Lost and Found Read online

  "Yes." I tried to assimilate the information.

  "I'll insert an implant to build up the deteriorated section of your jaw and chin and correct this line." He ran his index finger along my jaw. "And then, for the scarring, we can graft skin. Once it heals, we'll use laser to smooth the skin."

  I listened and nodded, but a war raged in my mind.

  Dr. Kim stepped back and looked at me. "Mrs. Bouvier, you've been through a lot. The recurring infection and subsequent surgeries were unexpected, but now . . . if . . . when . . . the infection clears completely, we will begin restoring your appearance."

  I shook Dr. Kim's hand. "Thank you. I appreciate all you've done."

  "Do you have any questions?"

  Questions churned in my mind, but I couldn't pin a single thought down. The other voice, the one raging within, distracted.

  That voice—the voice of accusation—slithered into my mind during those first years of marriage, when I failed to become pregnant. Failed to produce what was expected of me—what I expected of and longed for myself. Since then, condemnation has been my constant companion, even though our infertility was no fault of my own. The voice strengthened following the first surgery, when the initial rounds of antibiotics, burning as they pumped through the IV and into my bloodstream, failed to eradicate the bacterial infection raging first in the incision beneath my chin and then, later, in my jawbone.

  What have you done to yourself?

  How could you be so stupid?

  Why couldn't you be content?

  You don't get anything right!

  With each slur cast, my sense of shame deepened. And in the darkest moments, I hurled blame at others. If Brigitte hadn't made those comments about the "strength" of my chin and how "masculine" it looked . . . if she hadn't suggested the surgery in the first place . . . or if Gerard had defended me, for once, against his mother's attacks . . .

  But casting blame just shamed me further.

  Matthew asked if I blamed God. Absolutely not. I knew from the beginning, and still know, there was no one to blame but myself.

  I walk around the tables on the sidewalk of an outdoor café, the aroma of bread baking and coffee brewing waft from the open door. Today, more than a year after the mentoplasty, that first fateful surgery following the choice I made to fix what wasn't perfect in my eyes—the voice still woos me. Now, when I look back at photos of myself before the surgery, I can't see the imperfection that seemed glaring to me before. Like an anorexic seeing fat where there is emaciation, I saw something in the mirror that was never there.

  "Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." The words play in my mind over and over. I try to rest in their truth. But the insistent accusations are hard to ignore.

  Why can't I rest in truth? Rest in my relationship with the One I know loves me most? There are moments of rest. Of joy. A sense of His presence as sure as the scents coming from the café. Like in the solarium the other morning. In those moments, just maybe, I glimpse who I'm meant to be.

  No. That's not it.

  I glimpse who He is.

  All else fades and becomes extraneous.

  Why can't I maintain that focus—that frame of mind?

  How much time have I wasted over the years first serving my beauty, then lamenting over its loss? How many hours wasted on this obsession with self? It wasn't just the physical beauty—it's what it represented. My beauty, I know, is why Brigitte was drawn to me—why she chose me for Gerard. It is why Gerard acquiesced to his mother's plan. He still jokes about the "arranged marriage" but says, "Who can argue with her choice?" Maintaining my appearance, fixing the flaws I saw there, became imperative—it was necessary, in my mind, to please Brigitte.

  And as Skye implied in the park yesterday, I strive to please Brigitte at any cost. Who are you serving, Jenna?

  Who am I serving? Brigitte? Myself?

  The question nags at me as I walk the remaining block to the house.

  I SLIP IN THE front door unnoticed, then stand for a moment just inside the entry and watch as shards of light dance on the marble floor. The sun shinning in the upper windows and through the crystal prisms of the chandelier account for the show on the floor. I think of Skye's words this morning, sometimes we need someone who will illuminate the path. Choice words. God knew they'd catch my attention, just as the crystal prisms catch the light.

  All is still.

  Brigitte isn't here. I'd know.

  How long have I prayed for illumination? For a light to lead me out of darkness? Skye has been an answer to that prayer. Is Matthew also part of God's answer?

  I think of my blog. Even the URL is a prayer: www.iluminar.me. Iluminar—Spanish for illuminate—in deference to my mother who was the first to cast light into my world. I began writing the blog while fighting the infection following my surgery—while fighting the sense of shame and stupidity suffocating my soul. During those months, I was realizing, for the first time, the hold Brigitte has on me—the hold I've allowed. The surgery, once I was willing to admit it to myself, was done to please her. Yet, it didn't please. It—I—failed.

  Miserably.

  For the first time, I wondered what lengths I'd go to, to please her? In a sense, I'd sold my body. Would I sell my soul as well?

  As the bacterial infection raged in my body, an emotional infection raged in my soul. The blog became an outlet for the infection—a place where the poison could drain.

  I was desperate to begin understanding why I'd allowed Brigitte such power in my life. Why I'd surrendered my life. My life! To anyone other than God. For the first time, in the blog entries, I processed thoughts, feelings, and the fractures of self.

  And then, I sent the entries into oblivion—into the sphere of the unknown—the cosmic World Wide Web, where no one would know me. Where I could just be. Where I could become. Somehow recording the entries in a journal wasn't enough.

  I needed, wanted, longed, to be heard.

  There was solace in the words I typed on the screen. They were real. I wrote my truth. My heart. My soul. I began a dialogue with God. Unabashed and raw. I opened my wounded body and soul to Him. And to a cloud of unknown witnesses.

  I read articles and a book on blogging, I registered the blog with Technorati and a few other search engines that index blogs, I linked the blog with social networking pages I set up and like ants, followers came. First one, then a few, then hoards. I began receiving comment after comment. And with the comments came conversations.

  I found a place where I had a voice.

  Where I was heard.

  Where I was accepted.

  A place where I could be real, unencumbered by roles, or the judgments of those who think they know me. Or, at least, it's become a place where the anonymous author of www.iluminar.me can be real.

  Ironic.

  It's all I'm ready for. I'm known as [email protected]. That's enough.

  Still standing in the entry, watching the light dance, I bend and slip off my shoes. I cross the marbled entry, hoping to avoid detection by the household staff—Brigitte's eyes and ears. I tiptoe up the stairs, down the hallway, and into our suite where I inch the door closed, turning the handle so it doesn't click. Once it's closed, I lean my back against it and let out a sigh.

  I head to the alcove, drop my shoes by my desk, and sit down and open my laptop. As it loads, I think again about Matthew, and as I do, I'm aware of the right side of my face rising to meet the left. The smile comes as I recall the surge within when Skye introduced us. Matthew shook my hand, but it was my soul that was shaken. Something inside me came alive.

  What did I feel? I think of Matthew's stature—about Gerard's height, I'd guess—maybe 6'2", maybe a bit taller—and in good physical shape, as though he's a runner or a hiker. His weathered good looks sp
eak of time spent in the elements. His dark hair is a mass of curls. And the intensity of his gray eyes startle, until they soften with a smile.

  But it isn't his looks that stir me. It's something beneath the surface—the core of who he is. He's goofy, but there's more there. I shake my head. I don't even know him. I pick up a pen from my desk and twirl it in my fingers. Yet, it's like he said—it's as if we do know one another. As if we've always known one another. It was as if our souls recognized one another in some way.

  Odd.

  I trust Skye's intuition and look forward to whatever God has in store with Matthew.

  Before leaving the cathedral this afternoon, I scheduled an appointment next week to explore the idea of spiritual direction. As I told him, I'm intrigued. Our meeting energized me.

  But now that I'm here, I feel the familiar sense of fatigue slipping in.

  I place the pen on the desk and turn my attention back to my laptop. I open my browser and sign in to my blog host site. I open the blog and click to begin a new entry. I think back to last night and the anger I felt with Brigitte and the way I reacted when she ignored what I'd said and refilled my glass. As I recall the anger and then the fear that followed, my fingers fly across the keyboard.

  Here, on my blog, I can drop the veil of pretense, a veil that distorts even my own vision, and explore what I feel and wait for, hope for: illumination.

  I read back over the words I spewed on the page and then I edit. I cut any reference that links the blog to me. I remove Brigitte's name. Omit the sentence about the PICC line inserted today. What instigated the infection. The readers know the generalities and the heart of an anonymous life. In this way, I remain free to explore—to open my life not only to God, but also to the cloud of witnesses.

  Weary

  This afternoon, I am weary. The infection continues to wage a war within my system. It marches through my bloodstream, taking healthy cells hostage. But, I must remind myself, I am the one who invited the troops in. The battle is a consequence of my actions.

  I am battle weary. But today it's more than physical exhaustion that I experience. Today, my soul is exhausted. Tired of the battle in my body, but also in my home. Tired of not getting it right. Tired of falling short.

  I lose things, often, but I don't lose my temper. Is it the war still raging in my body? Or the war raging in my soul? A torrent of anger I can no longer quell? Will I ever be free of either? I've become weak. I'm losing my self-control. Was my anger justified or had she misunderstood?

  Yet, I know better, don't I? She didn't misunderstand. Her act was deliberate. A judgment? Perhaps. But there is knowing in my spirit. Though I discern her intent, I know not what to do with the discernment.

  Illuminate me . . .

  Lord, I long to be an instrument of Your love and peace. But I'm operating on my own strength. And today, my strength wanes.

  "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2 Cor. 12:9)

  Before I click publish, I stand, stretch, and walk to the window. As I look out across rooftops to the glittering bay, I submit my concerns to Him. Do I write to glorify myself? To draw attention or seek sympathy? Or, is there value in the words I send into cyberspace. Are they of You? I'm never sure.

  I bow my head and wait. Will I hear His still, small voice? After several minutes of silence, I whisper my prayer. "Oh Lord, fill me with more of You and less of me."

  "Who, may I ask, are you talking to? And what is this?"

  I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I turn and see Brigitte standing in front of my computer, bending to read the screen. She holds her coat over her arm and her purse on the other arm.

  "What is this?"

  I walk to the desk and reach for the mouse, but before I can click and minimize the screen, Brigitte grabs my wrist.

  "I asked you a question." The edge in her tone is sharp, cutting.

  "It's just a blog."

  "Whose blog?"

  I jerk my wrist from her grasp. I take a step back and take a deep breath. "Does it matter?" My voice shakes, but I hold her gaze.

  "Why so defensive, chérie? Hiding something?" She turns from the screen and faces me. "More spiritual gibberish, n'est-ce pa? No wonder you're defensive." She walks toward the window, looks out, then turns back. "What is your American saying? 'You're too heavenly minded to be any earthly good'? Very apropos, I'd say. You're wasting your time, if you ask me."

  So saying, she turns and leaves—the sound of her steps lost in the plush carpet.

  "I didn't ask you."

  I sit back down in front of the computer and look at the screen. My insides tremble like the leaves of fall, but all that's visible of the blog is the last paragraph and the Scripture reference. I'd scrolled down to that point as I edited. My shoulders slump as I lean my elbows on the desk.

  As I reread what I've written, I can't help but do so through Brigitte's eyes. What would she think? What would she do?

  I shudder.

  I click publish, close everything, and lean back in my chair and consider. What am I feeling? When I'm with God, when I'm pouring out my heart, my soul, to Him, when I'm in His Word, when I'm seeking His light—I'm most alive.

  When I'm with Brigitte, I cease to exist.

  This incongruence dawns like the winter sun. Slow. Cold. Gray. I grasp for understanding but it flees. I can't hold on to it.

  Help me understand. Help me . . . be . . . I search for the words hidden in the fog of my mind. Help me be who . . . You want me to be. That's it. But then I sense there is something more He's asking of me. Help me to be who You want me to be.

  Knowing comes.

  In all circumstances.

  Even when I'm with Brigitte. That's what God's asking of me?

  Knowledge is accompanied by a ripple of fear.

  "How? How, do I do that?"

  I can't begin to imagine.

  Stand back . . .

  Those who are living in the natural life have faults, but nothing is being done to change them.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER TEN

  Brigitte

  SHE SETS HER purse on the credenza, drapes her jacket across the back of her chair, and presses the intercom button on the phone on her desk. She asks Hannah to come to her office. She puts on her glasses, reaches for a pen, and writes Jenna's name on the top sheet of a yellow legal pad. She underlines the name and begins scribbling notes until she's interrupted by a tap on the door.

  "Come in."

  "Good afternoon, Madame." Hannah stops in front of Brigitte's desk.

  "The report, please, Hannah."

  Hannah reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a small sheet of notebook paper and begins to read. "She took breakfast at 8:15 in the kitchen with Nicoletta. Coffee and toast. At 9:00, the home health-care nurse arrived. They took the elevator upstairs, where Jenna could lie down while the line was inserted. The nurse left about 9:45. At 10:25, I heard her call for a cab. She left about 10:40. She said she'd return sometime after lunch." Hannah glances at her watch. "She isn't back yet."

  "Of course she's back. She's in her room now. Really, Hannah, can just anyone walk into this house unnoticed?" She taps her pen against the edge of the desk. "Never mind. Where did she go?"

  "She didn't say, Madame. She was dressed casually."

  "Did you see the cab? Get the number?"

  "No. Not this time." Hannah shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

  "La méfiance est mère de la sûreté."

  "I'm sorry, Madame. I don't understand."

  "It is simple, Hannah. Mistrust is the mother of security. A simple principle—one you must learn. If you do not, I will be forced to replace you. Oui?"

  "Yes, Madame."


  Brigitte scrawls a few more notes on the pad of paper. "Have a seat." She motions to one of the chairs across the desk from her. She leans back in her chair, removes her glasses, and looks at Hannah. "I'm concerned about Jenna. Her welfare. The infection is, I believe, taking a toll. She isn't acting herself."

  Hannah nods.

  "I'd like to make certain that it is only the illness that's influencing her and not something else." She pushes back from her desk, stands, and walks around to the front of the desk where she perches on the edge, near Hannah. She lowers her voice. "She spends an inordinate amount of time at her computer. I'd like to know why."

  Hannah nods.

  "You understand, oui?"

  "Yes, Madame. Give me a few days."

  She leans forward and places her hand on Hannah's shoulder. "Merci."

  After dismissing Hannah, she sits back at her desk. She must keep Jenna in check. The insolence she's demonstrated in the last couple of days will not be tolerated. What is prompting the change? Perhaps it is the illness. Or perhaps it is something more. Or someone more.

  She picks up the phone and punches in a number, her acrylic nails clicking on the number pad. "Marcus? Yes, hello. I'm fine, thank you. You? Mm-hm. And how's Estelle? Good to hear. Listen, Marcus, you'll be having guests this weekend. Oui. Gerard and Jenna are taking a few days away. I told them I'd alert you so the chateau's ready and you have the kitchen stocked. Of course, I knew you would. What's that? Oh, yes, they'll arrive tomorrow evening and stay through the middle of next week. They'll let you know for sure once they arrive. Yes. Merci, Marcus."

  Satisfied, she hangs up the phone then jots another series of notes on the pad before she turns to her keyboard.

  Gerard,

  I'd like you to spend a few days in the valley to make initial contact with the wineries on Andee's list. Don't play our hand, of course. Just get a read on things. Do what you do best, darling. I've contacted Marcus—he and Estelle know you're coming and the chateau will be ready. Take Jenna with you—perhaps a dose of the valley will be healing. I told Marcus the two of you will arrive tomorrow evening. Let's meet in the morning, 8:00 a.m., to go over details.