Vidal Funeral Home and Crematorium

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange smiled up at him. Something inside Tristan melted to a liquid fire, which leapt around in his stomach, flicking up into his chest and filling him with a familiar, glowing feeling. He didn’t realize how sensitive to touch it made him, though, until Solange reached up and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. And then Tristan understood: Solange was made out of heat and light and now that they were reaching out for each other, burning for her didn’t hurt.

"Well, actually saying so out loud might have made things a little more clear," she said. "And it probably would have prevented this whole crazy person act."

Tristan grinned.

“You’re kidding,” he said. “That was the second best part of all this.”

Without Solange’s crazy, wild accusations, Tristan was sure they wouldn’t have had this talk for several long months. And by then, who knew what their lives would look like? Hell, it might even have been years before they buckled down and talked about this with level headed maturity. Not that there was much level headed going on right now. Tristan’s own head still felt like it was spinning out of control.

He leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead to Solange’s relieved. And then he kissed her lips a second time.

Maybe the crazy-person act would have to settle for third place now.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

It seemed a bit surprising that she and Tristan were coming up on having been dating for a month now. She wasn't the kind of girl that expected to celebrate silly things like one month anniversaries. There was a reason it was called an anniversary, after all. But she did suppose it was a minor milestone in its own right. After all, if she had been told when she started here that she and Tristan would ever be dating, let alone for anywhere close to a month, she would have thought the person was crazy. As it was though, she was actually really happy when she was with him and their relationship was going quite well.

A part of her attributed at least a small portion of their success as a couple to the fact that they had begun to make a conscious effort to keep their relationship and their work completely separate from one another. Not doing so had already led to one fight between the two of them. And really it just helped ensure that the funeral home itself kept a professional image in the eyes of their clients. While some might find it cute for the two of them to share a kiss in the lobby or something, other people might take offense to it. And neither of them wanted the business to get a bad reputation.

They had been diligent in being quite professional all day. She glanced over at where Tristan was speaking to an elderly woman who had just lost her husband. Her daughter sat next to her, holding her mother's hand. Solange didn't really want to interrupt but it was kind of important. She walked over with the note in her hand. She stood off to the side a little and waved him over, hoping he'd be understanding.

"I'm really sorry, but you know I would have waited if I could," she said urgently. "The rose petals Madame Mueller asked us to spread over the casket aren't coming. The florist decided to wait to till just a few minutes ago to inform me of this." She handed him the note with what the florist had said, smiling just a little despite the situation when his hand brushed her own. "I've tried calling around but no one seems to be able to get them on such short notice and they can't even have any roses here until ten minutes after the service even starts. Which is in a half hour."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan listened, inclining his head sympathetically, as Madame Cotillard reminisced about her “dear Pascal”. They’d reached that point in a consultation, where the grieving widow or widower veered off topic and began to talk about the good old days. Madame Cotillard, who had come in crying, was now smiling a bittersweet, nostalgic smile as she talked about Pascal as a young man, when they had met. Tristan didn’t tell her that every time she said “Pascal”, he couldn’t help but think of the body lying in wait in the embalming room freezer. The bald guy with liver spots that might have been fluids under the skin was not the living memory Madame Cotillard was speaking of. In cases like this, it was better to keep your mouth shut and just be there for the bereaved.

Tristan looked over at the daughter – a woman in her mid-forties, who looked more tired than sad. She smiled a little, tight smile and rubbed her mother’s hand. Tristan got the distinct impression that she’d heard this particular story well over a dozen times, maybe even in the last few days. He looked back at Madame Cotillard.

“We will do everything we can to do justice to Pascal’s memory,” he assured her in a very quiet, very even voice.

And then, from the corner of his eye, Tristan saw Solange waving at him. He stared at her uncertainly for a moment before realizing she was beckoning him over to her. He looked back at Madame Cotillard.

“If you’ll excuse me one moment,” he said, standing and rebuttoning his suit jacket before walking over to Solange.

In the last month since they’d been together, they’d been nothing but professional with each other at work. They’d done an incredibly good job, but sometimes, Tristan found himself wishing that just this once, when Solange beckoned for him, that it wouldn’t be about work. Today was a day filled with grieving widows; Tristan had heard so many stories about the good old days, about young love, that for once he just wanted to be allowed to enjoy his budding relationship with Solange during operating hours. Was that too much to ask? He looked at her hopefully, but there was a grim look on Solange’s face that spelled disaster of some sort.

"I'm really sorry, but you know I would have waited if I could," she said urgently. "The rose petals Madame Mueller asked us to spread over the casket aren't coming.”

“What?”

“The florist decided to wait to till just a few minutes ago to inform me of this," Solange said, handing Tristan a note. Her hand brushed his and for a millisecond, Tristan wasn’t upset or irritated about the flowers. It wasn’t Solange’s fault; he’d just have to get on the phone himself and kick some florist *ss. "I've tried calling around but no one seems to be able to get them on such short notice and they can't even have any roses here until ten minutes after the service even starts. Which is in a half hour."

Tristan swore under his breath and hoped that the Cotillards didn’t hear that. If there was one thing worse than messing up a floral arrangement, it was getting caught swearing at work. He looked over his shoulder and covered his mouth. To his relief, the two women were talking to one another, utterly unaware of Tristan and Solange. Relieved, Tristan reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring and handed it to Solange.

“Supply closet,” he said, looking back at her. “There’s a box of fake flowers somewhere in there, for the lobby. Should be under the shelf with the embalming fluid.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Usually Solange worked well under pressure. She could solve generally solve last minute problems quite easily by making a few phone calls or something but this was different. She hadn't had to deal with anything like this before! Never had something so disastrous happened this close to a service. How their order of rose petals had gotten sent to some wedding venue a day early for the wedding was a mystery to her and it hardly mattered. She had already run through the only other options she could think of and nothing was going to work! The only thing she could do at this point was talk to her boyfriend about it...err...boss.

Tristan swore softly, but Solange heard it and gave him a quick scolding look before they both glanced back at the mother and daughter sitting a little ways away. Solange sighed with relief when she saw they had seemed not to hear it. A moment later he was handing her his set of keys. She glanced back at him, awaiting instructions.

“Supply closet,” he told her. “There’s a box of fake flowers somewhere in there, for the lobby. Should be under the shelf with the embalming fluid.”

She nodded, taking the keys, her fingers tingling when they brushed his own again. She quickly turned and hurried off to the supply closet, unlocking it. Muttering to herself in French, she quickly looked around the small walk in space. Under the embalming fluid she found the boxes that were full of fake flowers. She rummaged around through them for a moment until she finally found one that contained a bag full of fake rose petals. With a delighted squeal she turned and hurried back to the viewing room where the service was already set up except for the rose petals. She took a couple handfuls and spread them out over the casket and even sprinkled some on the floor around it for an extra touch.

She went back out and back over to Tristan who was greeting the first of the family arriving for the Mueller funeral. Once they left she gave him a smile. "You completely saved the day," she whispered to him. She so relieved and just wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him, but held the day. "I found the petals and got them set up. It looks great!" Reaching out, she grabbed his hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go a bit reluctantly. That was still somewhat professional, right?

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

A year ago, Tristan would not have given Solange his keys. They unlocked everything in Tristan’s life: his apartment, his embalming room, his hearse… But a year ago, if you had told Tristan he would be dating Solange, he would have asked what you’d been smoking or drinking, if you were feeling well. But now, he trusted Solange wholly. And for a little moment, their hands brushed. It was strange to even think there’d been a time before he trusted Solange.

She disappeared down the hallway and Tristan returned to his other funeral directing duties. He finished the consultation with the Cotillards in time to set up the guest book for the Mueller funeral. Solange came out of the viewing room just as the first family members arrived. Tristan studiously ignored her, knowing if he looked over at her, he would smile and break the somber atmosphere of the funeral service.

When the family moved to the guest book and then to the viewing room, Solange slid her hand into Tristan’s.

"You completely saved the day," she whispered to him. "I found the petals and got them set up. It looks great!"

She released his hand and Tristan followed her to the doorway. He peered in the room over her shoulder to see fake rose petals scattered over the lower half of the casket and artfully placed around the floor. Solange had once told Tristan not to be disappointed by her lack of artistic ability, but Tristan couldn’t help but think she had a natural eye for aesthetic anyways. He wrapped his arm around Solange’s waist, hugging her to him.

“It looks great because of your arrangement,” Tristan murmured, bending to her ear. “You can’t even tell they aren’t real flower petals.”

He released her and walked back to the lobby to greet the next wave of arrivals. But this time, Tristan couldn't suppress the smile on his lips.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

There had been a time where she wouldn't have bothered with getting Tristan's opinion, let alone let him know that she needed help. But they were in a much more cooperative place. She could come to him with a problem and know that he would do what he could help, not simply because it was for the good of the business, but also because he wanted to help her. And now that she had gotten everything taken care of she genuinely sought his approval, wanted to make him happy. She took his hand and led him to the viewing where she had used the fake rose petals to supplement the loss of the real ones.

It looked good, she thought. Only if they were touched or if they were up close, would they even be revealed as being fake. She didn't even think that Madame Mueller would even mind too much that they were fake so long as the request was fulfilled. She felt his arm around her, hugging her close. A warm smile spread over her lips as she gave his arm a tender squeeze. She briefly hoped that none of the other guests were around to see it, she couldn't quite bring herself to care if they did. She was getting rather tired of this stupid rule they had come up with.

“It looks great because of your arrangement,” he whispered in her ear. “You can’t even tell they aren’t real flower petals.”

She turned and smiled up at him before he let go and headed back to the lobby. She followed him as he went. Now that that crisis was out of the way she could focus on the next one that would inevitably arrive. She sat at her desk and began clicking through her emails and organizing consultations and setting up service times. She also made a note to start searching for a new florist first thing tomorrow. Hell if she let them get away with a last minute ditch on them like that!

She kept glancing over at Tristan though, sighing softly. It was a stupid rule really...he was her boyfriend! She should be able to kiss him if she wanted! She watched him greeting the last of the guests and bit her lip, smiling a little before glancing away.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

This was the part of the job that looked the easiest, when on the outside looking in. You stood in the lobby, shook hands, and said things like, “I’m so sorry for your loss” and “The guest book is in the hallway”, while offering sympathetic eyes. But for Tristan, this was one of those parts of the job that he found most stressful. When you were embalming a decedent, you knew what you’d be dealing with. Rigor mortis with a side order of purge. It was routine, if not always pretty. Live people were unpredictable. Sometimes, even your best intended “I’m sorry for your loss” sent mourners into angry, offended tirades.

It was worse when you couldn’t get your funeral director hat on straight. Tristan knew that only a few feet away, Solange was typing up a storm. He could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard in the still of the lobby. When he was in the embalming room, it brought a measure of comfort that there was a living, breathing person only a few feet away. And not just any living, breathing person, but his girlfriend. But Solange’s presence didn’t calm Tristan right now. Right now, he was a little giddy. They’d been coworkers for nearly a year before becoming boyfriend and girlfriend. And it had been a month since they’d first gone out. And finally – today – they were really working as a team. They were holding the business together not just because they had to, but because they wanted to. And they were doing it without squabbling. If they could just keep this up… Tristan didn’t want to get ahead of himself. But if they could keep this up, it wouldn’t be so hard to work with his girlfriend, after all. If he kept letting his mind wander, Tristan knew it would begin to map out “what-if” scenarios. And he didn’t want that.

Only when Tristan’s palms began to tingle, he realized that he’d been smiling for the last few minutes. He’d lost count of how many people he must have said, “I’m sorry for your loss” to, while smiling to himself. That was probably bad form. He couldn’t help it, though. Solange had this effect on him; she made him happy; happier than Tristan could remember being. She could make him angry, too. And sad and scared. But the point wasn’t what Solange made him feel; she made him feel something. Tristan knew too many funeral directors who became callous and consumed by their careers.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled at Solange. She wasn’t looking at him; instead she seemed fixated on her computer screen, nibbling her lip in thought. She made him feel a lot of things. And right now, Tristan felt something stirring in his chest. Something wildly inappropriate for pre-funeral preparations. But sometimes – like now – when Solange was focused on her job, Tristan caught himself staring, taken aback by the focus in Solange’s eyes. It was almost like passion.

Passion – or focus or dedication or whatever the hell you called it – was infectious. Except Tristan had already spent the last six years pouring passion into the funeral home; he could tell the difference between the passion for a place or a profession and passion for a person. And right now, he wasn’t thinking about work.

If this had been a run-of-the-mill office romance, he could sidle up to her desk and ask her to meet him in the break room in five minutes. But this was a funeral home and there was something wrong, something taboo about even kissing her chastely here, let alone in the privacy of the embalming room or something. Tristan sighed. There was something off-putting about that idea. Off-putting enough to keep him from suggesting it. Instead he walked over to the desk and leaned against it.

“You know,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I’ve told you this… but I love that look you get on your face when you get focused on something.”

It simultaneously terrified and intrigued him. Solange had a can-do attitude; and not in the chipper, little-miss-sunshine way. In the take-no-prisoners, kicking-*ss kind of way that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be on the receiving end of. She applied it to everything as far as Tristan could see, but there was something about the look in her eyes at work. At work, she was partaking in his passion and maybe cultivating one of her own for the service they provided. Solange was good at her job – overly qualified, more funeral arranger than secretary anyhow – and as both her boss and her boyfriend, Tristan couldn’t help but to appreciate her.

“What are you working on?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

She seriously believed that starting to date Tristan was one of the better moves she had made in her life. He was certainly one of the better boyfriends she'd had in any case. He made her feel incredibly special with the little things he did like coming to take care of her when she was sick despite having been in a fight and taking her on dates that were messy and silly and unbelievably fun! His ridiculous sense of humor made her roll her eyes at times, but always made her laugh. In short, he made her happier than any other guy had before and while they had only been dating a month, it was still saying a lot.

“You know,” his voice came, making her glance up from her work. She gave a little smile when she saw him standing there at her desk. “I don’t think I’ve told you this… but I love that look you get on your face when you get focused on something.”

Her smile grew a little more and she glanced back at the screen. "I have a look," she asked teasingly. "And what look is that?"

“What are you working on?” he asked a moment later.

She gave a sigh, shaking her head before running her fingers through her dark hair, forcing it out of her face. "Sending reminder emails to to florist about all of the arrangements and requests for rest of the services this week," she told him. "Even thought it worked out, I'd rather not repeat this little crisis situation." She clicked around a moment longer before looking back up at him. "I'm almost done though. After this service, maybe we could go out for lunch," she suggested with a smile.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange smiled, a bigger smile than before, then she looked back at the screen. It glowed bluish against her pale skin.

"I have a look," she asked teasingly. "And what look is that?"

Tristan thought for a moment how to put into words the look on Solange’s face. But he was never really good with words. So instead he shrugged.

“You’d have to see it.”

He paused. Maybe if he painted her again, he’d show her what he meant. The last portrait he’d done of her – in fact, the only one, the mural – had shown her looking mildly exasperated, mildly amused, which seemed to be her most common expression. Or, rather, it had become most common on her in the last few months. The look on her face when she was working – which was gone now, replaced by that smile of hers – was a different look altogether. The light from the computer screen bounced off of her eyes and – paired with her focus – made them look even more otherworldly and intense. If that was possible. Tristan had learned in the last month alone just how intense Solange could be. She wasn’t given to flying off the handle, but when she did –

Tristan shook his head and asked what Solange was working on. She sighed and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Sending reminder emails to the florist about all of the arrangements and requests for rest of the services this week," she told him. "Even though it worked out, I'd rather not repeat this little crisis situation."

“Thanks,” Tristan said quietly, although what he meant was: You’re brilliant or something of the like.

Before Solange was around, Tristan had had a very lackadaisical relationship with the local florist. One that definitely favored the florist, since the last thing on Tristan’s mind were flower arrangements. He was more concerned with making sure Grandma looked less like Grandpa upon viewing and more concerned with hiding rope burn on suicide victims, so the family didn’t have to go through yet another trauma. He was an embalmer, a grief counselor, but not a businessman. Not really, anyways. Tristan had a tendency to say things like, “Bring the flowers by anytime” when he meant “Before three o’clock tomorrow afternoon”. Solange was much, much more precise with language. And she didn’t put up with anyone’s sh*t. Not Tristan’s and certainly not some local flower seller’s.

It was quiet for a moment. The only sounds were the clicking of the mouse and the ticking of the clock. Tristan knew he had other responsibilities – real responsibilities that didn’t entail standing around Solange’s desk. But in the last month or so, Tristan’s enthusiasm for his actual responsibilities had dwindled somewhat. Anyone else would probably tell him that it was healthy to prefer spending time with his girlfriend to embalming after hours. Solange looked up at him.

"I'm almost done though. After this service, maybe we could go out for lunch," she said.

Tristan smiled.

“Sounds like a plan.”

Lunch with Solange was quickly becoming his favorite part of the day. He could worry about staying late later; right now, he had something to look forward to.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Gwen and Tristan. I need this so much right now, it’s not even funny. BIC:

Tristan Vidal

It had been strange – almost terrifying – to hear a knock on the funeral home door. The sun had already set and Tristan should have been alone for the night. His first thought – after nearly jumping out of his skin and once shock died away – was that Solange had forgotten her key or something like that and was coming back to the office to pick it up. He’d told her he was working late, after all, so she was probably the only human being who knew Tristan was still here. He’d peeled off his gloves, doused his hands in sanitizer and shuffled from the embalming room to the lobby. A tired smile pulled at his face as he opened the door. But before he could teasingly ask “Forget something, sweetheart?” he saw not Solange standing on the doorstep, but Gwen.

In the dim street lights behind her, Gwen’s silhouette took a very distinct shape. Her mass of flyaway curls looked like shadowy storm clouds. She made Tristan smile and he stepped aside to let her in.

Gwen was Tristan’s best friend; sometimes more like a crazy aunt or coddling mother than “friend”. Since adopting Leopold, though, her mothering skills had been put to good use elsewhere. But clearly, her parenting senses were still just as sharp when it came to Tristan. The look Gwen shot him when he opened the door made Tristan hang his head just a little.

She’d called him earlier in the day – during the afternoon – and somewhere during the conversation, Tristan had sworn to her that he’d go home at a reasonable hour. He usually swore this to Gwen and sometimes he actually followed through. Tonight, he hadn’t.

“You caught me,” he said, hugging her by ways of apologizing. “I’m still here. How did you know?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwen tried to catch her breath as she crouched behind furniture silently. It was nearing ten o’clock and Leopold still wasn’t asleep. Not that she could blame him: time ticked by dutifully with no consideration for play time, and children’s internal clocks were not equipped to follow the path of the sun and moon the way that watches were. Tonight, she was a giant reptilian monster and Leopold was the handsome prince trying to save the damsel in distress played by Torben (who had long ago made himself a sandwich and retreated to his room to watch TV). Ever since Torben had watched Godzilla with Leopold, Leopold had insisted on the three of them reimagining scenes-- terrorizing imaginary villages and jumping from chair to chair as if they were skyscrapers. So far, they had knocked over the Eiffel Tower lamp and overturned the Notre Dame tea table. Gwen didn’t mind, really, that her house was being terrorized, turned topsy-turvy by an over excited toddler. Through this charade, she was trying to tire her son. And though he didn’t speak much French, and she didn’t speak much Dutch, no language- save for growls and triumphant cries-- was needed now.

He leapt from the couch, launching himself at Gwen and landed safely in her arms. She roared as she pretended to devour him. He let out a concoction of chortles and screams as she planted kisses on his face and raspberries on his stomach. “Time for bed, love,” she said at long last as she laughed. “Temps pour le lit.”

Leopold let out a discouraged sigh before happily skipping off to bed. Once he was up the stairs, Gwen stood, and began straightening up the living room. “He really shouldn’t stay up that late.” Torben said, appearing in the kitchen to put away his plate.

“He gets it from you,” Gwen teased. It seemed that all of the men in Leopold’s life set an example of the night owl life. Gabriel stayed up to play with his nephew, Torben very rarely slept to begin with, and Tristan worked very late nights. In fact, Gwen was worried about Tristan’s late hours. The work life of a mortician was not an easy one and Gwen was sure that pulling his frequent all-nighters would one day take a toll on his body. Come to think of it, she had told him today that she would check to see if he had gone home by eleven and a quick glance at her watch told her that she had surpassed her own deadline.

“I need to go to the funeral home,” Gwen told Torben, pulling on a jacket.

“What happened to setting a good example of a steady sleep schedule?”

“Oh shush. I feel like Tristan needs me now.” And she left, but not without hearing Torben mumble something that sounded like ‘when are you going to realize that you aren’t actually psychic?’.

She peddled very quickly to the funeral (there was no time to text him) and wondered how Torben was doing at putting Leopold to bed for the first time. She worried about Tristan and could very easily envision him, radio cranked until his chest rattled with the bass in his embalming room, finishing up ten bodies. Or worse, one of his own clients—run down so much by worked that he just dropped to his knees and died.

She peddled faster.

At last, she arrived and tried the locked door, shaking the handle and knocking, calling Tristan’s name until she was hoarse. Or rather, until Tristan opened the door. “You caught me. I’m still here. How did you know?” Gwen smiled as Tristan enveloped her in his gangly arms that could easily wrap around Leopold twice.

“Maternal instinct, I suppose. You think I’d let you work all through the night? No! You need rest. You’re going to work yourself to death.” Gwen laughed at the unintentional joke. “Work yourself to death! It’s funny because… never mind. You really need to slow down, darling.”

She sat herself down on the hard sofa and tried her best to get comfortable. “Please, Tristan. Tell me you don’t sleep on this.”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

“Maternal instinct, I suppose,” said Gwen as the hug ended. Tristan moved to shut the front door. “You think I’d let you work all through the night?”

“I hoped you would,” Tristan mumbled. He had a lot to get done between now and dawn. It wasn’t that late, anyways.

“No! You need rest. You’re going to work yourself to death.” Gwen paused and started to laugh. Tristan looked over at her, smiling as if he hadn’t made the pun himself thirty thousand times before. “Work yourself to death! It’s funny because… never mind. You really need to slow down, darling.”

“I’m fine, Gwen,” said Tristan. He followed her into the lobby and sat down in one of the arm chairs. Gwen, meanwhile, flopped onto the large sofa. Tristan cringed for her sake, watching as she struggled to get comfortable.

“Please, Tristan. Tell me you don’t sleep on this.”

“No,” he said, deadpanning. “I prefer the embalming table. Much more comfortable.”

The last bit was true. The metal table probably was more comfortable to sleep on than the lobby sofa. Tristan didn’t know for certain, since he had never actually slept on the embalming table. He’d slept on that couch, though. And it was hard as a rock. The armchairs were more forgiving on Tristan’s spine and neck. He reached up now to massage his neck; the muscles were tight and tender at the same time. Tristan kneaded at them with expert fingers. If he could relax rigor mortis, he could relax his own stiff neck.

“How’s Leopold doing?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“I’m fine, Gwen,”Tristan pleaded and she shot him a skeptical a look as she tried nesting into the unpleasantly firm couch. She wondered if the cushions were stuffed with pebbles instead of fluff or cotton. It reminded her of penguins and how they mated, offering their desired significant other a beautiful, shiny pebble. Maybe on her way home she would scrounge the sidewalk for her own lovely rock to give to Torben.

It was then, as she envisioned herself sliding on her belly to her boyfriend, dropping an iridescent stone at his newly webbed feet, that she even realized Tristan was talking. She looked at him just in time to hear him say “… comfortable” stoically. Gwen nodded in serious agreement, not entirely sure what she was agreeing to.

“How’s Leopold doing?” He asked, and this time, Gwen heard.

“Sleeping, I hope. It’s Torben’s first time tucking him in, and overall, he’s doing great. He’s so smart, Tristan. His French is coming along just splendidly. He’s a gentleman. Of course, he calls me ‘Daddy’ and Torben is ‘Mama’ because Torben is bad at syntax.” Gwen laughed and took a breath, unaware that she had rambled on and on like so. “And you? How are things on the deck of Torben’s favorite ship?” She said winkingly. “And more importantly, how are you?”

She could feel her thighs going numb from the hard couch and she promised herself that she would buy Tristan a new, comfortable one (not stuffed with rocks) for his birthday. But to her tingling legs, August seemed so far away.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Leopold was Tristan’s favorite kid in the world. When Gwen and Torben brought him home from Amsterdam, he’d nestled into Tristan’s life so quickly and easily that it was hard to think that there’d been a time before Gwen and Torben had a kid. Gwen and Torben sometimes brought him by and Leopold would chatter somewhat nonsensical French at Tristan or draw something or climb on Tristan like he was a human jungle gym. It felt so natural and normal. And Gwen and Torben were happier with the little guy around. Happier than Tristan had ever seen either of them. He asked after Leopold now and Gwen’s smile grew.

“It’s Torben’s first time tucking him in, and overall, he’s doing great,” Gwen said. “He’s so smart, Tristan. His French is coming along just splendidly. He’s a gentleman. Of course, he calls me ‘Daddy’ and Torben is ‘Mama’ because Torben is bad at syntax.”

Tristan laughed. There was a story there, but Gwen never dwelled on a thought long enough to elaborate. She fluttered from idea to idea, but from what Tristan could follow of Gwen’s speech, it sounded like Leopold was doing wonderfully. He really hoped that after the fostering period, Leopold got to stay with Gwen and Torben.

“And you?” Gwen asked, veering off topic. “How are things on the deck of Torben’s favorite ship?”

Tristan snorted. Torben periodically checked on him and Solange. By which, of course, Tristan meant that Torben checked to make sure they were still together. Sometimes, it seemed that Torben was as invested in their relationship as Solange or Tristan was. Just yesterday, Torben had sent him a frantic text message, asking if things were still going well, how Solange was doing. One of these days, Tristan would give Torben Solange’s cell phone number so someone else could field Torben’s oddly timed and overly-concerned questions.

“And more importantly, how are you?”

“I’m good,” Tristan said. Then, shaking his head, said, “Better than good.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he was this happy. Gwen and Torben’s fostering of Leopold had something to do with it, so did the smooth operation of the funeral home. But the biggest contributing factor was probably Solange. It wasn’t always perfect – they bickered sometimes, had gotten into one blow-out fight, and she had an annoying habit of swatting Tristan to get his attention – but they were working on it. He tried to be more aware of her feelings; she tried to use words instead of hands. Working alongside each other was still a little off-kilter. There were moments in the middle of services when Tristan couldn’t help but smile over at her and times when they’d try to steal a kiss or two between consultations. There were other times when they argued about work things while on dates before realizing the senselessness of it. It was a process, an experiment. And the outcomes, so far, outweighed the side-effects. It wasn’t perfect, but it really was the best relationship Tristan had ever been in.

“And you can tell Torben it’s all smooth sailing,” Tristan said with a grin. “He needs to stop worrying so much about me and Solange. I mean, I appreciate the concern, but you know Solange… If she thought Torben was going all mother-hen on us…”

He gave a weak chuckle, even though it wasn’t a total joke. Maybe it was better for Torben’s health that he didn’t have Solange’s number. Tristan could just imagine a conversation between the two of them going sour. It made him actually cringe.

“Speaking of Torben,” Tristan started. “That reminds me—“

But he never got to say what speaking of Torben reminded him of. There was a loud thud on the funeral home door. Tristan looked at Gwen quizzically. The last time something thudded around the funeral home, it had been a cat. Was there a whole colony of them or something? Tristan held up a hand, listening and thinking. If it had been a clearer, crisper sound, Tristan would have gone back to his first assumption – that Solange had forgotten her key. But it hadn’t been a knock. Something had collided with the door. He stood up and crossed the room. As he neared the entrance, Tristan could hear muffled sounds on the other side. Something icy gripped his stomach and he pulled open the door just a sliver.

Sitting on the porch was a woman. Her back was to Tristan, but in the glowing, city lights, Tristan could see that her long hair was a greying brown and that – unless that was an oddly cast shadow – her exposed upper arms were bruised. The woman looked over her shoulder at him and Tristan recognized his own eyes in her face. There was a fresh-looking shiner on her right cheekbone.

“Ma,” he muttered, voice cracking in shock. He looked over his shoulder at Gwen, who was still lounging on the sofa. He looked back at his mother and stepped outside to join her.

The March air was nippy. Guilt gnawed at Tristan’s insides. He hadn’t seen or heard from his mother since the end of last September. That was just her way. She never stayed in Paris long and she never told Tristan where she was going when she left. Last time she’d turned up, she’d looked somewhat healthy. No bruises. She hadn’t been in a relationship then. Now, she probably was, unless those were self-inflicted. She was forever finding a new man who would “fix” her problems – financial problems, health problems, mental problems, whatever – and then a few months later, she’d turn up battered, broke, and broken. Tristan slid off his suit jacket and draped it over his mother’s shoulders, then he crouched down beside her.

“You weren’t at home,” Esther Vidal said. “I went there and some Creole woman said you don’t live there anymore.”

“I don’t,” Tristan said, resting his elbows on his knees. “Ma—“

“Laurence wouldn’t answer his door, either,” she continued, as if not listening to Tristan. She probably wasn’t. “I knocked on his door for an hour and he didn’t answer.”

“It’s the middle of the night. He was probably sleeping,” Tristan said. He would have had better luck waking some of the corpses in the embalming room than stirring Laurence Vidal from his scheduled eight hours. Tristan took a deep breath. “Ma, what are you doing here?”

“I saw your bicycle,” she said, pointing at Gwen’s bike, which was leaned against the side of the funeral home.

Tristan was tempted to tell her that it wasn’t his, but that would lead to questions Tristan didn’t want to answer. Who else was here? Why? Who was she? He shut his eyes.

“You can’t stay here,” he told her. “You know that. You need to go to the hospital.”

“I’ll be fine,” Esther said. “I just need a place to stay tonight.”

“You can’t stay here,” Tristan repeated. “This is a funeral home.”

He sounded like Gwen. Please tell me you don’t sleep here… You have to go home at a reasonable time.

“Do you want me to take you to Laurence’s?”

Esther shook her head. Tristan sighed. Of course she doesn’t want to go to Laurence’s.

“You can’t trust men, Tristan,” Esther said. “They’re all b*stards.”

“I know,” Tristan said, rolling his eyes under his eyelids. He’d heard this speech more than anyone should. The next part would inevitably be: ‘Except you, of course’ in a hasty, apologetic tone. It always was.

But instead, Esther said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were moving?”

Tristan opened his eyes and stared at her. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I needed you, Tristan. And you weren’t there,” she said, voice climbing higher, louder. Tristan pressed both hands to his temples. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, not knowing where your only child is at?”

“Yeah, I do, actually,” Tristan said wearily, standing up and beginning to pace. “I don’t have a son, but it’s not like you’ve ever left me with a return address. Sometimes I worry it’s just a matter of time before you end up on my embalming table… or someone else’s, somewhere where I can’t get to you.”

“That’s different,” Esther said, clambering to her feet. “You’ve always taken such good care of me…”

She grabbed Tristan’s arms and pinned them to his sides. Her hands were thinner than Tristan remembered. But stronger. He looked at them. His mother was a tall, slender woman and her hands were nearly as long as Tristan’s. Her nails were uneven and the cuticles were worn and worried to red stumps. Tristan wondered for the second time if the bruises were Esther’s own doing. They sometimes were. When Tristan had been put in Laurence’s care, there’d been doctors who ran tests on him. Tests for anything and everything that might genetically be passed mother to son. Every test came back healthy and normal.

She’s just crazy, Laurence said when Tristan was older and they sat together after a particularly rough night with Esther. His voice was bruised and tender. She picks losers, tries to “fix” them. Each one is worst than the last.

“Thanks,” said Tristan. “You still – we still – can’t stay here.”

He knew that Gwen was probably wondering what on earth was taking Tristan forever and a day. She’d probably come out to check on him any moment and Tristan wanted to keep Esther as far away from Gwen – and vice versa – as he could. And if they stayed overnight, he’d have a lot of explaining to do for Solange’s sake. They didn’t talk about their parents. They’d both been raised by relatives and it was uncharted, touchy territory to talk about the reasons why. He was so lucky Esther showed up at night. And so incredibly unlucky it was the night Gwen also decided to swing by.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontiane

As they relished in each other’s mere presence, Gwen felt her body fill with languid delight. She was so comfortable with Tristan, so open and trusting and she felt it reciprocated with every word Tristan said. He was more than a friend, he was family, and she could happily sit here forever talking to the young man she easily saw as her eldest son.

But as they sat there talking, the funeral home door seemed to pulsate in time with erratic booms and clangs. It was a relatively calm night, no wind to be found in the Parisian skies or streets, so the old excuse of a branch hitting the door was out of the question. This was not an old building and it was not settling after a day of wear. Something was trying to get it. Calmly, Gwendoline tried to run off a check list of possible intruders, and concluded that unless this was a stray puppy or Tristan’s fairy godmother (a role she had rather been hoping to fill), she didn’t want to know what was on the other side.

She shared a concerned look with Tristan, who silently seemed to decide that he would go scope out the sound and find a solution. As soon as Tristan disappeared, the clashing and the clanking ceased, the beast was assuaged. Gwen felt her heart race with fear and her head pinch with curiosity. Gwendoline surely hoped that whatever was happening on the other side of the wooden door, that it would return Tristan quickly and safely.

But the seconds stretched out and oozed with a palpable viscosity. She checked her watch until the seconds camouflaged themselves as minutes, which began to pile themselves on top of each other. She could feel them stacking and she stood, flying to the door before she drowned in them and before her concern for Tristan drover her batty.

Almost frantically, Gwen threw the funeral home door open, the light from the mortuary flooding the porch outside with a golden pool of fluorescents. “Tristan? Is everything okay out here, dear?”

There was no stray animal, no magic dust and fairy godmother. Instead, Gwen’s eyes landed on a woman—shivering and meek looking. “Oh! Hello!” She said politely, hoping the woman would come in to warm up.

“I see you’ve met my baby,” she told the woman, who made her way from the unpattern of the city lights into the golden glow from the inside. From beneath her greying, limp hair the woman looked up and met Gwen’s eyes. And in those blue eyes lived the soul of her Tristan. That face was the face of her best friend. And that skin on those purple hands stretched over the same structure of Gwen’s “eldest son”. Realization crossed over her face.

“Oh.” She breathed, her jaw slack. “you have, indeed, met him.”

Sharply, she turned to Tristan. “Tristan,” she said forcefully. “Are you not going to let her in?”