So, there’s that.But there’s another reason for my unusual arousal, for this heightened sense of intimacy I’m feeling. That reason has nothing to do with my unconventional circumstances. It comes from the fact that a strong, wholesome, seasoned man trusts me—a damaged young adult—to take care of him while he’s vulnerable.
He doesn’t really have a choice, does he?
Exhaling, I draw back.Good. I needed that reality check.
“I better be off,” I say. “Mom and Dad might decide to skip the restaurant and return early.”
He responds with a brief nod.
“I’ll try to find out more about the mark,” I add.
“But discretely, OK?” He rakes me with his gaze. “And, please, don’t confront them about me yet.”
He doesn’t restate his reasons.
And I haven’t forgotten them.
As if I could!I love my parents dearly, and I’m certain they’re no murderers, but there’s no denying he’s made some good points. His concern is valid. Letting him go would require that I rule out the possibility that he’ll report his abduction and illegal detention to the police. Whether he’s a fugitive or a spy, how can I be certain he’ll disappear and let my parents be? That he won’t seek retribution?
I force myself to step away from him. “My lips will be sealed about you, I promise.”
It’ll be an easy promise to keep, especially because I can still ask Mom and Dad questions aboutme.
STELLA
From the foot of the staircase leading into the town hall, Mom and I are watching Dad give a talk at the top. On this chilly late February morning he’s inaugurating the start of Vosier-en-Haut Family Fun Day.
Half listening to his speech recycled from last year, I focus on the crisp winter air that fills my lungs. It’s a beautiful day. The midmorning sun casts a warm shimmer on the snowcapped mountains in the distance and on the buildings of the church square in the foreground, making everything sparkle.
The square and the entire village are buzzing with excitement. Everyone and their aunt has turned out for the event. Dad must be incredibly pleased.
Every year, Mom and Dad organize this celebration on a shoestring and swear they won’t do it again—not without sponsorship. Every year, the provincial, regional, and national powers that be reject Dad’s request for funding. And every year, he manages to raise enough money from the local businesses and surrounding farms, find creative solutions, and hold the event. Because the kids of Vosier-en-Haut look forward to it.
Well, also because their parents vote in municipal elections, and Dad is running again next year. Not sure why, but keeping his seat means an awful lot to him.
I tune in to his speech. Gesturing animatedly, Dad is extolling the unequaled beauty and rich history of Haute-Savoie and of Vosier-en-Haut, the jewel of our region. His passion is genuine, and it shows. He transitions to another favorite topic of his—the importance of living “with purpose,” eating good slow food, and getting plenty of exercise in the fresh air.
As I listen, it occurs to me that, unlike him and Mom, I live my life without any purpose whatsoever. If I do have an objective, it’s to blend into the background as smoothly as I can. No one will suspect me of a crime if they don’t notice me to begin with. My most cherished dream is that the prescription drugs that Mom obtains for me and that I take religiously make sure that I never relapse.
“My goal,” Dad says, “is to make accomplished hikers out of all of you. Are you game?”
“Oui!” the crowd roars.
“Good! If you want me to turn every one of you into hikers as dedicated as my wife and I, then you’ll need to reelect me next year.”
People laugh and some shout, “Deal!”
“I want everybody to have a blast today!” Dad cries. “And when you go home, I want you to make a commitment to your health.”
His words hang in the air for a moment before the crowd breaks out in applause.
In my mind’s eye, I see Darrel, injured and alone in our basement. Held there against his will, drugged, hypnotized, and forced to be part of bizarre rituals. Can someone explain to me how that fits with the sensible, benevolent things Dad just said, things I know he believes in? How?!
There’s got to be an explanation.
With the speech out of the way, Dad comes down the stairs. When he reaches us, he throws an arm around Mom’s shoulders and the other around mine, and we all head toward the stalls. The scents of hot cocoa, coffee, Nutella crepes, and roasted chestnuts waft through the air as we pass by the stalls of local artisans selling their goods. Mom exchanges pleasantries with the villagers and tourists. Her friendly, engaging demeanor tends to put people at ease. Dad is in his element, shaking hands and chatting with people as we move from one stand to another.
When we cross someone I know, which makes for quite a few people despite my reclusive life, they tell me, as always, that I must be very proud of my parents. And as always, I reply that I am. Only this time, there’s a sour tang to the sweetness of my pride.