Adele

It started with a simple call from my mother. I was in my photography class when it happened. My university professor gave me an irritated expression when I walked out of the class with my phone in hand and a look of embarrassment on my face. Her hoarse voice and hiccupping gave me the idea that she had been crying for a few moments before she even thought of dialing my cell phone number. Yeah, I got all that with just a simple “hey, sweetie.”

I sighed and looked around the surprisingly empty halls of New School University. “What’s wrong, mother?” I was a bit annoyed that my mom had picked this moment to call. She had Monday through Thursday to call, but no, she chose Friday. This is lovely. “You’re grandmother Adele passed away, Adeline,” Mother said with her voice cracking at the phrase ‘passed away’. Again, this is lovely.

I had to go home. I had to go from being the girl with a passion for photography to the young woman that has to comfort her mother. Once my mom told me the news, nothing else had to be said. Despite the way I think and talk of my mother, my ass was going back to the not-so-great-state of New Jersey. All my childhood and teenaged memories went through my head as I passed the industrial factories and fields of grass. I guess this is why they call us the Garden State. The weight I was putting on the pedal decreased. I was home.

My grandmother Adele and I didn’t have the best relationship. She would always complain in French about the way I dressed and the way I acted. I have to say, though, the old lady did die at the right time. My summer break had just started.

Being the responsible and caring daughter that I was, of course I agreed to go to France for the funeral. You tend to have no choice when your sobbing mother clings on to you, telling you that she can’t do it again. “To have to go through twice…” my mother trailed off, making me look away. That’s what sealed the deal. That’s what made me get on a plane to France.

I honestly don’t know why my mom thought staying at my dead grandmother’s house would be okay. It felt like my grandmother, Adele, was there, watching. And I don’t mean that in a good way. My mother was talking to her siblings that were able to make it. They were trying to remember the happy memories they shared with their now deceased mother while I had to arrange the freshly cut flowers into the flowerpot. I sighed in irritation as I tried to get the flowers into place. “Mother fu-” I felt a sharp pain travel through out my hand. The unexpected pain caused me to drop the pot. “OW!” I pulled my hand away from the flowerpot and saw where whatever stung or bit me.

“Adeline, sweetheart, are you alright?” I heard my mother yell from the den. I’m absolutely fine. After all a yelp and the sound of a shattering flowerpot just screams “everything is peachy.” I turned my attention to the broken flowerpot and saw that a scorpion was crawling out of it. I began to feel lightheaded. “I didn’t know France had scorpions,” I muttered before succumbing to complete darkness.

Every part of my body felt heavy. I put all my energy into waking up, but nothing happened. I could only feel two things: the pain throbbing off my scorpion wound and my head. The pain slowly reduced to an ache, but there was something new. I could feel desperation and heartbreak rush through my veins. A face flashed before me. It was the face of a man. His facial expression mirrored the emotions that were going through me. He began to fade.

A wound to the heart took his life.
The rose fell from his numbing hand.
His eyes, once filled with love, were dead.

A force started to push against me. The more I attempted to push it away, the more it intensified. Everything felt like it was spinning again. I felt myself gasping for air. Oh, god, I can’t breathe. I wanted to move my arms, but I couldn’t. I wanted to sit up, but I couldn’t. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t.

A loud boom jolted me from my unconscious state. My breathing was heavy as I sat up and looked around. I was near a river and sitting on wet rocks. You know those rocks you see at the bottom of the river? Those were it. The water of the river was far from being clear. It was tainted with residue that shouldn’t be there. A few feet away from me was a little boat that looked like it was tossed out of the water.

My shaking hand ran through my wet and tangled dark brown hair that just passed my shoulders. “When did I get wet?” I looked down and saw that my attire was completely different to what I was wearing before. I was wearing a dress that reached half-way to my calves with small floral designs on it and my shoes weren’t the Converse I came into France in.

“What the hell is going on?” I stood up only to drop back down when I heard several rounds of gunshots. So this is how Dorothy felt when she landed in the Land of Oz I stood up once again and walked away from the river in hopes of finding someone or something. As I walked, I tried to figure where I was and how I got here. My mindless walking paid off, but what I found wasn’t really what I was hoping for. The street I stumbled upon was horrible. The majority of the houses on the street were in ruins and air held nothing but the stench of death. It looked as if I were part of some scene of a World War Two movie.

That’s when it clicked, the sound of the violence that was going on a few miles away, the debris of the homes; I had an idea of the year. I stood in the middle of a demolished house, taking everything in. Tears were stinging my eyes as I looked for some sort of street sign. There was one on the ground a few feet away from. I slowly walked to it, knowing that my knees were about to give in at any moment. I kicked off a few pebbles and read the sign. All I needed was the first word to make me realize that this was France or Occupied France, as it was known during the last years of World War Two in Europe.

“Ade!” I heard someone shout right when my knees gave away. A pair of arms caught me before I hit the ground. Whoever it was, managed to lift me up and carry me the way a groom carries his bride. This person took me out of the used-to-be-a-house and walked us back into the forest of pine trees I had just walked out of. He pressed his lips against my forehead and whispered what seemed to be comforting words in French.

Now, the only French I know are the generic phrases, which is sad seeing as I’m half French. I say this because it surprised me that I actually understood what this man was saying to me. Unfortunately for him, it freaked me out so much that I thrashed around in his arms. I didn’t know the guy, but apparently he knew me. “Let me down,” I said as we neared a spot where there was pan and some ripped cloth. When he did, I took a few steps back, taking in his appearance before asking this mystery man any questions.

He was slightly taller than me (me being 5’7”) and was wearing a soldier’s military suit. The suit itself looked as bad as he did, dirt and dried blood had embedded themselves within the thread it was made. I couldn’t tell if he was a French soldier or American. His gorgeous face had blotches of dirt, bruises, and cuts scattered about, but that couldn’t get me from staring at his hazel eyes. “Who are you?” I spoke slowly just in case he was a French soldier who hardly knew English…which seems stupid now that I think about it. I guess my thinking over my actions was evident on my face because he smiled and gave a low chuckle.

“You can’t be serious?” he said in clear English. I stared at him. His hazel orbs scanned my confused expression. He sighed and cautiously came closer to me. “Ade, you’re bleeding. You must have hit your head harder than I thought. That’s probably why you’re acting funny.”

“Oh, I’m acting funny?” I have to admit, I am acting quite weird, but I have a right to act this way. “I don’t even know who the hell you are!” I glared at him and slapped his hands away when he went to examine the cut I didn’t even know I had. He sighed and grabbed my hand. “Come on. I’ll explain everything to you. Just let me clean that cut of yours.”

I didn’t even know his name and already I was absolutely taken with him. He was wiping off whatever was around the cut on my head. I thought I was going to be somewhat relaxed, but no, I was as stiff as a board and blushing. “Let’s start with your name, soldier,” I was trying to lighten the situation. I think it worked because he smiled a very lovely smile.

“My name is Gerard and I’m an American soldier. I was stationed here a month and a half ago because I’m fluent in French,” that seemed like a lame reason to be sent here. “And I met you a month ago,” he ran his fingers through my hair. Oh, wow and now I’m completely smitten. I think he can hear my heart pound like a drum. “Oh…” I said breathlessly. Something tells me this isn’t the first time he’s made me, or whoever I am, feel like this.

“You and I are in love,” he smiled. Perhaps he thought I was playing around, trying to be cute and adorable. Before I could say something about the “in love” statement, a bomb went off a few miles away scaring us both. “We have to go. Operation Overlord seems to have started,” we started heading back towards the street he found me in. “Wait, what?” I looked at him curiously. He has to be kidding me. “Adele, we don’t have time to do this. We have to go NOW,” he quickly dragged me into a somewhat decent looking house. Why did he call me by my grandmother’s name?

“My name isn’t Adele,” I told him once we stopped. As I said before, the house looked somewhat decent from the outside, but inside, it looked like someone stormed in, which they probably did. Everything was thrown on the floor. Broken dishes and some feathers were some of the things that decorated the floor.

Gerard stared at me. “How hard did you hit your head?” I groaned. All of this was getting frustrating. “Gerard, do me one favor and don’t question me. Tell me everything that you know about me,” it was the only way I was going to find out who I was.

Gerard rolled his eyes. “You are Adele Monroe. You were born in France on February 17, 1920. You hate thunderstorms, but love the rain. You and I met when you decided to sneak off to a bar.”

Oh, god. I’m living a moment from my dead grandmother’s life. Gerard confirmed my theory as he kept talking about her. I was surprised to know how many things she and I had in common. I grew even more surprised to find out the relationship she had with this Gerard person. I wonder why she didn’t just marry him instead of my grandfather. “I need some water,” I muttered and found my way to the kitchen. That was a big mistake. I screamed at what I found laying on the ground. I heard Gerard’s footsteps stop abruptly when he saw what had made me scream. It was the dead body of woman. She looked like one of those high class ladies you see in the movies and television. I just wanted to find a pitcher of water.

“Oh, shit,” Gerard whispered. He guided me out of the room and back to where we were. “I want to go home,” I whimpered, clinging to him. This is what my grandmother went through? Gerard wrapped his arms tightly around waist and tried to calm me down with a kiss on the lips. It worked. The kiss made me forget what was happening around us. At that point, I didn’t care if it was only a few hours ago that I was on a plane to come to France. What mattered to me was Gerard and I being together. Sadly, I was about to find out why my grandmother Adele didn’t marry him.

The sound of shouting broke us apart. We had German soldiers pointing guns at us. Gerard let go of me and went to get a gun he had. My eyes widened at what he was doing. He was attempting to be a hero. “Gerard, don’t!” It was too late. There were two gunshots, one in his heart and one in my shoulder. It felt like the world was spinning. I heard myself mutter something incoherently before I passed out.

“Adeline!” My eyes flew open at the sudden sound of my name. I sat and found my mother and aunts and uncles looking worriedly at me. “Are you okay? Of course, you’re not. Why do I even ask?” my mother rambled.

I stopped paying attention to the worried adults that kept throwing questions at me about my health and what happened. I frankly could care less. All I want to do is find out more about what my grandmother went through during the 1940’s. I coughed, hoping it would shut them up. It did. “Uh, did grandma ever happen to tell you stories about her life in France? Specifically during 1940,” they all stared at me in surprise. I rarely showed any interest in my grandmother.

“Well, she has told us about growing up in France and how she moved to the United States around the 1940’s because of the war,” said my one of my three aunts. “Why?” I looked at her and gave her a weak smile. “Just wondering.”

The funeral was a bit over the top, but still okay…I guess. I don’t know. It’s a damn funeral. I asked my mom about the harp that was there. She said that my grandmother loved them and actually knew how to play it. This new information about her past got me thinking about Gerard, something that I have been doing since my little fainting spell.

A month past and I was back in sunny New York. I was walking to my favorite coffee shop when I slammed into someone. It was a guy. “Oh, crap. I’m so sorry,” I said while picking up the papers I made him drop. “It’s okay,” he said. His voice sounded familiar. When I looked at him, my eyes went wide. It was Gerard. No, no, no, it can’t be. The man raised his eyebrows at my shocked expression. “Um, yes?” he asked. I’m pretty sure I was making him uncomfortable. I let out an airy laugh. “I hope you don’t mind, but…what’s your name?”

“My name’s Gerard.” I swear my whole body felt like it was being pricked by some needles.