The Returned (2 page)

For almost all of those parents with no other children, staying had been impossible. Jérôme had often wondered what would have happened to him and Claire if Léna had gone on
the trip that morning. He found it hard to imagine feeling emptier than he already did, but he was certain that if both girls had died, Claire would have been another fatality of the accident.

Léna. Jesus Christ, Léna. So cold towards her parents now. So closed off and untouchable. She and Camille hadn’t just been twins, they’d been
identical
twins.
When she walked around town after the crash, people looked at her with a wariness greater than Jérôme had ever felt himself. Greater, surely, than David Follin had experienced.

When people saw her, they also saw Camille. Their whole lives, the girls had played on the confusion, each pretending to be the other when it suited them, amused that people couldn’t tell
them apart even when (they insisted) it was so
obvious
. Once Camille was dead, it was as if that confusion was still present, as if people couldn’t remember which of the two had been
on the coach. Some found themselves meeting Léna and calling her Camille, silenced by the horror of their mistake and the distress on the face of the young girl. Léna had become a
ghost. A walking, talking reminder of everything they’d lost.

I’m not dead.
That had been Léna’s cry to her parents, whenever their frustration with her increasingly wild behaviour had boiled over into a shouting match.
I’m not dead. Maybe if it had been me who’d died, you’d be happy.

And while Claire had attended the support groups for a time, she’d stopped when her relationship with Pierre, who ran the Helping Hand, had started to evolve into something closer.

Jérôme had been oblivious at first. He’d taken her at her word, that she’d simply grown tired of the group and knew Jérôme got more out of it than she did.
It was only when she’d finally told Jérôme about her and Pierre that it really made sense.

The ensuing row had led to him packing his bags. There had been no question of who would go, of course. Léna needed her mother more than she needed him.

Jérôme paused outside the entrance to the Helping Hand. The shelter consisted of a main building and several outbuildings, sited high on the valley slope
overlooking the town. It was a peaceful place; out of the way, but with the town laid out in front of you it never felt isolated. Perfect for mending broken souls, Jérôme supposed.

He wished he’d given himself time for a cigarette. The view was one he liked after nightfall – the town never looked more alive, and life was something he missed. He was already a
little late, though, so he went inside. There were the usual number, twenty or so. Most of the parents took turns with their partner. He noted that Sandrine and her husband were both present, but
they were the exception – Sandrine volunteered much of her spare time to help out at the shelter, and she never missed the support group meetings.

Jérôme grabbed a chair from the side and brought it over to the gap next to Sandrine, trying not to clench his fist when he realized Pierre was talking. He’d never punched
anyone in his life, but with Pierre it would be a pleasure.

Pierre ran the Helping Hand, and he took most of the support groups himself. Alcohol, depression, drugs, divorce (God, the irony); whatever your problem, Pierre was there to grant sanctimonious
advice that might leave you no better off but would, guaranteed, allow him to feel self-satisfied. Pierre was a religious man; born again, with the zealotry which came from that. He was also surely
the biggest prick Jérôme had ever met.

Claire had brought the topic of divorce up more than once in the eighteen months since Jérôme had moved out, and she’d probably done so at Pierre’s suggestion.
Jérôme had no idea if they’d even slept together yet; given Pierre’s religious commitment he suspected not, and Jérôme certainly wasn’t going to agree to
a divorce. He knew Claire still felt something for him; not as much as he felt for her, but it was a spark he believed could save their marriage. Time was running out, though. It wouldn’t be
long before his desire to have his wife back counted for nothing in the courts, and then the way would be open for her to marry Pierre.

Jérôme kept coming to the support group, even so. It helped him. Why it helped, he wasn’t sure, but it did. Perhaps it was because he liked imagining his fist shutting that
mouth; perhaps it was just that, with Pierre in the same room, Jérôme knew the man wasn’t with Claire. With his
wife
.

‘. . . and you can all have your say in a few minutes,’ Pierre was droning. Jérôme felt his fist ball up, and had to concentrate hard to relax it again. ‘But
first,’ Pierre said, ‘I believe Sandrine has something to tell us?’

Sandrine smiled, not something Jérôme saw much of in this group, except for Pierre’s gracious leer. Everyone else, after all, had had the same kind of immunization against
smiling as Jérôme. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yan and I wanted to let you all know that we’re having a baby.’

More smiles broke out across the group. Jérôme tried, but nothing happened.

Sandrine went on, hesitant, sounding almost apologetic. ‘It wasn’t easy, but still, we wanted to tell you . . . and to thank you all. Especially Pierre. These meetings really helped
us after the accident. Because of you we’ve been able to carry on, move forward. And now we have this. Life prevails. It’s such a beautiful gift.’

‘That’s your gift to us, Sandrine,’ gushed Pierre. ‘You too, Yan.’

The group started to clap. Jérôme kept his hands by his side.

‘Now,’ said Pierre, ‘you all remember Charlotte, the mayor’s assistant?’ He gestured to the woman sitting to his left; she smiled and nodded, and the group did
likewise.

Not Jérôme, of course. He knew she was there to talk about the commemorative monument again, and he remembered the last time too clearly. He would try and keep his cynicism reined
in, but God . . . People made that hard sometimes.

Soon after Charlotte began, the overhead lights stuttered and failed, and darkness took over. A ripple of groans and uneasy laughter passed around the circle, before phones were brought out to
give some light.

Jérôme stood and went to a window. ‘Looks like the whole town is out,’ he said.

‘It should be back soon enough,’ said Pierre from his seat. Jérôme found a bitter smile creep onto his face. Pierre’s tone had been almost scolding. There was
simply no room for pessimism with the man.

Small talk ensued, bathed in the pale phone light. Jérôme stayed by the window to avoid the empty chatter. After a few minutes, the lights in town came back on. He returned to his
seat as the strip lights above him flickered into life.

‘Good,’ smiled Pierre. He looked to Charlotte. ‘Let’s continue.’

Charlotte stood, holding up a folder with drawings of the planned monument for the group to see. ‘So, as I was saying . . . The monument is in the form of a circle. It comes out of the
foundry on Monday, and it’ll be installed by the end of the month ready for the ceremony. There are thirty-eight holes, one for each student.’ She handed out two copies of the drawing
for people to take a closer look.

Wonderful
, Jérôme thought.
Another empty space for Camille.
And he would have to look at the damn thing every day.

‘Does anyone have any questions?’ asked Pierre.

Jérôme’s hand went up.

‘Jérôme?’

‘Was that thing expensive?’ Beside him, Sandrine and Yan looked up from the drawing they were holding, wary. ‘Because it’s quite ugly, to be honest with you.’
Silent, the group exchanged uneasy looks. ‘You think it’s nice? You like it?’ He was doing it again, he knew; being honest when silence was the right option. ‘OK,’ he
said. ‘If everyone else likes it, I’ll keep quiet.’

Pierre shook his head, dismayed. ‘You made your thoughts clear when we first discussed this. We listened to you, we voted. Can’t we move on now?’

‘No,’ said Jérôme. ‘Back then I said it was pointless. Now I’m saying it’s ugly. There’s a difference.’

‘OK,’ sighed Pierre, looking away.

‘Jérôme,’ said Sandrine, ‘I think we’ve all had enough of your sarcasm. If these meetings seem so ridiculous, then don’t come.’

‘Sarcasm? It’s not . . .’ He stopped, feeling tears at the edges of his eyes – he absolutely was not going to give Pierre that satisfaction. He took a breath. ‘I
come because it does me good. Believe it or not, it does me the
world
of good, just like you. Without this, all I would have is despair. Maybe life will bring
me
beautiful gifts,
one day.’

Sandrine’s eyes showed a mixture of pity and hostility. Jérôme looked to the floor, silent as the meeting progressed and the arrangements for the ceremony were discussed. He
heard a phone vibrate nearby, and saw the awkward look on Pierre’s face as the man reached into his pocket to reject the call. A few seconds later his own phone rang. Claire, the screen said.
He stood and went to the door, stepping outside to take the call from his wife.

‘Jérôme?’ said Claire. ‘I need you to come over.’

‘What’s wrong? Is it Léna?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s Camille.’

‘What about her?’

‘Please.’

There was a desperation in her voice that scared him. She sounded lost.

‘I’m coming,’ he said.

Claire had been in the shrine when the power had cut out across the town.

Shrine
. Jérôme had called it that whenever his patience had worn thin. Camille’s bedroom, kept almost exactly as it had been the day she died.

Before the age of ten, Léna and Camille had shared a room. Then the approach of adolescence had given them a need for their own space, marked by increasing squabbles over the smallest of
things. As soon as they each had their own bedroom, the fighting stopped. It had fascinated Claire, to see how the girls were careful to keep their rooms distinct; marking out their differences
allowed them to remain as inseparable as ever.

Claire had been in the process of tidying Camille’s room when the news of the accident had first come through. When she’d started tidying, she’d known what reaction to expect
from Camille, and had almost been able to hear the girl’s outraged voice in her head:
Mum, why did you touch my stuff?

Then Jérôme had rushed into the room, distressed, unable to speak at first, Claire becoming more and more anxious until at last he’d managed just one trembling word:
Camille
.

And she’d known. In that second the fear that nests in the heart of every parent had become a horrifying reality.

She’d been living with that fear in the background for fifteen years, living with the realization of what parental love really meant: a need to protect that was so overwhelming, it was
almost
debilitating
. Every time one of them was ill or still out even a few minutes longer than agreed, the worst-case scenarios had played out in her mind. Every news story about children
in peril had left her feeling a terrible guilty relief that it hadn’t been her daughters – that it had happened to someone else. But now it had happened to her. Camille was gone.

Being a parent was not easy. Losing a child was impossible.

She didn’t remember much of the immediate aftermath. It was like drowning in dark water – muted sounds filtering through, Jérôme desperately trying to hold her. She just
pushed him away and stared at the pristine floor of her daughter’s bedroom, feeling as though she’d been caught in an act of sacrilege. That maybe if she hadn’t touched anything,
Camille would still be here.

So Camille’s room had remained untouched since, and became a shrine. Candles lit, photographs on the chest of drawers. Claire would sit on the bed and watch the candles reflected on the
glass frame with her dead daughter’s face, and convince herself that the sharp pain might one day start to dull. At first, she restricted her time in there to whenever she was alone in the
house. She wanted to spare her husband and Léna. Spare them from the extent of her grief.

But they’d known. Jérôme’s initial careful remarks had grown increasingly concerned, and then angry, especially as she’d been drawn more and more to Pierre and to
what Pierre told her.

God answers prayer, God has the power to heal.

‘I want her
back
,’ she’d told Pierre. ‘Can God do that?’

Pierre had given her a typically elusive answer: ‘Through God, you will find Camille again,’ he’d said. ‘She will come back to you.’

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted Camille home, she wanted their life
back
. She wanted to wake and find that the last four years had been an error, a bad dream, somehow, and in the
shrine she prayed every day for God to make things right again.

When the power cut came, it took her a moment to realize it wasn’t just a blown bulb in the lamp in the corner of Camille’s room, the only electric light that she had on. In the glow
from the candles she went to the window and saw that the street lighting was also off.

She waited for the power to return. She thought of Léna, out with her friends; probably at the Lake Pub, if the girl’s word still counted for anything. And back when? ‘When
I’m back,’ was all the assurance Claire had managed to extract before Léna had gone. Still, any kind of assurance was better than none, better than her sneaking out of her
bedroom and climbing down the trellis at the front of the house with no hint of what her plans were.

She checked the time. She didn’t expect Léna back for a while yet, unless she’d had another argument with Frédéric.

Claire went into Léna’s bedroom, a riot of mess. The bedroom of a nineteen-year-old girl, who Claire would still think of as a girl when, God willing, Léna hit her thirties
and beyond; even when Léna had children of her own, and discovered how such a gift from God carries a crippling price.

She bent to the floor, grabbing clothes she would throw in the wash, just the smallest concession to tidying – exposing enough floor to actually walk on.