes, his head back, sleeping. I rapped on the window and he jumped.
"Take me home!" I screamed.
He got out quickly and opened the rear door.
"Madame told me it would be awhile," he said, confused.
"Just drive," I screamed. He shrugged but got back into the car and pulled away. Moments later we were back on the highway. I looked back at the dark, murky town. It was as if I had gone in and out of a nightmare.
But when I turned and looked ahead, the reality of what awaited me hit me like a gust of hurricane wind. Daphne would be furious; she would make my life even more miserable. We approached a fork in the road. The arrow on the sign pointed left to indicate the direction of New Orleans, but it also had an arrow pointing right, toward Houma.
"Stop!" I ordered.
"What?" The driver pressed his foot down on the brake and turned around. "What now, mademoiselle?" he asked.
I hesitated. My whole life seemed to flash by me: Grandmère Catherine waiting for me when I returned from school, running up to her with my pigtails flying, embracing her and trying to tell her as fast as I could about all the things that I had learned and done at school. Paul in a pirogue coming out from a bend and waving to me, and me rushing down to the shore to join him, a picnic lunch under my arms. Grandmère Catherine's last words, my promises, walking off to get on the bus to New Orleans. Arriving at the mansion in the Garden District. Daddy's soft, loving eyes, the excitement in his face when he realized who I was.. All of it rushed by in moments.
I opened the car door.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Just go back to New Orleans, Charles," I told him.
"What?" he said in disbelief.
"Tell Madame Dumas . . . tell her she is finally rid of me," I said, and started walking toward Houma.
Charles waited, confused. But when I disappeared in the darkness, he pulled away and the sleek limousine went on without me, its rear lights growing smaller and smaller until it was completely gone, and I was alone on the highway.
A year before I had left Houma thinking I was going home.
The truth was that right now I was returning to the only home I had ever known.
18
Why Me?
The tears streamed down my face faster and harder as I continued walking through the darkness. Cars and trucks rushed by me, some honking their horns, but I walked on and on until I came to a gas station. It was closed, but there was a telephone booth beside it. I dialed Beau's number and prayed with all my heart that Beau had talked his family into permitting him to stay in New Orleans. As the phone rang, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and caught my breath. Garton, the Andreas family butler, answered.
"May I speak with Beau, please, Garton?" I said quickly. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but Monsieur Beau is not here," he said.