Chapter 11
Nick drove home from his grandmother’s apartment and thought about what a boring Saturday it would be if Emily was mad at him for last night. It was dumb getting drunk at the bonfire. He needed to be more careful; Emily was lukewarm on drinking and didn’t usually imbibe.
“Hey, babe, I’m sorry you had to drive me home,” Nick said when he called Emily, and there was a long pause on her end. “I need to see you. Can I come over after dinner? Take you for ice cream or something?”
“I’m not mad, Nick.”
“You’re not?”
“No, your imitation of Cat made me realize you don’t have feelings for her.”
He wasn’t sure how she had come to that conclusion, but he’d accept it.
After his parents left for the hospital, Nick went to Emily’s house. As he drove into her development, he went by Cat’s house, the one where Dr. Kawalski used to live—it was a large house with lots of windows and a three-car garage. The windows were dark, and he didn’t see anyone moving around, which was just as good.
He parked in front of Emily’s and knocked. When she answered, she beckoned him in.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked, folding her arms, studying him.
“So-so.” He moved his flat hand, indicating he wasn’t sure. “Just the loss.” He smiled at her and stepped forward and saw her relax. He put his hands around her waist and kissed her. Things were always better with Emily.
****
After church the next day, Nick and Emily decided to meet at the library to research their topics for Coach Sullivan’s class. They both had Coach Sullivan for World History, but at different times. Emily was lucky. She and her partner were researching Patton—Nick had wanted to do the same. When they arrived, the librarian assigned them computers in the back.
Nick began with some academic sites the library subscribed to. The first was in French. He stared at it blankly before realizing he comprehended what he saw. No, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t know French. He massaged his temples.
“You okay?” Emily whispered.
He turned his computer to face her. “Can you read this?”
Saumur—Saumur est un camp d’internement niché au cœur des champs de raisin d’Montreuil-Bellamy.
“No, why?”
“I can.”
“What does it say?”
“Saumur was an internment camp nestled deep in the grape fields of Montreuil-Bellamy.”
“That makes sense.” She pointed to the words. “You’re using the context clues. Camp. D’internement. Internment. Raisin means ‘grape,’ right?”
“Maybe.” Nick was aware of his shallow breathing and a light-headedness as he continued reading with the growing realization he could actually understand the French text even without clues.
He selected another site and tried to concentrate on the English words and not French. How had he learned French? He had taken two years of Spanish. He didn’t think the two languages were similar. Were they?
****
At home after the library, his parents were working together in the study, his mother doing casework notes and his father writing a sermon.
He cleared his throat in the doorway. “Can…I talk to you for a sec?”
“What is it?” His mother closed her computer and folded her arms on the desk to listen.
“I know we don’t believe in reincarnation, but I’ve been having weird dreams since meeting Cat in class.”
Nick’s father put aside the yellow notepad he was making notes on and leaned closer.
“Wait a minute. Who’s Cat?” his father asked.
“My research partner.”
“Dreams about reincarnation?” his mother asked, her eyes narrow and intense.
“Cat said we knew each other in another lifetime, and now I’m dreaming about a boy named Jean Claude.”
His mother inhaled noisily and tried to cover with a cough. “That sounds French,” she said.
“Cat seems to think we knew each other during World War II. A place called Saumur.”
“Saumur?” his mother’s voice was hoarse with a strangled cough.
“You’d be older than Grandma,” his father added with a false laugh.
“That’s not physically possible,” his mother said, her brows knit together in a frown.
“I know that, so why the dreams?”
“I…” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“She believes we were reincarnated,” Nick said, pushing home the point.
“Is that why you asked me about the Bible and reincarnation?” his father asked.
Nick hung his head. “Yes.”
His mother leaned forward, her mouth gaping open. “Why do you think she said those things?” his mother asked, her voice low and gravelly sounding.
“I don’t know, but I keep having visions and dreams about a foreign place.”
“Could just be the power of suggestion,” his mother said.
Somehow though, Nick didn’t think that was the case. The first time he had seen Cat, in the cafeteria before they even talked, he started remembering a town, totally unlike Laketon. His face must have betrayed his thoughts.
“I believe the power of prayer holds the answers to our troubles.” His father held up a Bible.
Nick grimaced. “I know. Thanks.”
As he went upstairs, feet dragging, his mind conjured up all kinds of scenarios and none of them good.
He didn’t open his Bible. No, he flipped open Grandpa’s journal to a page that was less water stained and read: The weather was terrible for the crossing. We were to take Omaha Beach. But we got blown off course, and the Germans were entrenched. I saw some of my buddies drown in the waters or shot, held down by their packs and equipment. So many lost. It makes me sad to think I could have been one of those men. We fought our way ashore. The fighting was endless and brutal.
As he read more, Nick’s mind flipped to more images: an endless line of Nazi soldiers; a bridge being blown up; and the smell of gun smoke and the tang of death. He didn’t think they were images from reading the journal. No, he had a more intimate knowledge of the bridge. Did these result from the power of suggestion? If he had done his research on Patton, would he be thinking of blowing up bridges? Perhaps. It was all so confusing.