Blood and Bone(66)

He’s my monster.

He runs his hand over my cheek. “I am so glad I found you in the dark.”

I nod, not caring that a tear is slipping down my cheek. I turn, as if purposely looking for something. There are padlocks everywhere on the bridge. They are locked to the railings and iron fencing along the bridge. There are so many I can’t guess: one million locks?

The image fades away instantly.

I blink and realize real tears have run down my cheeks. Pulling out the French passport and slipping it into my pocket, I hurry to the front counter, grabbing a pastry and a coffee. My body is malnourished, but there is something else driving me on. I’m terrified it’s love.

Getting a cab is simple. Getting a plane ticket at the airport would be even simpler, but deciding what to do with the bag of passports and cash is not as easy. I don’t know what to do with them, but I would guess it’s a poor idea to bring them on a plane.

Seeing the sign for a solution, I hurry to the car rental place across the way and decide to do the stupidest thing I can. The navigational map says it’s a seven-hour drive. I know I can drive seven hours.

When I decide to turn my brain off and pretend the whole world isn’t falling apart, the trip is pleasant. It’s refreshing and new to be in Europe, even if, technically, it’s not new to my body. My eyes are dazzled by the old buildings, the Alps, and many other sights, while my mind works out the story. Nothing I create with the mess of details they have given me makes anything resembling a plausible story.

When I arrive on the outskirts of Paris, the navigational system commands me in Italian to take an exit. I follow it through the streets as they get busier and more crowded. I park the car when the nice Italian male voice tells me I am three hundred meters to my destination. Climbing from the car I stretch and wince as blood starts to circulate through my body more efficiently. I follow the image of the map as I recall it until I recognize the Pont de l’Archevêché. The padlock bridge. I have been here before.

I don’t know when I was here, and I am certain I won’t ever know the truth of it, but the image of thousands of padlocks lining the bridge stuns me to a still silence. Overwhelming awe and an instant respect for love, even the lost and not yet found, fills me. There is nothing I have ever seen that will ever compare to this. The locks are a symbol of hope in a world where I swear there is none. This bridge is a symbol of all the love out there, proving there is so much more than I would have guessed.

I stroll to the exact spot in my odd memory and sit, staring at the Seine and the people walking on the street across from me. Seeing them makes me wonder if they’re normal people or if they have a past of secrets, deceptions, and betrayals like me.

There is no way Derek is coming, but I have to surmise he’s the one I am expecting. But his injuries were serious. He will be in a hospital for many weeks, if he made it at all. I don’t know why but the thought of a world without him burns inside me. I should wish him dead. I should wish them all dead. But I find when my eyes are closed I wish they were here with me. I wish I weren’t alone and afraid and living a web of lies.

“You came.”

I turn, seeing the pale face of a very sick Derek. He is hunched and weak, evoking pity from me instantly. I jump up, forgetting the bag and the lies and the bullshit. “Are you okay?” I am grateful he’s alive. I can’t deny it, and I won’t bother pretending.

He shakes his head. “Did you find everything I left you?”

“You’re alive, Derek. How is that even possible?”

“I left it all there for you, hoping it would give you some closure.” His voice shakes, and I can tell he’s not better—not at all. He shuffles his feet on the old cement and sits down next to me, overlooking the Seine. “Did it make sense?”

I shake my head. “You left me a bag and a box that made everything more confusing.”

He turns, stunned. “You didn’t read the pages?”

“There were hundreds of pages. I skimmed and saw shit like JFK and narcissism and shit I didn’t understand, and I panicked. I burned it all in the safety-deposit box, smoked out that room in the bank brutally, and ran.”

“Why didn’t you use the burn box?”

I sigh. “Why does everyone think I know anything that’s going on?”

“Because you do. It’s just stuck in the layers, and I’m trying to help you get it out.” The water, the passersby, and the charming little bridge make it all surreal.

“I don’t trust you, and I don’t trust anything I feel or see. These people could all be part of it somehow.”