Part 23 (2/2)
I gazed at Dr. Newhaus through my reflection in the window. ”When did all of this happen?” I said, my voice cracking.
”A decade ago, maybe more. That's when he became a psychologist.”
”I want to go,” I said, tearing myself away from the window. ”I don't want to be here anymore.” Though I wasn't sure if I meant here at the cafe, or here in Montreal, or here in general. Everything was too complicated.
”Me neither,” Noah said, his breath dissipating into the night. I followed his gaze down the street, where the block lights of a theater stuck out over the awnings. ”Hey. Do you want to see a movie?”
The only thing showing past midnight was a black-and-white film about a man who plotted to murder his wife. I shuddered as I stared at the dull colors of the movie poster, which seemed to mock me. But before I knew it, I found myself waiting as Noah bought two tickets, a bag of b.u.t.tery popcorn, and two large sodas. We were the only people in the theater, and took seats right in the middle.
”This is a cla.s.sic,” Noah said. ”You're going to love it.”
It wasn't until the movie started that I realized it was entirely in French, with no subt.i.tles.
”They're talking so quickly I can barely understand them,” I whispered to Noah as he pa.s.sed me the popcorn.
After a moment of confusion, he realized what I was saying. ”Oh no,” he said. ”I forgot.”
Clearing his throat, he leaned toward my ear and began to translate, his voice deep and accented. I slid down in my seat, laughing despite everything and sipping my soda as our thighs pressed against each other. Somewhere in between a woman crooning in scratchy French and the fly that landed on the projector lens, I fell asleep, my dream a chaotic swirl of murder and betrayal, of me and Noah in black and white, smiling as we ran, hand in hand, into white light.
Hours later, a man with a broom and dustpan nudged me awake. I blinked. The screen glowed white, and popcorn was strewn about our feet. Noah's head was resting on my shoulder, his hand sweaty and wrapped around mine. ”Renee,” he murmured in his sleep. He was dreaming of me, just as I had been dreaming of him.
I realized then that for the first time in months, my dream had been my own.
DECEMBER IN MONTREAL WAS DARK AND BLEAK, with winds so strong they could blow a person over, and snow that buried parking meters and bicycle stands. From the windows of our cla.s.srooms the city looked post-apocalyptic and abandoned. For me, it was real. The world I thought I had known, the world colored by Dante, was gone now, and everything felt vacant and meaningless. Every morning it was harder to get out of bed. The prospect of facing the day seemed too exhausting to bear. I couldn't focus on studying for my exams, and every time the voice inside me screamed, Search for the ninth sister!, I silenced it. Eternal life doesn't exist, I told myself. The Nine Sisters were nothing more than a group of smart women who protected a secret about literature or politics. Immortality was a legend. And even if it wasn't, what was the point in searching for it? The only reason I wanted to find their secret was because of Dante, because I wanted to be with him for eternity. But I didn't know if I wanted that anymore.
After the night in the movie theater, things changed between Noah and me, though it happened so quietly that it was hard to catch. We still went on walks together, wandering through the slushy streets after cla.s.ses to get a bite to eat, or studying for exams with Anya, on a rickety table at the coffee shop, an espresso machine whirring in the background. On the surface, everything appeared the same. I didn't tell Noah about Dante, but something about the way he studied me when he thought I wasn't looking made me think he understood.
”Hey, maybe the ninth sister was a doctor,” he'd say in the middle of a study session, when he saw me lost in thought as I stared out the window at the snowplow on the street. ”Maybe that's why the riddle was hidden at the Royal Victoria.”
I shrugged. ”Maybe.”
”Or maybe she was very sick,” Anya said, ”and hid the riddle beneath the bed where she was treated.”
Noah scratched the stubble on his chin. ”I guess anything's possible. We could check hospital records. What do you think, Renee?” he said gently, trying to catch my gaze.
”Yeah,” I said, trying to smile. ”That sounds good.”
”Great,” he said. ”Friday after cla.s.s? Maybe after, we can all get dessert at my parents' house. Take it easy, you know?”
”Easy,” I murmured. Should relations.h.i.+ps be easy? No, I used to think. Everything worth doing took work and time, but for some reason, when I'd woken up next to Noah in the theater, none of that seemed clear anymore. I needed to talk to Dante. I needed him to tell me that he hadn't killed Miss LaBarge, that there was some reasonable explanation.
Before I knew it, exams were over, and as the snow swirled outside my window, I packed a single suitcase and dragged it across the courtyard. While I was waiting to hail a taxi, I heard shoes crunch in the snow behind me.
”You were just going to leave for three weeks without saying good-bye?” Noah said, his cheeks a deep red.
”I thought you were still in exams,” I said as a taxi pulled over to the curb and popped its trunk.
Noah shook his head. ”I was sitting in my room when I saw you step outside. You looked like you were about to be blown away.”
I laughed. ”Definitely not with this thing,” I said, lifting my suitcase.
”Here, let me get that,” he said, but I pulled it out of reach.
”I can do it,” I said, and with some difficulty, I pushed it into the trunk.
”Right,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. ”Of course you can.”
The exhaust from the car fogged in the cold as we stood there, not quite looking at each other. ”So, I guess I'll see you when you get back?” Noah said, as if he had meant to say something else, but had changed his mind.
”Yeah,” I said, because what else could I say?
He forced a smile. ”Great.”
”Great.”
Noah made to open the door for me, but I beat him to it, our hands touching as I reached the handle. ”Oh, you don't have to-”
”Right. Sorry.”
After I slammed the door, he brushed away a little circle of snow from the window so that we could see each other. He waved good-bye. And I was off.
When I got to the airport, I checked my bag and boarded a rickety little airplane with only one bathroom and one stewardess.
The looming buildings of Montreal shrank into white as we ascended through the clouds.
A disheveled college boy in a baggy sweater was sitting next to me. He was reading Dante's Inferno. He smiled when he saw me staring at his book. ”Do you know it?” he asked, his gaze wandering from my face to my stockings.
I pulled down my skirt. ”No,” I said quickly, and put on my headphones.
Ma.s.sachusetts was masked by a white flurry when we landed. Dustin met me at the airport with a takeout cup of hot chocolate and a big hug, and insisted on carrying my suitcase to the car.
Barren trees frosted in ice formed a canopy over the roads as we drove west to Winters.h.i.+re House, the tires squeaking as they pressed into the snow.
Dustin asked me about Montreal and St. Clement as he navigated. Tinny Christmas music played softly in the background. We pa.s.sed frozen ponds, churches with Nativity scenes out front, and white colonial houses buried in snow, their owners shoveling tiny trails to their front doors.
The streetlamps turned on one by one as we drove up the driveway to my grandfather's mansion. Burlap sacks covered the topiaries, now dusted in white. My grandfather's car was nowhere to be seen.
”He's traveling on business but will be back for dinner,” Dustin said as he hoisted my suitcase out of the trunk.
And sure enough, when I ran down the stairs an hour later, my grandfather was standing in the dining room, slinging his dinner jacket over the back of the chair.
”Ah, Renee. Welcome back.” He always said back instead of home.
”Thanks.”
Dustin served us a robust meal of pot roast and spaghetti puttanesca. My grandfather tucked his napkin into the collar of his s.h.i.+rt and picked up his fork and knife.
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