Kissing My Old Life Au Revoir by Eliza Watson

Author:Eliza Watson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eliza Watson

I was sticking all the shepherd’s pie ingredients in the fridge when my cell phone rang. Sophie.

“I know where Libby is,” Sophie said excitedly.

“Where?”

“In a room someplace by herself.”

“In a room where?”

“I am not certain. My dream, it was not clear.”

Oh boy, a dream.

“There was a blue blanket on the bed and a rocking chair. The room, it was much warm. She was on the bed crying.”

After the antique store last night, I had a tad more faith in Sophie’s dreams. Just a tad. But the mere possibility of Libby alone in a room somewhere crying killed me.

“You should bring me something of Libby’s. It would help me see more clearer.”

“Okay.” I recalled my disturbing dream, an eerie feeling creeping over me. Sophie could undoubtedly provide insight. “I had a dream about Pascal Rochant.”

“He came to you in your sleep? What did he want?”

“He didn’t want anything. I’m sure I dreamed about him because I found the funeral a bit upsetting.”

I explained the dream in detail.

“Oh,” Sophie said in a clipped tone. “He must have felt a connection with you and contacted you instead of me.” She sounded put out with me, like I’d stolen her client.

“He wasn’t contacting me. It was merely a dream.”

“He will not cross over unless his issues are resolved. Libby would want him to cross. I will try to talk with his son today.”

“Remember to ask Alphonse what Pascal left Libby in his will.”

“Okay.”

We said goodbye.

I noticed the piece of plaster had fallen from the mural. When I picked up the piece off the floor, the edges crumbled away. Afraid it would fall again and become even more damaged, I placed it on the table. After searching for glue and coming up empty-handed, I stared at the piece with Libby’s and my hands clasped together. I should be with Libby, holding her hand, taking care of her. Like I had after Dad left. What if I hadn’t been there for her?

What if she hadn’t been there for me? Libby had made me feel loved and needed. If she hadn’t needed taking care of, I might have been like Mom and never have gotten out of bed, especially since I’d blamed myself. She’d given me a sense of purpose, of worth.

I stared at the mural.

Why didn’t you tell me about Dad, Libby?

And where the hell are you?

Almost twenty-four hours since Libby had left the hospital.

I glanced around, as if searching for Libby, and noticed the flowers on the balcony limp from dehydration. Libby’s pride and joy. I rushed out to the flowers. Across the street, Monsieur Fleurs sat smugly amongst vibrantly colored blooms, shaking his head. He picked up something and tossed it toward my balcony. The item fell shy and dropped to the street below. I ran down and picked up the small box containing round sticks. Plant food.

I peered up at Monsieur Fleurs gazing down at me and held up the box. “Merci,” I called out.

He nodded.

The florist next door was placing flats of colorful flowers on tables outside her shop.

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