Fractured (6 page)

"Intentions don't really matter if something goes wrong, do they?" Hunter asked bitterly.

"Ah, but I disagree," Dr. Gautier interjected. "The outcome was not set in stone. Even a kicked dog does not normally run away forever. I suspect that Coco kept running after being spooked by the unfamiliar noise of traffic and the area itself. You acted foolishly, as all very young children are apt to do from time to time. But you did not act maliciously. There is a world of difference between the two."

Hunter listened to the words of the kind doctor, but he still felt angry at his younger self. Yet, he found himself agreeing to another visit later that week. He left the building sadder than he entered it. But he also felt a smidgen of relief that someone else finally knew his horrible secret.

He wasn't convinced that Dr. Gautier could help him with his control issues, but he was determined to make an effort. One thing was for certain. He didn't want to risk losing Amber. And even he had the sense to see that he had pushed her away just as he had Coco that terrible day. He didn't want to make the same horrible mistake twice.

Amber

Amber hunched over the workbench, happily cutting shards of glass for her first design. Three other students worked in close quarters as Monsieur Renaud walked among them, quietly offering advice and encouragement. Lately, this was where she felt happiest.

While work was as interesting as ever, Hunter's mom was a constant reminder of what Amber was missing when she returned home in the evenings. The art class was a balm to her wounds. Even three weeks after their breakup, she missed Hunter so much that she physically ached. At least in this warm, gentle class she could escape her thoughts for a few hours. That was what art did for her.

After class, Amber lingered, unwilling to go home. She was still there when Monsieur Renaud's wife came by on her way home from the University where she taught Literature.

"This must be the darling  Amber!" she exclaimed, upon walking in the door. "My husband tells me what a sweet young woman you are!"

Amber blushed as the plump faced woman kissed her on both cheeks and then enveloped her in an enormous warm hug.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Madame Renaud," she mumbled shyly.

"Ah, but you are so thin. You must not be eating properly, my dear. You must come to dinner tonight at our home," she insisted, waving her plump hands in excitement.

"I don't want to be an imposition," Amber tried to say but Madame Renaud had already made up her mind and was consulting with her husband as to what wine they should serve.

Madame Renaud was like a whirlwind, arms and hands moving animatedly as she rattled on about what a lovely evening it would be and how she was going right away to purchase a lovely bottle of wine.

"Oh, we do far too little entertaining!" she exclaimed, her face beaming.

Finally, she kissed her husband warmly and rushed out of the gallery.

"My wife gets quite excited, as you can see," Monsieur Renaud said with a smile.

Amber laughed. "I suppose I don't have much of a choice about dinner. I do hope that you don't mind," she said.

"Mind? I'm delighted, my dear," Monsieur Renaud replied. "I should tell you that my wife and I are childless, but not by choice. My darling wife always wanted a daughter. You will make her so happy if you allow her to fuss over you like a mother hen tonight."

Amber had confided a little bit about her own childhood to Monsieur, leaving out a lot of details. He knew that she was essentially without parents of her own, but that Hunter's parents had showered her with affection.

Amber smiled shyly. "I suppose I'm not adverse to having a mother hen for the evening."

Secretly, she was relieved not to have to spend another evening by herself. She had spent a few more nights out with Hunter's mom, but that was bittersweet. She loved Mrs. Webb but, again, she was a constant reminder that Amber was going home to an empty hotel room.

Twenty minutes later, Madame Renaud returned, triumphantly waving a bottle of wine in one hand and clutching a handful of fresh-cut flowers in the other. She whirled through the shop, leading the way up a dimly lit staircase to a cozy apartment above the shop.

Amber was almost embarrassed at living in such luxury all by herself when the Renauds were squeezed into such a tiny apartment. The couple's entire apartment could have fit easily into her hotel suite with room to spare. But she had to admit that each inch of space was utilized. The windows, in particular, lit from behind with tiny Christmas tree lights on the small balcony, were beautiful works of art.

"Did you do these yourself?" she asked Monsieur Renaud, peering at them in awe.

"Indeed he did, dearest," Madame Renaud answered for her husband as she handed Amber a glass of wine. "My husband is ever so talented. One of the many reasons I fell in love with him."

"My wife overestimates my gifts," Monsieur Renaud said modestly. "But, yes, those are some of my first pieces many years ago."

"I don't know why I've never really appreciated stained glass art before now," Amber murmured, admiring the brilliance of the colors and the spectacular way that Monsieur Renaud had chosen to align each fractured piece of glass.

"It's amazing how an artist can take something that is broken and make it far more beautiful than the original piece," Madame Renaud said, peering over her shoulder.

"I think that it is a good analogy to life. If we have the right attitude, we can take the broken bits of our experiences and make ourselves stronger, more beautiful even."

"Huh," said Amber a bit skeptically.

She wasn't so sure about that right now. Since breaking up with Hunter, she felt like she was broken up into hundreds of pieces. Each piece was sharp and still painful.

"Ah! But in the midst of young love, it is hard to see the complete picture," Monsieur Renaud said, indicating that Amber should make herself comfortable on the small sofa.

"I'm not sure that my broken relationship can be repaired," Amber said with a sigh.

She had confessed to Monsieur Renaud that the young man paying for her courses was her ex boyfriend.

"What is this? A lover's spat? What a tragedy for such a beautiful young woman!"

Madame Renaud leaned forward eagerly, her eyes misting.

"Now, darling, I'm not sure that Amber wants to discuss her love difficulties," Monsieur Renaud said, squeezing his wife's hand.

Amber couldn't help it. She laughed at the absurdity of the woman's fascination.

"I'm afraid that my wife is obsessed with romance," Monsieur Renaud said, smiling ruefully. "I think that reading all of those romantic works for a living has seeped into her very blood."

"The greatest poets affect me deeply." Madame Renaud sighed dramatically.

"I have such a wonderful love that I want to share it with the world."

"Perhaps we should offer Amber an appetizer, darling," Monsieur Renaud suggested, saving Amber at last.

"Oh, yes! I'm being a horrible host!"

Madame Renaud leaped up and hurried to the kitchen.

"Thanks," Amber whispered.

"She means well," Monsieur Renaud said, sitting in a small leather chair across from her.

The room was warmly lit and in the soft light he looked much younger. Or perhaps simply being around his wife made him seem that way. In spite of their age, the couple acted like two people newly in love.

"She's just a hopeless romantic. Be careful or she'll try to set you up with one of her students at the University."

Amber grinned wryly. "I'm not ready now but I might accept her offer in the future."

Monsieur Renaud considered her for a moment.

"Forgive an old man for being as hopeless romantic as his wife," he said. "But is there really no hope for reconciliation with the young man? He seems as though he is hopelessly in love with you."

Amber felt her eyes mist.

"Oh, but we do love each other intensely," she said. "I don't doubt his love for me at all. If anything, it is that he smothers me with his love."

"Ah!" Monsieur Renaud took a sip of his wine and then placed the glass carefully on the small coffee table.

"Do you think it strange that he should offer to pay for my courses?" Amber asked suddenly.

Monsieur Renaud shrugged his shoulders.

"Have any of our great artists been successful without a patron, my dear? The life of an artist usually means little pay. It is a blessing for an artist to have someone support them financially. Why should it be wrong if your patron is someone who loves you as well?"

Huh! A patron. That was worth thinking about further. Is that how Hunter saw himself?

Monsieur Renaud shifted in his seat.

"I can't tell you what to do about your young man, Amber. Only your heart knows the answer to that. But when I was starting out as an artist in this profession, my wife was the one who supported us while I got my training. It was her money that afforded me the shop and us this home."

Suddenly, Madame Renaud rejoined them, suggesting that they move to the table. The  conversation turned to more generic topics.

A half hour later, Amber was enjoying the first course, a small plate of figs wrapped in bacon. She was still getting used to the idea of the long dinners that the French seemed to enjoy on a nightly basis. She could scarcely believe that many families routinely had dinners lasting two to three hours.

As the evening wore on, she was treated to breaded pork chops with stewed chestnuts as the main course followed by a selection of cheeses served with salted apple slices. Finally, there was more wine with three squares of dark chocolate. By the time they were finished eating, it was after eight thirty. Amber was glad that she had arranged for the driver to leave for his own evening meal and that he would be picking her up within the next half hour.

Although she had a wonderful evening, she was starting to feel the effects of her sleepless night the previous evening. Actually, she hadn't slept well since the breakup with Hunter. It was as though her body couldn't adjust to sleeping alone.

"The meal was wonderful," she gushed as the Renauds walked with her downstairs to wait for the driver. "And both of you have been so kind."

"The pleasure was all ours, dear," Monsieur Renaud insisted. "Look at how happy you've made my wife."

Indeed, Madame Renaud was beaming like a small child.

"Please do agree to dine with us again," she insisted. "It does us good to have young people around."

"I could hardly object to being fed, could I?" Amber teased as she hugged each of the Renauds before meeting the driver.

Climbing into the car, she sank against the seat. She was happy but exhausted.

"I take it you had a pleasant evening, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, Pierre," Amber replied, wishing that the driver would call her by her first name.

After she reached home, Amber thought to check her phone. Not that she was expecting anything. Hunter was being good about not contacting her too often. She got a text every now and then simply saying that he was thinking about her but that he didn't want to intrude on her space.

Over time, though, she craved intrusion. His controlling attitude seemed more and more like a small price to pay considering the constant heartache she felt without him. She must be cracking up, she thought wryly. She even missed some of his control freak tendencies. She hadn't realized how much she had relied on Hunter before.

Turning on the phone, she grinned. She had two new text messages. Both from Hunter.

Hunter

Hunter felt a bit nauseous as the driver turned down the long, winding driveway leading to the old farmhouse that had belonged to his grandparents. In reality, this was his property now, bequeathed to him when his grandmother passed away. Gravel churned beneath the car's wheels and pinged the underside of the car. The sound took Hunter back in time.

This was his first visit since his grandmother had passed away and he felt assaulted by hundreds of memories all at once. As images of his beloved puppy sprang to mind, he had to swallow hard. He was grateful his mother had insisted on having a driver bring him. Otherwise, he might have stopped and turned the car back around.

The winding drive was lined with budding trees. An early spring was on its way to the countryside. Dr. Gautier was right, he realized. In spite of the guilt, he also felt a small thrill to be back at last to a place that had given him so much joy in his childhood. He stared hard at the passing trees, remembering how his excitement would always be building at just this moment. In seconds he would glimpse the old farmhouse.

When the car rounded the final bend, they came upon the old metal privacy gate. The driver got out and unlocked the padlock, then swung the gate open. After only a few more minutes, they were sitting in front of the old house. Hunter admired its simple but sturdy construction. At one point in Hunter's family's history, this house had been a summer retreat rather than a year round home. As such, it lacked the grandeur of his parent's city apartment.

"Sir? Are you okay?"

Hunter looked up. The driver had already opened his door and was waiting for him to exit.

"Yes. Thanks, Pierre," he responded, thrusting his legs out of the car. "I hope you've brought a book to read. I might be awhile."

"Take your time, sir." Pierre smiled and nodded to a novel in the front seat of the car.

Hunter felt in his pockets for the house key. He expected the door to stick, but then remembered that the caretakers came by every few weeks to clean and maintain the property.

The door opened without a fuss and he walked inside, disappointed that the scents of baking and cooking had disappeared over the years. One of his best memories was walking into the house and smelling fresh baked bread. Now there was only a light scent of furniture polish.

As he walked through the modest home, he found comfort in the familiar furniture. There was his grandfather's leather recliner in one corner. His grandmother's sewing basket perched beside a comfortable chair. She had loved to sit by the fire and quilt on long winter days.

Hunter stooped in one corner and opened a small door. Beneath the staircase, someone had built a tiny child's play room. Peeking inside, he saw several of his old toys and a few books. Smiling, he remembered curling up on pillows inside with his puppy. Then he bit his lip as that other memory crowded his head.

Dr. Gautier had promised that the more he faced the one bad memory, the more he would be able to enjoy the pleasant memories. He sighed. Perhaps it was true. It still sucked having to relive that day over and over again. Backing away on his knees, he rose and walked through the rest of the home. Everything was clean and tidy.

The kitchen seemed hopelessly out of date compared to modern standards, but he still gazed at the old giant stove with fondness. He had shared many happy memories in here with his grandmother. He had probably been more of a hindrance than a help, but she had patiently allowed him to peel vegetables and mix ingredients in the large silver bowl that still sat on the kitchen counter. Hunter ran his fingers over everything.

Finally, he ventured upstairs, aware that he was procrastinating. After exploring all the other bedrooms, he paused at his own childhood room. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and walked inside.

The first thing he noticed was how small it seemed. He sat on the twin bed, running his fingers along the quilted surface. His grandmother had carefully pieced together several different wild animal fabrics together. Every night he had gone to sleep covered in lions, tigers, bears, elephants, giraffes and chimpanzees. The walls were painted a pale blue. Faded yellow curtains stretched above the wide window that looked out across the great expanse of lawn.

Other than the bed, the only other furniture in the room was a small bureau, a wide bookcase packed with children's works, and an antique wooden rocking chair with a quilted cushion tied to the seat. One round rug covered a large part of the bare, polished wood floor. Just like the rest of the house, all the furnishings were clean and free of dust. The caretakers had done an excellent job of maintaining everything all these years.

Hunter stretched out on the bed and allowed himself to relive those moments of waking up to a wet tongue on his face in the mornings. Even now, he recalled the warmth of Coco's little body pressed against his chest while they slept. The feeling was bittersweet but not painful. A good sign, he thought. Maybe Dr. Gautier was right about him coming here.

Then again, Hunter still had the most painful exercise left. Dr. Gautier wanted him to retrace his steps. He was to experience that day as an adult observing his younger self that fateful day so many years ago. Perhaps that was why he was lying down, growing drowsier by the minute. If he allowed himself to fall asleep, he could avoid the next step.

But then an image of Amber came to him. The ache of missing her was too much. Sitting up, he swung his legs off the bed and marched resolutely downstairs. He stopped by the kitchen, his mind conjuring up himself eating breakfast with his grandparents. Then he moved outside, forcing himself to remain detached as he imagined younger Hunter racing across the yard with Coco.

One day during a therapy session, Dr. Gautier had taken a measuring stick and showed Hunter how tall he had been when first met him. Hunter had been taken aback by how small he was. For the first time, he had been able to truly see that younger version of himself as a child. Now, he made himself picture how small this young boy was running to the gate.

Older now, he watched with new eyes the curiosity and excitement in the little boy's face as he approached the gate. For the first time since that day, he allowed himself to remember that he had planned on stopping by a small shop that sold sausages in the nearby village. He had imagined how happy Coco would be sitting by his feet and gobbling up such a wonderful treat. He had also heard that the village had a small duck pond in the park. Young Hunter had wanted to see Coco's excitement at seeing all those ducks.

Hunter stopped suddenly. He was at the old wooden gate. Fully grown, he had no trouble seeing right over the top of the low gate. But he realized that his younger self would have been too short to see anything beyond the gate. He remembered his younger self straining to reach the latch.

Hunter reached up to open the actual gate as it now existed. The rusted latch flaked in his hand. As the gate swung open, it whined and creaked loudly. Swallowing hard, Hunter gazed out. Not much had changed over the years except that the small dirt road was much narrower than he remembered.

Remembering Dr. Gautier's instructions, Hunter forced himself to witness his memories as an objective observer. He watched the little boy drop down and beg the dog to come with him. The little dog looked up quizzically. The boy began shouting about sausages just around the corner. As Hunter the adult watched in sick fascination, the child  raised a small booted foot and shoved the dog.

The dog backed away, startled. Then he trotted briskly down the small road. The little boy's yelled the dog's name and began to chase him. But the dog was much faster and disappeared around the corner.

Hunter forced himself to walk down to where the road forked. Even today, it looked barren. Hunter allowed himself to remember how frightened he had been. And then he realized that the five-year-old version of himself had simply been too scared to go down that road alone. As a grownup, Hunter watched that little kid stare down the road. He felt sorry for him. What a shitty thing for a little kid like that to have to deal with.

Hunter turned and walked back to the gate because that was what his younger version had done that day. Little Hunter had sat by the gate sobbing until his grandparents found him. Looking back, Hunter realized that his grandparents must have guessed what had happened. How else would the gate have gotten open? And yet, they had done nothing but hug him and search the road for hours.

How was it that he remembered that part now but had somehow blocked it out as a child? Had it been simple shame? Shame at having kicked his dog and then being too afraid to track him down on his own. He now remembered that he had been afraid to leave the gate, convinced that Coco would come back to find him.

As Hunter's thoughts returned to the present day, he sat in the waning sunlight, staring off into the distance. As he did, he was startled to see a flash of color moving toward him. Something white. For a split second, he thought that Coco had been resurrected and was coming back.

He squinted and just made out a bicyclist. Hunter got to his feet and brushed off his pants. As the bicyclist got closer, he had to blink a few times. He was really hallucinating now. The rider looked so much like Amber that he actually took a step back in shock.