619 Boulevard Raspail : Tristan Vidal's Apartment

[The Exodus]

Username(s): The Exodus
Character(s): Tristan Vidal
Desired Apartment: Tristan should have known the apartment was too big for a young bachelor, but he'd had other priorities upon purchasing the property. Chief among them was getting out of his cheap -- and dangerous -- living situation on the other side of town. The reasonable price for this move-in-ready apartment hooked him; the minimal pet-fee and spacious rooms sealed the deal. For the first time in seven years, Tristan finally has enough space for all of his stuff. His art supplies sit out on the kitchen and coffee tables. Finished projects, artwork he's received as gifts, and interesting finds dot the walls. And his music stuff sits in a corner with the white upright piano that came with the apartment. But Tristan's apartment has the distinct air of not being lived in. His copy of "Gray's Anatomy" is dusty and the sink is piled with dishes that need to be done. His bed is usually crisply made and looks as if no one has slept there. In fact, the only part of the apartment where there seems to be much life is inside the terrarium next to one of the large windows. Tha's where Isolde lives: Tristan's prized Madagascar hissing cockroach. He makes sure her home is clean and well-stocked with things to eat and things to climb on. The glass gleams and stands testament to Tristan's cleaning prowess if he can actually be bothered to straighten up.

Inspiration Link, ignore Bedroom 2.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

It was a bitterly cold February morning the morning Tristan Vidal moved into his new apartment. He supposed he could have – or rather should have – hired people to help him move the stuff up to the sixth floor. But the apartment complex had an elevator and Tristan was used to carrying dead bodies or filling in as a pallbearer as needed, so he had moved the furniture in. Already, he’d scratched his lovely wooden floor trying to move his kitchen table somewhere where the morning sunlight wouldn’t kill his eyes. He’d broken a box of china he didn’t remember owning. But the final straw was when he dropped his couch on his foot yesterday. His foot hurt like a motherf*cker, but the ER doctor had told Tristan that it wasn’t broken and sent him on his way with a bill for three hundred euros.

Just because he lived alone didn’t mean Tristan had to move in alone.

So he’d bought a really nice wine from the liquor store with which to pay Gwen for helping him go through the boxes of stuff he needed to unpack still. He hadn’t seen most of this stuff since he’d moved into the old apartment on the bad side of town, so Tristan wasn’t sure what they’d find. The labels on the boxes weren’t helpful, either. Some said things like “Tristan’s Art Sh*t”; others said “FRAGILE”. And when he’d opened one box, he’d found a bunch of VHS tapes and a tube of dried, green paint. He had no idea what other “treasures” were hiding in these boxes.

Right now, he was trying desperately to hide the prints he had of Torben’s artwork before Gwen showed up. He had planned on putting them up if he ever had a nice apartment or house. But now that he was actually friends with Torben it seemed a little creepy. He was hiding them under the couch when the doorbell rang. Tristan sat upright too quickly and caught his head on the coffee table.

He swore and reached to check for bumps or bleeding. Not feeling anything out of the ordinary, he pushed himself off the floor and scrambled for the door. On the way, he grabbed the wine off of the kitchen table and with his free hand, readjusted the bandana that held his long hair back. Then, smiling, he opened the door.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwendoline wasn’t expecting a particularly exciting day when the sun crept through the frost-covered pane of her bedroom window. Of course, she would trek through the bitter February air on bike, swallowing partially frozen air to get to work. Once she finally got there and warmed herself by the stovetops and ovens, she would brave the cold once more to join Torben for their weekly Tango lesson (in which Torben was making stellar marks while Gwen lost her consistently lost her counting).

But when Tristan called, those plans changed. He needed her and Gwendoline was more than happy to oblige. She leapt to her feet with such concerned gusto at seeing his name flash across her phone that Torben woke up with a jump and dozens of questions uttered in groggy sleep. If Tristan needed something, if he was in trouble, she would gladly call in sick to work and run to his rescue. Fortunately, he just needed help moving into his new apartment (which neither she nor Torben had seen yet), and that was something Gwendoline could easily do. Besides, she was eager to tend to chairs and baubles in the stead of flours and sugars for once.

With glee, Gwen slipped on slippers and a winter coat and leaned in to kiss her sleepy boyfriend. “Don’t forget,” he said with a wide, contagious yawn. “Ask Tristan about what we talked about.”

Gwen felt her heart sink to her stomach. She really would rather not approach that topic now. In fact, she preferred to keep it as far away as possible from her. But the words of her therapists flooded her ears and the vacant, but serious expression on Torben’s face seemed to stab further at her heart. So she nodded in compliance, knowing the chances of her bringing up such grievous things was rather low on her.

Quickly, she peddled to the address Tristan gave her with the help of the munchkin voice in her Bluetooth that lead her down some pretend yellow brick road lined not with poppies, but with Parisian pedestrians who gave her nasty looks as she barreled through them. But she didn’t care about them. In her eyes, she was off to see the wizard.

And there he was in his black headband, welcoming her into his apartment. True, it was no emerald city, but it certainly was lovely. She beamed at him with pride. “Hello, darling! Good morning! I love the new place!” She embraced him lovingly and, pulling away, she clapped her hands, rubbing them together until her numb fingers created heat. “Where do we start?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan saw Gwen standing on his doorstep, and his heart gave a little jump of gladness. She brightened his day any day. Of all the people Tristan knew, Gwen was the only one who was perpetually kind. He admired her. Sometimes, he thought he admired her more than he admired Torben – her boyfriend and the man who had inspired Tristan to be an artist in the first place. He wouldn’t say it out loud, possibly ever, because he didn’t want Torben to feel bad. Besides, it was a different kind of admiration, a quieter, more subtle admiration compared to his geeking out over Torben’s artwork.

“Hello, darling!” Gwen chirped. She was the only one who called him pet names and meant it. He slipped his arms under hers, bending slightly for the embrace. Gwen had a deceptively strong grip; Tristan wondered if one day he would pop when she hugged him. “Good morning! I love the new place!”

“You haven’t even seen it yet!” Tristan said with a grin as they broke apart.

Gwen didn’t seem to care about that part and it made Tristan feel sheepishly proud. He hadn’t shown her his old apartment, with the peeling ceiling and noisy space heater, for a reason. This was a place he could show off, though. And maybe that meant that this was home.

Gwen rubbed her hands together excitedly. “Where do we start?”

“First things first,” Tristan said, holding the bottle of wine out to her. “This is for you. Just a thank you for coming to help me move in. I didn’t know if you preferred white or red, so I compromised and bought a blush… Is that good?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

There was something special about Tristan, something that caused Gwen to hold him above all of her other friends. He was more than a friend, but the age gap was too small for him to be anything but. He was more like a son that Gwendoline didn’t have—couldn’t have. And her mind flitted back to Torben, probably still sleeping in their bed, and the words he said before she left for Tristan’s. “Ask him.”

Not now, she told herself. Now is not the time.

Now was the time for Tristan who smiled wickedly at her. She expected him to put her to work immediately—there was a lot to do, that was for sure. “First things first,” he said and Gwen rolled up her sleeves. But instead of giving her a task to do, he placed in her hands a bottle of wine. “This is for you. Just a thank you for coming to help me move in. I didn’t know if you preferred white or red, so I compromised and bought a blush… Is that good?”

Gwen let out a delighted squeal, hugging the bottle to her. Few things were better than lighting a fire and curling up with Torben and wine. It was a kind, thoughtful gift from Tristan and Gwen spun around with appreciation. “Oh, Tristan! This is so sweet, I’m blushing!” Gwen laughed at her own pun as if it were the funniest, most clever invention of a joke ever to be uttered. “You shouldn’t have! This will get used well.” She could see that fire now, swallowing the logs in it’s golden flames as she sipped this beautiful blush.

Lovely as it was, she set it down next to her purse and turned on her heel to face Tristan once more. “I see you’ve made a great deal of progress already! Kudos. So what now? Do we start with those boxes?” she asked, pointing to a box simply labeled “things”. How humorous and unimaginative his labels were. Gwen snickered to herself. She was going to have fun today.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen’s delighted squeal brought a smile to his lips. The way she spun around with the bottle clutched to her chest brought a laugh to his eyes. The one thing he loved about Gwen – but absolutely would never understand about her – was her effusive displays of excitement. Hell, he didn’t understand her effusive displays of anything. She was the most affectionate and most expressive person he’d ever met.

And Tristan had spent his college days hanging out with the artsy crowd, so that Gwen took the cake on that one was a pretty big deal.

“Oh, Tristan! This is so sweet, I’m blushing!” said Gwen, making Tristan chuckle. Reason Number 35 why he wished he was a Fontaine-Blau: stupid puns were considered high entertainment.

When the laughing subsided, Gwen said, “You shouldn’t have! This will get used well.”

Tristan really hoped it would. There was no point in having a fine wine if you weren’t going to use it; if you were going to waste it. He didn’t know much about wines, that much was clear, but he knew enough to know that one didn’t simply let it sit on a shelf to gather dust unless you were some stick-in-the-mud collector. Gwen set her present down with her purse by the door.

“I see you’ve made a great deal of progress already!” She looked around. Tristan shrugged and followed her gaze. It looked livable, but not lived in. It didn’t look like a home yet. “Kudos. So what now? Do we start with those boxes?”

Gwen pointed to a box labeled simply “Things”. Tristan didn’t know what was in that box. It must have seemed like a good idea to label it “Things” at the time. But that had been – what – five years ago? Who knew what was in there? It might have teeth.

“Yep,” he said, walking over to it. He pulled out his house key and knelt before the box, angling the key so that it would function as a makeshift box-cutter. He grinned up at Gwen. “Stand back. I have no idea what’s in here. It could be dangerous.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Really, it was no wonder that Tristan had a secretary. If he labeled assortments of boxes ‘Things’ and ‘Tristan’s Art sh*t’, there was no telling what number of other things were mislabeled and what other hidden treasures they would find today. Thank God for Solange. She kept that Funeral Home tidy and organized. If only she could help Tristan organize the rest of his life, too…

Gwendoline followed Tristan to the mystery box and he held his hand up, bringing her to a halt. “Stand back. I have no idea what’s in here. It could be dangerous.”

Gwen bit her lip. “Should we open it? Because what you said just now is the French version of what Pandora said and things didn’t turn out so well for her.” Again, she laughed at her own joke, which was not nearly as funny as she seemed to think it was. “Come on, Tristan. Just open it.”

And he did. Seeing as nothing flew out at them or leapt from the cardboard cube, she looked over Tristan’s shoulder (which she could do for once now that he was crouching).

Inside, there were scrolls of paper tied with a rubber band that Gwendoline assumed to be posters. Of what, she didn’t know yet. Amongst them were dried paintbrushes that were such bad shape, Torben would cry. Other miscellaneous odds and ends cluttered the box and Gwen had no idea where to start. She bent at the waist for a closer examination and procured a blender. “How?” She asked, holding up the appliance so that Tristan could see it, too. “How have you gone this long without a blender?”

Tristan amazed her in many ways. Even as someone who was surrounded by death daily, he relished in life. His quiet humour was enough to turn any of Gwen’s frowns upside down. And his dedication and love for her and Torben made Gwen giddy. But one thing that would now always fascinate Gwendoline about Tristan was how on God’s Green Earth did he manage to live without something so simple as a blender?

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Who knew what was in these boxes? It was like some demented Christmas 2.0, where instead of presents, Tristan got random junk he’d forgotten he owned. Earlier, he’d found a box filled with canned goods. It had been labeled “For Emergencies”. There had also been a book titled “How to Survive a Zombie Apocalypse” and Tristan didn’t know if the two things were connected. Seven years ago, when he’d boxed all this stuff up, he clearly had some sort of plans for the future.

If you think about it, he thought. I’d probably be the first to die during a zombie apocalypse, even if those canned goods hadn’t expired. I run a funeral home full of dead bodies.

Gwen pulled a face. She bit her lip and stared at Tristan uncertainly. “Should we open it? Because what you said just now is the French version of what Pandora said and things didn’t turn out so well for her.”

Gwen laughed, but Tristan just blanched. The canned food thing had been bad, but it couldn’t actually be worse than that, right? It wasn’t like he was a hoarder. He’d just been little more than a kid when he packed these boxes. All twenty-one year olds had trouble with their first move, right? It wasn’t like all the evil in the world would actually come flying out of the box.

“Come on, Tristan. Just open it,” said Gwen, leaning over his shoulder.

Tristan slid his key over the tape and it ripped jaggedly. Rolled up papers – some surely band posters from college, others likely Tristan’s own artwork – were fastened with rubber bands. And the paintbrushes in the box had definitely seen better days. But it wasn’t that bad. Tristan picked one up. They were the cheap kind, the only kind he’d been able to afford while putting himself through college. A small, tender smile wiggled onto his lips as he held the brush up. He’d been working as a French language tutor for a group of high schoolers in New York at the time and going to classes during the day. The snotty Manhattanite kids, with their prep-school haircuts and crisp coats made fun of Tristan in English, assuming he didn’t understand slang phrases like “long haired freak show”. Except he had and he cussed them out in French. Instead of being offended, the little jerks wanted him to teach them that kind of French. The job had paid for these paintbrushes and a lot of Tristan’s current wardrobe. Important things. Unlike his schooling, which he’d only recently finished paying off.

“How?” Gwen asked. She held something up for Tristan to look at. It looked like a pitcher. “How have you gone this long without a blender?”

“I had another one,” Tristan said. Actually, the blender he’d had had belonged to Aimee. She’d kept it at Tristan’s place because in the morning, she used it to make awful-smelling protein shakes with things like quinoa and beets. But since they split four years ago, Tristan supposed it really had been a long time since he had a blender. Honestly, he'd been glad that she took the damn thing, because it took up too much counter space in the old apartment. “But I didn’t use it. What would I do with a blender?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“I had another one,” Tristan insisted and Gwen raised a single eyebrow in curiosity. She had to hear this story. She could see the prose writing itself behind his eyes, but she couldn’t read it. He did not share the story and Gwendoline thought it best not to pry. “But I didn’t use it.” He said at long last. “What would I do with a blender?”

“What could you do with a blender?” she repeated. “Why! Countless things! You need this again!” And with that, Gwendoline vanished into the deceptively spacious and placed the blender in the middle of the counter as that was its throne and the kitchen the kingdom. She looked around the kitchen approvingly at all of the appliances. It wasn’t state of the art, but Gwendoline could definitely be happy cooking in here. And if her kitchen critic could be content with it, surely Tristan could be.

She returned with a grin that suggested victory stretched across her face. “There. All fixed.” She took another trip into the box and dug around some more until her hand enclosed around a book. It was in English, but by the looks of it, it was about mortuary science. She flipped through, looking at the scant pictures and diagrams with fascination, trying to wrap her mind around it. A book didn’t need to have pictures, that was for certain—but pictures surely helped in comprehending at times. “Is this your old college textbook?” She inquired, running her hand along the spine, feeling her own shiver. Torben’s voice played again in her head, pleading with her this time to approach Tristan with their “very important question”. She could feel her heart twist as if it was trying to ring out all the emotion in her at once. She took in a deep breath. “Is there anything in there about unconventional requests from potential clients?”

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen seemed enthralled by the concept of the blender, more excited than Tristan was. He let her take it with her to the kitchen – or at least, he assumed that was where she was taking it – and while she was gone, he unfurled one of the posters to see what it was. He rolled it back up very quickly and determined to get rid of it as soon as possible. It was a steampunk aviator girl clad in an outfit Tristan had had a hand in designing. And besides being a nineteen year old college kid’s fantasy, with no regard for practicality or functionality, it was also really poorly drawn. The proportions were all wrong; the lines were rougher than sandpaper. He threw it aside and unrolled the next poster. This one was a sketch of the circulatory system for class. Like the other drawing, the proportions were wrong – it was like nineteen year old Tristan was drawing aliens instead of people – but this one had “A-“ written in red at the top. Clearly, it had been good enough for his professor. He traced his fingers over the carotid artery.

“Is this your old college textbook?” Gwen asked, startling Tristan, who hadn’t noticed her return. He looked over to see that she held his old Thanatochemistry book in her hands. He smiled.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “One of them.”

He dug around in the box and pulled out another one.

“Is there anything in there about unconventional requests from potential clients?” Gwen asked.

“Not that one,” Tristan told her. He held up his copy of “Interpersonal Skills Training for Funeral Directors” – the one that he held now. “This one’s the one you want if you’re curious about weird requests. There’s a whole chapter on them…”

He thumbed through until he got to chapter ten.

“ ‘I once had a client request that her mother be buried with her prized Siamese cat,’” Tristan read. “ ‘The trouble was, the cat in question was still very much alive…’”

He looked up and grinned.

“It takes all types, I guess,” he said. “But I think the ‘weirdest’ requests I’ve ever gotten have to do with the services, not the embalming process or cremation or anything. The human body is straightforward. But the way people think…”

He trailed off expressively. Once, an old woman asked if they could hire a polka band to play at her husband’s funeral. As if anyone felt like dancing the polka when someone died. Tristan allowed it, though, and it had actually proved one of the most lively funeral celebrations he’d seen. Another time, he’d been asked to decorate the viewing room like a swanky jazz club to honor a local singer who’d passed away. There’d been an open bar set up in the back and Tristan had to stop a couple elderly men in fedoras from smoking cigars in the lobby. And then of course, there was the woman who had wanted him to perform a full service for her dead poodle… He’d drawn the line there.

“I mean, there are things that we just don’t do,” he said. “For ethical reasons or practical ones. I mean, we’re not miracle workers. But we try. Or I do, anyways, and that’s something, I guess.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Gwendoline tried hard to listen to Tristan’s excited mortuary babble, but the rumbling in her ears rolled like thunderclaps, threatening to deafen her. She felt her face pale. Torben was probably at home pacing with anxiety at what Tristan might say and neither of them would ever know if Gwendoline didn’t ask. It was now or never or she might get sick.

“I mean, there are things that we just don’t do,” She heard him say once the buzzing in her ears died down. ”For ethical reasons or practical ones. I mean, we’re not miracle workers. But we try. Or I do, anyways, and that’s something, I guess.”

Gwendoline thought about the flowerbox outside her bedroom window. Every day she looked at those asphodels; spoke to them, sang to them, nurtured them. They were very much alive, feeding off the remaining nutrients that her daughter provided-- the selfsame scant ones that Gwendoline gave to her. But the budding and blooming asphodels always reminded Gwen (and Torben, too, she was sure) that there had once been life that they created together, though that life now lay dead in the dirt. Through four years of rain, drought, and bitter cold, the asphodels burgeoned and thrived. But two weeks ago, when Gwen woke up and crossed to her window with her usual good morning lullaby, she say that the glorious buds and flowers of the plant had all put fallen off, lost to the wintery chill and January frost. She fell to her knees, and having heard the thud, Torben and Gabriel came running. ‘They’re dead!’ she exclaimed, clutching the hole that seemed to form in her gut. ‘The asphodels, Torben! They’re dead.’

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Torben’s face drain of colour and his eyes fill with the rheumy liquid of tears that she seldom saw from him. He turned to Gabriel and nearly pushed him from the room, speaking in hushed, vague, and gentle tones that Gwendoline could not hear. And there they sat, holding each other on the floor, weeping with grief and howling with disbelief.

But once Gwen’s tears were dried and she looked at the places where only stems remained, she smiled. Perhaps it was a sign (which Torben would never believe), their daughter telling them that it was okay to move on now, that she was at last leaving behind all ties to this earth and moving to another, perhaps to bring joy and light to another childless couple somewhere in the universe.

A lump formed in her throat and Gwen coughed in an attempt to expel it. “Would you fulfill… odd requests for—say-- someone who loved you very much?”

Gwendoline had heard of other morbid and odd requests. Torben had a collection of post-mortem pictures of the loved ones of strangers. There were people who turned their husbands into diamonds when they died, or sons who had their mothers’ heads shrunk and hung from the rearview mirror of their car. Surely Tristan wouldn’t be so scandalized by pre-term infant dug up from four years in the earth. At least, that was what Gwendoline hoped for.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

“Would you fulfill…odd requests for—say-- someone who loved you very much?” Gwen asked.

Tristan snapped his textbook shut and stared at Gwen for a suspicious moment. He could not – would not – tell her no. It was physically impossible, since she’d taken him under her wing. That wasn’t the problem. He hadn’t seen that serious a look on Gwen’s face since, well… He’d never seen that serious a look on Gwen’s face ever. He hadn’t known it was possible.

Which led him to the only logical conclusion: either she or Torben was thinking of the inevitable future where one or both of them wouldn’t be around.

Of course, someday, Gwen and Torben would both be dead. Someday, Tristan would be, too. And Gabriel and Solange and Sophie and, well… Everything died eventually. But most people didn’t let it consume their lives. Tristan massaged his throat. Death never made him this uncomfortable before. But even though he knew everything and everyone had their time and place, Tristan didn’t actively think about the deaths of his friends. The only time he’d ever had to was when Jacqui passed away.

Tristan realized that his hands were shaking. Although Gwen was probably speaking of some faraway future, one that wouldn’t happen for decades, Tristan’s ears rang with the sound of medical machinery. What if something was actually wrong?

He wasn’t going to lose it now. Later, when Gwen had gone home, he would worry about why it was that all the people in his life had or would predecease him.

“I would do anything for you, Gwen,” he told her. “What do you need?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

“I would do anything for you, Gwen,” Tristan said and the sincerity in his voice made her lip quiver. She looked into his eyes and believed every syllable that came out of his mouth. She sucked in her tears with a deep, long sigh. “What do you need?”

Gwen felt as if she stood at the edge of a wide canyon, looking down into a black abyss in which were the swimming souls of every child the world had promised her, but then took before their names were known. On the other side stood a patient Torben, already content to move on and by his side was the ever helpful Tristan, ready with his arms outstretched wide. She could jump now and be caught by the loving arms of her husband and friend and she would land on solid, safe ground. But what if she should fall? Would she join the souls in the nadir of the grief-stricken pool below or would she land someplace else entirely, forever regretting she ever dared to jump?

And what of Gabriel? He didn’t know yet. Even after he had found her crying and watching an unsmoked cigarette turn to ember and ash at the kitchen table while Torben slept soundly in bed. She didn’t tell him then and she didn’t tell him now. If he ever knew, how would he feel having been told last?

She played with the end of her hair, thankful for the tangible reality it provided to help keep her grounded. “Well,” she said, not looking at Tristan, but instead at the ground, distracting herself with the intricate, accidental wooden designs. “Torben and I have one of those odd requests… We need a cremation.”

Gwendoline figured she should elaborate, for cremations themselves weren’t entirely obscure. “We—Torben and I-- had a daughter once,” she said, her voice tremulous and weak. Rapidly, she could feel the void in her chest growing like wound being unstiched until it bled out once more. She wiped her nearly dried eyes partially out of precaution, partially out of desire to do something with her hands. “But she died before we could…” Gwen’s voice trailed off as she realized she was grasping her abdomen tightly. “Well, before she was born.” The word ‘miscarriage’ still felt taboo to her. It was a word never spoken in their house and it turned something on in her brain that filled her with utter dread and turmoil. She refused to let that word escape her lips and let it fall on her ears so harshly the way it did four years ago. “We buried her in our flower box under some asphodels, but they died, too.” The image of those white petals frozen like glass in the dirt flshed behind her eyes and she cringed. With another sharp breath, she came to her conclusion. “Do you think maybe you could help us put her soul and our minds to rest with a cremation? There’s no one else I would trust with this, Tristan. Absolutely no one.”

In her mind, Torben was beaming at her, nodding with encouragement and pride. This was the moment they had argued about for four years. This was the moment that Gwendoline jumped across that forboding chasm and landed safely on the other side.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Gwen hesitated, which did nothing to ease Tristan’s nerves. His skin felt tight and prickly, especially around his eyes. But she needed him; he didn’t have the luxury of panic.

“Well,” Gwen said, not looking at Tristan. “Torben and I have one of those odd requests… We need a cremation.”

Tristan clenched his teeth so hard that he thought his jaw would snap. He’d expected her to ask him to help her outline future plans. But the way she made it sound, there was already a body somewhere that needed to be disposed of. Curiosity got the better of him.

“I can do cremations,” he said with a nod. As he spoke, his mouth pried open with difficulty. It was like having a sudden onset of lockjaw. “But… Gwen… why…?”

“We—Torben and I-- had a daughter once,” Gwen said.

Tristan shut his mouth again and stared at her in silence; more stunned than whe she’d asked him for a cremation. She’d never mentioned a daughter; never mentioned any children at all. It had surprised Tristan that Gwen wasn’t actually a mother after she’d introduced him to her family, since she had such a motherly air about her.

It made sense now. Gwen was as much a mother as any woman pushing a baby carriage or tending scraped knees on the playground.

Something snapped in Tristan’s face; the main pipeline that controlled tear-flow. His eyes stung and swam; in his vision, Gwen wavered, clutched her stomach.

“But she died before we could… Well, before she was born.” she said. “We buried her in our flower box under some asphodels, but they died, too. Do you think maybe you could help us put her soul and our minds to rest with a cremation? There’s no one else I would trust with this, Tristan. Absolutely no one.”

Tristan reached for Gwen and rubbed her back between her shoulder blades. He broke the rules of funeral directing etiquette, touching her first. But he was off duty; this was his friend, his mentor, one of the few people he loved enough to claim as family. And she was hurting. Grieving. He wondered how long she’d carried this with her; how many years she’d tended those asphodels and crooned lull-a-byes to them. How strange it was to actually look into someone else’s grief and have it look back at you, instead of just seeing it and passing it by. His ribs closed up, pressed down on his chest, and then he pressed Gwen to him for a fierce, painful, healing moment.

This baby was his responsibility; he couldn’t fail Gwen and Torben. He couldn’t fail the infant daughter they’d lost; the unborn child that could have been the closest thing to a sister he would ever have.

“It would be an honor,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t worry about a thing, Gwen.”

This was what he was called to do.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Gwendoline Fontaine

Something buzzed around in Gwen’s chest erratically like a caged bird, ready to burst out at any moment and soar to the heavens, singing a jovial tune all the way there. They brought Leopold home last night, and Gwendoline couldn’t shake the feeling that being a mother to this wonderful little kid was what she was meant to do. On the plane ride, Leopold sobbed, not wanting to leave his friends, scared of the ear popping that accompanied the change in altitude. But once the tears dried, the two of them colored in a Mini-Monster coloring book Gabriel had sent along as a welcome home present to his new niece or nephew. Torben watched on, fascinated by the additions Leopold made to the monsters. He fashioned them hats and gave them pet turtles. He drew them backpacks and bows. And when the plane finally landed, Torben carried the sleeping boy off the plane and Gwen handled the bags (which were much lighter than when they arrived).

When they got home, Gabriel was waiting up for them, dinner prepared and the apartment neater than it was when they had first moved in. At the smell of the food, Leopold opened his groggy brown eyes and squirmed out of Torben’s arms, clinging to Gwen’s skirt as she led him to the table. He ate happily as she and Torben told Gabriel all about their three week trip and the process of adoption and what they could expect in the coming months.

After dinner, they tucked Leopold in and cleaned up the dining room. But after an hour of cleaning and toasting to their new family member, Gwendoline heard a little moan and ran, worried, up to Leopold’s room. She begged him to tell her what was wrong, but the language barrier got caught in her ears and in her mouth. So she held Leopold to her chest, rocking slightly until the three year old fell asleep. And that was where Torben found them this morning when he came to wake Leopold up.

Gabriel rolled around the living room with Leopold, while Torben checked the mail they had missed and Gwen called Tristan. As luck would have it, he didn’t answer his phone and worried cord was struck in Gwen’s chest. Tristan was a funeral director. It was protocol that he answer his phone. So Gwendoline made breakfast, strapped Leopold into her and Torben’s in tandem bike and the three of them peddled to Tristan’s house, food rattling around in the Tupperware in Torben’s backpack.

“Leopold,” Gwen said to him gently, knowing he didn’t speak French, but hoping he’d understand. “We are at my friend Tristan’s house. He’s sort of like your brother. Don’t be scared. He’s very nice, but very tall.”

Torben, breakfast feast in hand, rang the doorbell while Leopold hid behind Gwendoline. One day, Leopold would know French, and one day, he wouldn’t be so scared. She couldn’t imagine what he going through—being picked up by strange grown-ups, only one of which spoke any Dutch, and being moved from all that he knew to be in a foreign country. I must have been terrifying. But Gwen knew that they would make him happy, that this family would be all he needed. And she was willing to do anything in her power to see to it that Leopold was happy. She and Torben would teach him French, and they would get him the help he needed. They were, after all, parents, and it was their duty and pleasure to keep him the healthy and happy child they fell in love with in their daydreams.