Chapter 12

Nick dreamed about Jean Claude again, but he wasn’t alone. He was with a girl. All the images were about her.

The glimpse of a girl, a girl my age with the body of a fully developed woman. Her image ran through my brain, hair flying, lips parted in laughter. And I was the boy. Yes, I was Jean Claude watching the dancer.

“I am Chaton, the Gypsy princess!” she said through laughter as she spun around the campfire, twirling her body as a ballerina.

“Chaton, my sweet kitten. Come eat. Stop your dancing!” a man with a pointed goatee called to her.

“Non! I want to fly!”

“Beware,” the man said, giving me a hard look. “The cat has claws.”

To which she only twirled faster around the fire’s glow.

Chaton. A Gypsy kitten.

****

After a restless sleep, evidenced by his sheet and quilt in a tangle, Nick tried to recall his dream and the name of the girl. Her name was always just out of reach. Shannon? No, Chaton—a kitten.

He showered and went downstairs for his usual breakfast of cereal, yogurt, and a banana. His parents were huddled around the table, sipping their coffee, heads bent together, talking softly. Had Grandma taken a turn for the worse?

He heard his name and stepped back quickly—making sure he was unseen, and listened.

“Do you think we should tell him?” his mother asked in a near whisper.

Nick barely breathed waiting for the sad news.

“I’m not sure it would help,” his father said.

“What if he needs to know?”

“I don’t think he does.”

Nick noted a bit of hesitation in his father’s words. Their conversation wasn’t about Grandma. He took a step toward the door but stopped when he heard more.

“What if it’s just coincidence?” his mother asked.

“Have you ever heard of Saumur?” his father asked.

The whispered conversation was definitely about him. He stepped closer, his eye to the space between the door and the wall.

“Well, no…but it’s easy enough to find,” his mother said. “The Internet and all.” As she talked, she moved her finger around the handle of her mug.

“It’s not an Auschwitz or Birkenau.” His father snorted.

“I know,” his mother said. “Well…” She hesitated. “Some people believe…”

“We’re not some people, Grace. I’m a minister and need to set an example.”

Minnie bumped into Nick’s leg. He picked her up before she started meowing loudly, and stroked her while he listened. She purred against his arms, rubbing her head against the scar on his chest.

With Minnie in his arms, Nick stepped into the kitchen. “What do you need to tell me?” His parents looked up.

Nick’s father looked down at his plate and cleared his throat, before saying, “Nick! Son! Sit down. We need to talk.”

Nick put Minnie down and sat opposite his parents, waiting while his father cleared his throat again.

His mother swallowed. “When you told us about the girl at school…that she knew you from before…” She searched for words, her speech hesitant and halting.

Nick narrowed his eyes. Where was this leading? “Yes?”

“When you were about three or four, I think, you kept telling us you had been in a war.”

His father shifted in his chair. “We thought you were playing make-believe after Grandpa told you about his experiences during D-Day,” his father explained.

“Or you had seen something on television and were fantasizing about it.” His mother spoke deliberately, but she kept her head down. “You told us your name was Jean…” His mother narrowed her eyes in concentration. “I called you for lunch, and you didn’t respond. You were playing in the backyard…”

Nick remembered.

“Nick, lunch,” his mother called.

Who’s Nick? I was Jean Claude. “I’m Jean Claude!”

“You are not Jean Claude! Your name is Nick, and lunch is ready,” his mother said, annoyed.

“No, I’m not. I’m a soldier, and I ride horses!” he chanted in a singsong voice. “Jean Claude. Jean Claude. Giddyup!”

“No, you’re not Jean Claude!” she insisted.

Nick had the hysterical urge to laugh, but instead, black spots danced before his eyes, and his head felt woozy.

Nick stared at his parents, speechless, until he found his voice. “Why—why didn’t you tell me this when I told you what Cat said?” he stammered.

“We weren’t sure what to do,” his mother said.

“We’ve been distracted about your grandmother’s health. We probably should have told you earlier,” his father said. “Your mother and I talked it over and prayed about this.” His father clasped his hands together. “We decided you should know.”

Nick needed to wrap his mind around this. “So what Cat said was true?”

“We don’t know,” his mother replied ruefully. “We believe there has to be some sort of explanation.”

“How come I don’t remember this?” But he remembered hazy visions. Pictures flashed across his mind.

“You were very young,” his mother said.

“We were anxious and concerned,” his father said after a long pause. “It was all so strange.” His father shook his head sadly like he wished this conversation wasn’t taking place.

His mother continued, “You knew some details about where you lived in France. About a memorial near Paris with your name on it.”

“Could I have seen that on TV?” Nick asked, not wanting to believe even with this new revelation from his parents.

“You said some French words.”

“It could have been on the TV,” Nick said again.

“We considered that,” his father said.

“There has to be an explanation. People don’t just wake up and know a foreign language, do they?” Nick asked, pushing back the mounting hysteria.

“No.” His father brushed something from his robe.

“How long did I talk about being soldier?”

“For a couple of years as soon as you could talk.” His mother leaned forward as if her back pained her.

“And why did I stop talking about it?”

“We stopped it.”

“How?” Nick asked, shifting from foot to foot.

Silence passed between his parents.

“What did you do?” he asked again.

His parents looked at one another in some sort of telepathic communication. His mom shrugged and his father sighed.

“A priest performed an exorcism,” his father said. He kept his eyes down and didn’t look directly at Nick.

Nick gave a bitter snort. “Like that old movie 'The Exorcist'? Did my head spin?”

“Nothing like that!” His mother rushed to say, “A priest prayed for the evil spirits to leave your body.”

“A priest? A Catholic priest?” Nick’s voice rose. “But we’re Methodist!”

“True,” his father spoke. “I was still in seminary, and we lived in Ohio. I wasn’t ordained yet, so I guess technically…”

“Methodists don’t believe in exorcisms, do they?” Nick asked.

“No.”

“But you did it anyway?”

“We were grasping at straws,” his mother said, reaching out and squeezing Nick’s fingers. Fingers freezing and numb.

“We were concerned.” His father smiled tightly. “I read something about the power of the brain and exorcisms—”

Nick yanked his hand away from his mom.

“I met this priest at a conference I attended, so I called him,” his father said.

“Did the exorcism work?” Nick asked. It must have; he had no memory of it. Wouldn’t something like that be traumatic and stay with him? But just as he thought that, an image of a man, a priest, popped into his head.

“We thought so. You didn’t talk about the war until now, until you met Cat.”

“How can this be? I’m plain old Nick Dupont in Laketon, Michigan. I was born in Laketon Hospital!”

“I know!” His mom bit a fingernail. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“But when you said Saumur…” his father said and stopped.

“Can you tell me more about the exorcism?” Nick asked. A name came into his head, Father Nathaniel.

“We taped the session,” his father said.

“Do you still have the tape? Can I listen to it?”

“I’m not sure it will help,” his father said.

“Does the name ‘Father Nathaniel’ mean anything?” Nick asked. The question just popped out. The name went with the tall figure in black robes.

His parents’ frowns mirrored each other. “No, why?”

“I remember a priest by that name.”

“No, the priest was named Father Samuel, I believe.” His mom sat up straighter. “It was long ago.”

“I want to hear the tape.”

His parents looked at each other.

“I’ll have to find it,” his mother said quietly, almost in a whisper. “Then you can listen.”

Nick looked toward the clock on the stove and blurted, “I’ve gotta go.” He needed to get away from them and think.

“But your breakfast!” his mother said.

“I’m not hungry.” Nick stood and edged toward the door.

His mother frowned. “When have you ever not been hungry?”

He had never been in this situation before, that’s why.

His stomach churned as he grabbed his backpack, stumbled out the front door and to the car. Inside, in the driver’s seat, Nick willed his heart to stop jerkily galloping against his chest.

Oh, God, what was happening to him?