17 Oct 1967
Deborah Sawyer shifted uncomfortably in her airplane seat, the collar of her traveling suit digging into her neck. Her entire body felt like a cage, but she didn’t dare adjust her stockings or loosen her jacket—not with Mother watching her every move. The last stop and change at JFK already felt like weeks ago and not just half a day.
This was meant to be one of her “good traveling outfits,” Mother had insisted—appropriate for their arrival in Paris. Appropriate. The word had haunted her all summer, ever since Father’s announcement had shattered everything. Not just her tentative friendship with Caleb Jensen, which had barely survived their last, awkward conversation at the Spring Dance, but all the careful plans she’d made for junior year. She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the gnawing uncertainty as they approached their destination.
Her father would be counselor to the mission president for their Latter-day Saints church, the French headquarters of which had responsibility not only for the faith in metropolitan France but also for Spain, Portugal, the Azores, and Northern Africa. She knew she should feel proud, blessed even, that they were trading their life in Salt Lake City’s tight-knit Mormon community for that hub of the world—Paris.
But all she could think about were the friends she’d left behind—Wilma and Jean—and the suffocating tightness of her clothes.
Her father sat absorbed either in his papers, or in some kind of reflection he didn’t share, and seldom glanced out the window. Mother had been resting for most of the flight, but in the last hour or so she had absentmindedly mused about when would be the right time to arrange a meeting with their family in Honfleur. She had tried to talk to her husband about it, but George Sawyer answered only in short sentences if he answered at all. At least, he did it in French, Deborah thought, as if to acknowledge something that was of equal importance, as he had said before departure. In a sense, they would be “going home”.
Deborah had mixed feelings about that interpretation. Being half-French should have made this transition easier, she thought, but at fifteen, with only four brief visits to France in her lifetime (two of them when she was too little to remember) hardly qualified as a connection to her “other homeland.”
The last trip had been four years ago, walking the beach with her cousin, who’d seemed so sophisticated at thirteen. Now, that same cousin was attending university in Paris and wrote long letters for Deborah with photos enclosed that she had to hide away before it was Mother’s turn to read. How could women dress like that? It seemed impossible, yet there it was.
Deborah’s idle thoughts about the letters seemed strangely echoed as the stewardesses moved efficiently through the cramped cabin one last time, checking that everyone had fastened their seatbelts. They were crisp in their uniforms, composed in their professionalism. What would such a life be like—traveling the world, serving others? No. It couldn’t be, could it? How could one be a stewardess and still have a family?
These were thoughts for evening prayers, once they reached their hotel. Father hadn’t secured their apartment yet, which meant she might begin at the international school while still living in temporary housing.
Through the window—after convincing her father to switch seats—Deborah searched the clouded skyline for the Eiffel Tower. Her father quickly dismissed her excitement: “You can’t see it from this height.” His voice carried the same measured tone he had used since that first day this summer, when he had announced they were going to live in France. She’d been sitting in the garden then, reading Caleb’s latest letter. The timing hadn’t felt coincidental. And the moment uncertainty about the length of the stay upset her to no end.
Two years, perhaps three, was the answer she knew by heart, but Deborah had seen him writing in his private green-leather notebook about how the first temple could be built in Paris, something that would not be realistic anytime before the decade was out. And, she knew, Mother would likely prefer that. Perhaps Father could even become mission president after Brother Anderson. She had probed him about it before they left home, but the answer was always some variant of “what the Lord’s will” would be. They would just have to find out, wouldn’t they?
As the captain announced their descent, Deborah forced herself to sit still. The thought of building a life in France felt both foreign and inevitable—less a choice than an inheritance from her mother’s side. She’d cycled through anger, acceptance, and apprehension since Father’s announcement in the summer, while her friend Wilma had romanticized Paris through fashion magazines and dreams of sophisticated European life. Lately she had felt a flash of that excitement and hoped it was for real and not because she did not want Wilma’s last memory of their friendship to be disappointment.
“We’re here,” her father murmured as the city emerged below them “ … in His grace.” Deborah fastened her seatbelt, her throat feeling dry, but she noticed that her mother was glancing gratefully at her father. At least there was that.
*
We thank Thee, Heavenly Father, for safe passage— the words came automatically as Deborah followed her parents over the apron, the noise of the plane still whirring in the background and into customs, but they fell flat against the backdrop of rushing passengers and cascading French announcements. In Salt Lake, prayer had been as natural as breathing. Here, she had to force it.
The French customs and immigration officers, sharp in their navy blue uniforms with peaked caps, were just as efficient in processing passengers—yet unfailingly polite at every step.
While they waited, her mother’s fingers worked frantically at her necklace. Deborah found herself touching her own neck, where her CTR ring hung on a chain—a fifteenth birthday gift from Caleb’s family that she couldn’t bring herself to leave behind. Almost without thinking, she slipped into the familiar cadence of a blessing…By the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, I anoint you with this consecrated oil… But the consecrated oil was in their checked baggage. And anyway, women couldn’t give blessings.
Her father walked ahead, stiff in his American suit, clutching his briefcase of missionary materials like a shield.
Once customs were cleared (nobody asked about the oil), they stepped into Orly Airport’s main passenger area—all glass walls, stylish signage, and terrazzo floors.
The months of packing and goodbyes in Salt Lake City hadn’t quite prepared her for this. The polite small talk at Relief Society meetings, the awkward farewells at school, the forced conversations in the softball team’s dressing room—it had all been an attempt to imagine what this moment would be like.
At the baggage claim a white-gloved porter helped get their suitcases from the right line, and Deborah’s father kept close to him, while ostensibly helping with the baggage.
Deborah kept close to her mother, who so far seemed to be okay, if a little stiff. She didn’t say a word. Deborah kept her arm entwined with her mother’s. We thank thee … we thank thee …
And then her mother tore loose and veered toward the nearest bathroom. “I have to go.”
Her father, silent and mechanical, motioned for Deborah to follow.
And so the last prayer died in Deborah’s mind. It was all movement now.
The ladies’ bathroom was utilitarian, with dim fluorescent lighting and walls lined with plain, beige tiles. The porcelain sinks had large mirrors above them and for a moment Deborah hesitated when she saw their reflection in them. The stalls were wooden and the air carried the faint scent of industrial soap. Deborah led her mother to the sink which were furthest away from the door.
Her mother fumbled with the pillbox, hands shaking. She was trying too hard to seem normal. Two other women who were busy washing hands, glanced their way.
“Oh, Deborah… Deborah…”
“It’s okay, Mom. Just breathe.”
Her mother tried. It didn’t help.
“Okay, then… take this.”
Deborah guided her mother’s hands, helped her find the pills. They had all known this moment was coming.
The Valium went down. A blonde woman came in and corrected something with her make up, watching them in the mirror before finally stepping into a stall. Deborah ignored her, murmuring silent prayers, counting the seconds, trying to focus on anything but what came next.
The apartment.
The new life.
New friends.
Would she even make friends here?
How long were they going to live here? Father had not said …
Too many questions, no answers.
So all she could do was repeat to herself again, “We thank thee…”
When they stepped out, her father was waiting. It was like he had been standing in the same position all the time.
“Will she be all right?” he asked.
Why don’t you ask her? she wanted to say.
“Yes,” she said.
Her father nodded and turned to go. Her mother looked down, but followed with a bit more vigor in her step.
And Deborah felt something.
Not quite hate.
But not relief, either.
They should have felt like they had made it, like they had just brushed past disaster. But all she felt was the same. And her mother—her mother felt shame.
A sudden thought struck her:
What if this doesn’t work?
What if she didn’t work here?
But she had no choice.
They were already on their way
*
The taxi plunged into Paris proper. In the front seat, her father consulted his map. Beside Deborah, her mother made a soft sound—half sigh, half prayer, when they passed familiar locations. Deborah closed her eyes instinctively, trying to remember Salt Lake City’s careful grid. But the memory already felt faint and far away. She opened her eyes again, momentarily confused—where were they now? Were they even driving in the right direction? Coming back to Paris was like meeting someone you knew but had almost forgotten.
At eleven, she’d found the twisted streets magical, like something from a fairy tale. And the Notre Dame had been like an enchanting castle … Now, four years later, they felt slightly ominous, and she couldn’t tell why. Maybe it was the lack of mountains, or maybe it was knowing that unlike her last visit, she could only write to Wilma and Jean about what she saw. Her father had been very clear about that—no letters to Caleb. “For the best”, he’d said. She had gone to Wilma’s that day and told her that she would run away . Wilma had talked her out of it. And good that she did. Because of course, Deborah hadn’t meant it. She was just angry. Yes it was just that. And she had to grow up and be responsible. Hadn’t she? Yes …
Deborah tried to shake the thoughts of the past. She had to think about the future. The cathedral’s echo remained clear in her mind, the way it had swallowed her childish awe and transformed it into something ancient and strange. The taxi turned again, forging ahead into narrower and narrower streets with a casual, death-defying disdain for traffic. She gripped the armrest at the door more firmly. Utah’s clean mountain air seemed like a dream she’d had on the plane, and her eleven-year-old self’s enchantment with Paris felt like someone else’s memory.
But even as these thoughts made her apprehensive, she tried to reframe them. Such thoughts could be used. They were important. In fact, she would have to write them down soon, but of course, you could only do that when no one was looking. She instinctively reached for her book–the secret book–but of course it wasn’t in her handbag.
So she contented herself to try to take in as much of the new scenery as possible, and wondered how it would be to live here. All she knew about the apartment that was not yet ready for them was that it would be somewhere in the inner city, not too far away from the mission home.
The mountains would have to give way to the sea of uniform cream-colored limestone buildings, well-dressed French women with shopping bags and small Vespas weaving in and out of the thick traffic. And she would have to get used to it.
*
“There,” her mother whispered, half to herself, as they passed Boulangerie Morel near Avenue Victor Hugo.
“Aunt Christine used to work there, before she married monsieur Delon.” For a moment, Hélène Sawyer, formerly Delacroix, seemed at ease, and there was a glint of something in her eyes, like she had seen a dream flicker by.
“How is her leg?” George asked.
“Better,” Hélène said, “but she will still be in the wheelchair. I will have to see her soon.”
“Hmm-hmm.”
Deborah closely watched her mother’s reflection in the window, but Hélène seemed to keep up her good posture. She remembered the Boulangerie, too, from last time. There didn’t seem to be many people there now, but the old shop windows still bore the same gold lettering.
Her father sat straighter as they closed in on their destination, his missionary papers forgotten in his lap. “Rue de la Pompe,” he said, his voice holding an emotion Deborah had never heard before. “I taught a family there in ’49. The Martineaus, the oldest brother and his uncle looking after four other children.” He cleared his throat. “They had also lost their parents in the war.”
But Deborah noticed he didn’t look at the street itself, keeping his eyes fixed ahead where the Mission house waited – Rue de Lota no. 3. And the nearby hotel. Their first home, in the country where half of her supposedly belonged.
*
By the time they reached the Hotel Saint-Germain, Deborah was exhausted. But beneath the tiredness, something else stirred—tight and uneasy in her chest.
The lobby was all brass fixtures and cream-colored walls that drank in the late afternoon light. Through the revolving doors, Paris seeped in: the clatter of bicycles, car fumes, rapid-fire French that made Deborah’s homegrown vocabulary feel suddenly inadequate. Past visits had been to Honfleur, where her aunt and uncle’s English had sheltered her. But the capital demanded more—she would have to become French, or at least a French Mormon. How?
As on cue, when they waited in line, a group of American tourists swept past, their confidence both familiar and alien. Deborah winced. Not exactly the answer she had been searching for.
At the desk, the concierge’s gaze flicked between George’s crisp American suit and Hélène ’s carefully curated ensemble, as if solving a puzzle. “Ah, Madame is French?” he inquired in English, then smoothly shifted to French when Hélène nodded. A subtle transformation—her shoulders relaxed, just slightly.
“Room 304,” her father broke in. “The Mission account.” He emphasized Mission. The concierge’s smile didn’t waver, but something in his eyes suggested he had placed them in a private taxonomy of hotel guests.
A porter materialized to collect their bags. Deborah noticed her mother’s fingers twitch, tracking their luggage as if wanting to count and recount each piece. Maybe, once they were in the room, she could write to Wilma. But what would she even say? That the trip had been long? That Mother had nearly fallen apart in the airport bathroom?
Room 304 revealed itself in stages—the awkward shuffle of bodies and bags through the doorway. Her father immediately claimed the small desk, spreading his papers like a general planning a campaign.
“We’ll want to be at the office by nine Thursday,” he said, drawing lines on a map with his ruler. “That gives us time for morning devotional–and to get used to the clock again.” He treated Deborah and her mother to a quick smile. Deborah was grateful, if nothing else then for the opportunity to sleep, but she felt slightly nauseous about going to the mission on the day after tomorrow. The way she felt right now, Saturday would be a lot better–or Monday! Unfortunately, it wasn’t for her to decide.
It was as if her father picked up on her apprehensiveness, for he quickly added, “We can make a full schedule later, once our new apartment is ready.”
“Do … you think Brother Anderson knows when it will be?” Deborah asked.
Her father frowned. “Perhaps, but as we talked about it is a small matter. The refurnishing after the previous occupants merely took a little more time than anticipated.”
“It will be perfect,” Hélène said, quickly patting Deborah on the shoulder from behind. “I think your room has the best view.”
“Yes, Maman,” Deborah said.
She hadn’t been conscious of calling her mother Maman and her father Father—or, on rare occasions, Dad. But here and now, in the hotel room, their little bubble, it felt odd.
They went down to the small restaurant adjacent to the hotel for a much-needed dinner, but Deborah didn’t feel particularly hungry.
Her mother had also been conspicuously mute during the short meal—so much so that even George had asked how she was, in front of Deborah.
Since they landed, she hadn’t mentioned Aunt Clara or Uncle François—her brother and sister-in-law—or her favorite (and only) niece, Sophie. The only reference to family had been that vague remark during the taxi ride about elderly Aunt Christine, whom Deborah knew her mother did not like and would postpone seeing as long as she could.
That subject had been broached at the restaurant—by her mother herself. She had asked George when he thought it would be a good time to visit the ailing aunt (Deborah’s great-aunt), but her father had been noncommittal.
Deborah knew that Christine had served the Germans during the war, both in the boulangerie and in its adjacent café, which had been owned by her late husband. But that was almost twenty-five years ago.
Why talk so much about her now that she was finally home?
It had been different in Salt Lake City. Very different. Since at least last summer, her mother had spoken every week about her closest family, especially about Honfleur—and about how awful it was that she had visited France so little in fifteen years. Sometimes, when they thought Deborah was asleep upstairs, she had heard her parents arguing about it.
So why wasn’t her mother happier now that they had come back to stay—at least for as long as Father held the position of Mission Counselor?
Deborah felt like saying something but gritted her teeth instead. Nobody had asked if she was okay with saying goodbye to Wilma and Jean, perhaps for good. Of course, she hadn’t expected anyone to ask, but still… at the very least, her mother could have asked how she felt. Instead, there had only been reassurances:
It will be fine—you will see. I moved a lot when I was your age, too.
You will get a good education—much better than your friends.
It is good for you to learn more about your roots.
When they came back up, there was still their little mountain of luggage to contend with. But Hélène threw herself fearlessly at the task, opening suitcases and placing each item in drawers and cupboards with precision. The process was silent and methodical, as if it were the most important thing they had come to France to do.
But Deborah accepted it gladly, since she quickly noticed that this particular task, at least for now, seemed to cheer her mother up quite a bit. Hélène was even softly singing a small tune—Le Temps des cerises–which Deborah recognized as a childhood song her mother had sung to her when she was little, and sometimes still sang to herself in the kitchen back home in Utah.
“Cerises d’amour aux robes vermeilles
Tombant sous la feuille en gouttes de sang
Mais il est bien court, le temps des cerises
Pendants de corail qu’on cueille en rêvant … ”
Her father had taken the desk to review the mission papers, a truly dedicated undertaking after having done the same throughout the entire flight. But at least that left Deborah to herself.
Feeling more relaxed, she drifted to the window, keeping her expression demure, and not expecting anything more than having to kill time until she could finally go to bed.
Then her heart skipped a beat at the scene that revealed itself below, in the middle of the busy sidewalk.
A young couple lingered in a goodbye kiss, stretching time like warm caramel. They seemed unconcerned whether anyone was watching. Deborah found herself staring at them. A strange, weightless feeling bloomed in her stomach, like vertigo. More than enough to evaporate her ruminations about her personal dislocation. She held her breath and watched. Home, this would never…
The sharp ring of the room’s telephone cut through her thoughts.
George answered. “Oui? Yes, I will see him in the lobby.”
He set down the receiver and reached for his jacket, which he had only just hung in the cupboard. “It’s Elder Romney. Brother Anderson has sent him to see if we arrived safely and if we needed anything.” A faint smile crossed his lips. “Very thoughtful.”
At the door, he hesitated. “Deborah, help your mother unpack. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I’d like to hear a little more about how things are here before … the meeting. I also have to call Samuel and Emily.”
Her father always called Deborah’s grandparents by their first names. Deborah was just glad, it seemed she didn’t have to talk to them. This time.
“Take your time, dear,” Hélène said, her voice reassuringly calm at last. “We’ll shower and get ready for bed.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” George nodded, stepping out. “You take your time, and I’ll take mine.” He smiled again—one of those quick, fleeting smiles Deborah liked but never quite managed to catch.
Once her father left, Deborah knelt by the suitcase again, noting how her mother was already right back in the process of sorting everything—even Deborah’s clothes—into precise piles on the bed, before transferring it to the cupboard and drawers. How long would they have to be in this room—the three of them?
Deborah went about helping the best she could, taking care of her own clothes, but then still being careful not to put them in a drawer her mother had already designated for something else. It was tiring, after such a long day, to have to keep up concentration on this ritual, but she felt it was for the best. And perhaps now, in the quiet rhythm of their unpacking and sorting, was the right moment to bring up … related things.
“Our Utah clothes…” Deborah smoothed a skirt that had never quite fit. “They might not be… appropriate for Paris?” She kept her voice light. “Perhaps the Lord has blessed us with an opportunity to find more suitable options?”
Her mother’s hands stilled on a blouse. “We’ll see,” she murmured in French. “Paris has changed so much. Everything has changed.”
Deborah pressed forward. “These especially…” She gestured vaguely at the neat pile with her bras, fighting a blush. “They’re a bit… small.”
But her mother had already moved on, arranging shoes with military precision. “We’ll see what we can do,” she said in English, closing the drawer with quiet finality. “Now help me count the hangers. I think the porter missed a bag.”
Through the window, the young couple was still saying goodbye. She turned back to the hangers, counting in French while her mother counted in English—neither quite reaching the same number. Her mother’s expression remained taut as she double-checked their count, lips pressed into a thin line.
Her mother’s momentary ease was fading, and Deborah could only hope it wouldn’t dissolve entirely before they turned in for the night.
*
Evening settled over the city—hers now, yet not hers at all. Everything felt different when staying wasn’t temporary. Even if they returned home in three years, what would that mean? Wilma and Jean might be married, moved on. They had reassured each other that summers would bring them back together, but now Deborah wasn’t so sure.
In the hotel bathroom, her toiletry kit sat neatly arranged, though she had no desire to use anything. She’d already showered, lingering too long in the warmth, thinking thoughts she shouldn’t dwell on. Did it matter if she thought them? She’d have to include that in her evening prayer, wait for a sign.
How long did she have in here, anyway—for herself? Her mother was still alone in the room, having seemingly relaxed again, sitting on the bed in her bathrobe and reading, as far as Deborah knew. She wondered if it was Manon des Sources, which her mother had been reading for months now and never seemed to finish. Or was it scripture?
As for her father he was still in the lobby speaking with the younger missionary—maybe for an hour now. He had to come back soon, she figured.
When would ‘soon’ be? Ten minutes more? Fifteen? She had dried off, put on her pajamas, and even added a light duster, since the hotel’s heating didn’t seem built for such an unusually chilly fall evening.
But she would have to make it sound as if she still was getting ready with something. Then write quickly. She sat down on the toilet seat with her kit in her hand.
The words in her head—she had to get them out. She rummaged with the little bag.
And there it was: Behind the cold cream and toothpaste, her notebook lay hidden—a personal brush for her soul. It had only been days since she last wrote, yet it felt like forever.
Carefully she took out the pencil from the book. How long now? Ten minutes? At most. More like five. She had to be quick.
The verse burned in her mind, sparked by the boy and girl she’d seen on the street, by the quiet fire between them.
She wrote hastily, wincing as her otherwise beautiful handwriting dissolved into a scrawl. Then she slowed, frustration creeping in as the words on the page failed to match the ones in her head. Five versions later, she still wasn’t satisfied.
She sat on the closed toilet lid, her small notebook balanced on her knees, and re-read her work. The minutes were forgotten. Only words now. But they stung … :
I watch them from above
His hands in her hair
Her lips parted like wings
And something inside me
Breaks open
Dear God forgive me
But I don’t want to be forgiven
I want to be
Free
Touched
Alive
That … was too much. She crossed out words furiously, her pencil nearly tearing the paper. She tried again, more carefully:
They kiss in the open air
No walls to hold them
No eyes to judge
No father’s frown
Just the night sky blessing
What I can only dream of
Standing here behind glass
While they float free
Like birds without cages
Better, but still too… She bit her lip, crossed out entire lines. One more try:
Like Adam and Eve in the garden
Two souls intertwined beneath
The streetlights of Paris
No serpent here, just
The way his hand cups her face
Like a prayer
Like something I cannot name
Great. Now she had resigned herself to admitting she couldn’t find words! But it had been so clear before in the shower. She felt a—and then the bathroom door creaked.
every muscle in her body froze at once. She thought she’d locked it.
Her mother’s hand appeared first, gripping the handle, as if she were surprised by how little pressure it took. Then her concerned face followed. “Deborah? Are you—”
Her mother’s eyes fixed on the notebook. Deborah’s hands hovered over it, pencil poised mid-motion, but she couldn’t close it or hide it away.
“May I?” Hélène asked softly in French, holding out her hand.
Deborah could still barely move, so it became a half-hearted gesture—handing the book to her mother, who took it from her hands as she tried to make it seem natural, casual. But she was looking away.
Her mother read quietly for a long moment, her face perfectly composed. Then she handed the book back.
“I thought as much.” A thin smile. “You have your grandfather’s gift for words.” Hélène ’s eyes glistened for a moment before she blinked and looked directly at her daughter. “Your father must never see this. Well, maybe something else, but not—this.”
“Okay.” Deborah was still looking down. She felt as if she could never move again, even if she wanted to. Her cheeks burned, and she knew she couldn’t look natural no matter what she tried. A voice inside her screamed that she should be casual, like it was nothing. That was the only defense. But she kept looking down.
Hélène’s features softened. She smoothed her bathrobe and sat down on the edge of the tub, still damp from the shower. She pulled the curtain aside to make space, then placed a hand on Deborah’s shoulder.
“Are you still thinking about… Caleb Jensen?” Her mother’s tone was absolutely neutral. For once. There was a firmness that belied the weakness she too often succumbed to. It was like she was two mothers, and now a different one had entered the conversation.
And, of course, she spoke in French—like they had at home ever since that spring night when Deborah had come back from the dance, crying. When nothing had worked out. And Father had worked late, as usual.
“I am not thinking about him.” Deborah coughed and shifted slightly, still stiff. She fumbled with her book, trying to tuck it away but instead knocking a bottle of cream onto the floor.
“Let me get that.” Her mother reached out and set the bottle back on the edge of the sink.
“You know,” she continued, “it’s alright if you do. He and you might have…”
“Don’t say that.” Deborah’s voice was low, her entire body tensing. “Don’t say what we could have been when there was never a chance. When there was just… coming here.”
Deborah had kept Caleb Jensen from her mind the entire trip. Thinking about how she would write Wilma and Jean, perhaps even Aunt Sarah in Cleveland. But not Caleb Jensen. Not him.
She forced herself not to cry. Not now.
“It wasn’t Father’s fault we had to come this year. I know that. It was just… something that happened.”
Hélène frowned. “We’ll only be here for two years, maybe less.”
“Two years? Do you really believe that?”
“Deborah! What are you saying?”
“We don’t know how long we’ll be here. I’ve seen what he writes—his plans.”
“Oh, the temple? That’s just a dream. But a good dream.” Her mother smiled thinly.
“It’s more than a dream. I’ve seen what he—”
A sharp heat flared in her chest, sudden and overwhelming, like a fire igniting from within. But it wasn’t flames she felt on her cheeks, though they burned, too. It was salt and moisture, and she wanted none of it. She turned away.
“Deborah…” Her mother reached out, but she twisted further, only to realize there was nowhere left to go. And so, despite everything, despite her resolve, she did the one thing she had sworn she wouldn’t do.
She sobbed.
For a while, she let herself be held, her mother on her knees on the floor, saying nothing, just holding her tight. When the worst of it passed, Deborah slowly pulled away, accepting the tissue her mother offered.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I have to—”
“You don’t have to do anything, darling.” Her mother’s voice was gentle. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?” Hélène frowned.
“Don’t you want to stay longer? With Uncle François, Aunt Clara—your family, finally?” Deborah wiped her eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish again. I’m sorry.”
Hélène reached out and pulled Deborah to her once more. At first, she resisted, but then, finally, it was okay. For a while, they sat awkwardly—Deborah’s head leaning against her mother’s shoulder, her mother’s arms around her. Her mother was perched on the edge of the tub, while Deborah sat on the closed toilet seat, just a little too far away for the tender gesture to feel entirely natural.
“You are not selfish,” her mother said. “You are… a young woman. And you know, you will soon find someone. I am sure of it. And then everything will be alright.”
“But I’m not allowed to write about it, am I?” Deborah’s voice tensed again. She felt her mother’s warmth and, for some reason, wished she couldn’t.
“You are…” Hélène started, then sighed. “But as I said, it would probably be a good idea to keep it to yourself.”
“But it’s a sin to think about, isn’t it? Before you’re married?”
Hélène shrugged. “Maybe there are worse things, but yes, I suppose it is.”
“Suppose?”
“It depends,” Hélène said. “I would not mind you thinking about things. We all think about… things.”
“I have to.” Deborah sat up again, feeling lost. “I have to think about what I want, or… how will I know if it’s the right thing when… you know, when I get married?”
Her mother nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you? Did you think a lot about who you would meet before you met Father?” Deborah chewed her lip. She didn’t really want this conversation—not here, not now. Or maybe it was okay. But with so little time… For lack of anything better to say, she deadpanned, “I guess you did, because you hadn’t converted yet, huh?”
“Being from a Catholic family of fishermen is not exactly a life without rules.”
“You never talk about that…” Deborah’s expression brightened a little. “About Grandfather and Grandmother. What was it like living with them?”
Hélène’s hand trembled slightly. “You know I’d want to—but… but …”
Deborah immediately changed the subject. “I–I wonder if Monsieur Arracourt and his family would invite us in, when we come to see the old house?”
“He is a fine man,” Hélène said slowly. “He would welcome us.”
“Yes. Yes, he would.” Deborah took the bottle of cream. She finally felt calm enough to close her toiletry bag, zipping everything up as if this had just been a normal bath.
Nothing was normal now, was it?
Then there was a knock at the door to the hallway.
“Is it a good time to come in?” George’s voice carried its usual measured tone through from outside the hotel room
Deborah hastily zipped her toiletry bag all the way while her mother smoothed her bathrobe and checked that her hair was properly pinned. They exchanged a quick glance before Hélène went into the other room and opened the door to the hallway.
“Elder Romney–” George announced “—would like to say hello before heading back.”
The young man hovered behind George, his white shirt still crisp despite the late hour. “Sisters,” he nodded to each of them. “I hope you have not been too exhausted by the long journey?”
Romney’s French was perfect, each syllable precisely placed. But Hélène replied in English, her choice deliberate. “Thank you for your concern. We are well.”
“We’re grateful for the Lord’s blessings,” George added.
“Brother Anderson speaks highly of you,” Hélène continued politely. “You will become his assistant, correct?”
Romney’s serene demeanor never wavered. “I’m only in Paris shortly for some of the Greenies. I will go back to Bordeaux soon, to be zone leader there. We will see what the new year brings. But we are all here to serve.”
Deborah clutched her toiletry bag closer, feeling the notebook inside, her fingers pressing against the hard edge of its cover. “Thank you for coming to greet us,” she managed. “Will we see you at the mission home?”
“I have to get back to my tracting,”–he cocked his head “– but I hope to be there that morning, yes.” Romney’s smile was disarming, but there was also a control and even discipline in it.
They exchanged a few more polite questions about the flight, Romney’s responses measured and correct, until the young missionary finally took his leave, as smoothly as he had come.
After Elder Romney’s departure, they settled into their evening routine with practiced efficiency. George gathered them for family prayer, his voice steady as he thanked Heavenly Father for their safe passage and asked for blessings on the upcoming meeting. Afterward, while he reviewed his papers one final time, Hélène knelt by her bed for her personal prayers. Deborah watched her mother’s lips move silently, wondering what she was asking for, before turning to her own preparations.
She felt as if she were caught in a rushing stream, moving too fast for her to even swim. Kneeling by her bed, she tried to focus on gratitude as she’d been taught, but her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. The familiar ritual felt different here—her whispered “amen” falling flat in the foreign air of the hotel room. This was what she would carry forward into her new life: these prayers, these habits, this faith. This part of her chosen future.
And the earlier intimacy of the bathroom talk now felt distant, like mist over the dark autumn streets outside—something ephemeral, as likely to vanish as to remain.
And when she was finally in bed, lying in the darkness, listening to the city—the city she told herself she had to know, had to learn to love because it was part of her family—all she could really hear was Caleb’s voice, echoing from the last time she saw him.
Or was it the time when the two families had camped together and he had saved her from that stray, rabid hunting dog?
Right now it was as if everything Caleb had ever said or done with her conflated into one memory. Even the good things would never be good to think of again. Like there was only one way to remember everything:
“I’m scared,” she had said. “I’m scared I’ll never see you again.”
“I’m scared too,” he had admitted. “But what can we do? What can any of us do?”
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Note: This is the draft of the first chapter in an upcoming novel about Deborah, but I thought it was close to being a story in itself, so therefore it’s here.
Last updated 21.02.2025
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