A Phantom Enchantment (7 page)

“We do,” I said, nodding and feeling about a thousand conflicting feelings, the strongest of which was guilt.

“I'm going to kiss you now,” Owen said, and my face flushed to my earlobes. But he did the European air kiss on both cheeks, adding a joke: “You know,
when in Rome . . .
”

“Aw, Owen. You're the sweetest guy ever. And Elise knows this. She's just a little . . .”

“Confused. I know. I've been on this side of things before, and I have to say, it sucks.”

This time, it was my turn to kiss Owen. On one cheek and very sincerely. “Happy Birthday, Owen.”

“Thanks, Emma.”

He waited until I was safely inside, then I ran to the dorm, feeling a slight unease at being on my own so late at night. Ignoring the feeling, I went up to my room, locked the door behind me, and crept onto my bed, pulling out my phone to dial my home number. My dad answered on the first ring.

“Emma, thank God,” he said.

“Dad? What's wrong? Is everything okay? Is it Grandma?”

“No, Emma. It's not Grandma.” Then, after a long pause, he said something that made my heart stop. “Honey, Gray is missing.”

C
HAPTER
7

C
ertain news comes with the complete inability to comprehend its significance. My father did his best to explain, but there was very little information to go on.

A few days ago, a hurricane had developed in the Caribbean and began barreling its way up the East Coast. A large schooner on a pleasure cruise tried to dodge the storm but ended up sailing right through the middle of it. When the ship began taking on water, the passengers were forced to abandon ship. Gray's unit had been sent by helicopter to rescue them, and Gray had been dropped into the ocean, where he managed to save most of the passengers and crew.

“But something went wrong,” my dad said. “The winds were gale force, and the swells were too high. After the rescue, the helicopter had to ascend to avoid being taken down by the winds, and when it finally was able to descend, there was no sign of Gray.”

“No sign of him? How is that possible?”

“We don't have all the details yet. But the Coast Guard is conducting an extensive search.”

My tongue puckered in my mouth, and my skin felt like it was detaching from my body. “When did you find out?” I asked.

“Last night.”

“And you didn't call me then?”

“Honey, I was hoping it would all turn out to be a misunderstanding.”

“But it's not?” I said, starting to hyperventilate. “A misunderstanding?”

“Oh, sweetheart, it doesn't look like it.” I felt the ground shifting beneath me. “Emma, I want you to be with someone right now,” he said. “Are you with Elise? Don't stay by yourself.”

“I'm not because I'm coming home,” I said. “I'm getting the first flight out of here tomorrow morning.”

“Sweetheart, that doesn't make any sense. Gray's parents are going to call the minute they know anything. I know it's hard to wait, but just hold out a little longer. Wait till tomorrow at least. We'll know more by then.”

“How do you know?” I said.

“Just have faith, honey. I'll call you first thing.”

We finally got off the phone, and I sat on the bed feeling like someone had beaten me with a club. Elise wasn't back yet, and I couldn't bring myself to call Owen. I only had enough energy to curl up on my bed. The tears hadn't come yet, and only a numbing sense of shock was keeping panic at bay.

All night, that fog of numbness and disbelief hovered around me, insulating me from the full impact of what had happened. I lay in a near-catatonic state, hoping I'd doze off and wake to find it had all been a bad dream. I must have drifted off eventually because I woke later and saw my cell phone still sitting on the bed, an awful reminder that this wasn't a nightmare. I scrolled through my call history to make sure my dad had really called, that our horrible conversation had actually taken place.

And then I remembered the last time I'd spoken with Gray, our connection had gotten cut off. Had that been some kind of sign, an omen that something terrible was going to happen and I was going to lose him?

Without thinking, I began dialing home.

“Hello,” my dad mumbled, and I quickly remembered that it was the middle of the night.

“Sorry for calling so late. Have you heard anything?”

Of course, there had been no new news in the past five hours. I hadn't really expected any, but I had hoped. My dad talked to me for a few minutes to reassure me everything would be all right. It was a comfort to hear his voice, but when we got off the phone, I was alone again and Gray was still missing.

There are very few conditions that won't be at least temporarily improved by a hot shower, so I went into the bathroom and stood under a stream of hot water for ten minutes. But when I got out, I felt even more exhausted than before.

After getting dressed, I opened my laptop and did a search for news on the botched rescue. Dozens of articles popped up. I clicked on one from the
Miami Herald:

I closed my laptop and shut my eyes. Was it really possible he was still alive? Or was this just wishful thinking?

I didn't know what to do or where to go. I couldn't face my friends. Telling them what had happened would be admitting it was real. That Gray was really gone.

But I couldn't stay here, cooped up in my room, either. I needed to get out.

I'd heard that Saint-Antoine had a chapel, but I'd had no reason to seek it out since I'd been in Paris. Right now I needed a haven where I could find some solace. After getting dressed, I made my way over to the main building. It was Sunday morning a little before eight
A.M.
, and not a soul was on the quad.

The chapel was located on the second floor opposite the library. I half expected the door to be locked, but it opened into a tiny space—maybe fifteen by twenty feet at most. A small altar stood at the far end and two rows of four benches each provided enough sitting room for about thirty people.

I walked down the carpeted aisle and knelt down on the padded kneeler in front of the altar. A wooden cross hung on the back wall. I was relieved to see no dying Jesus suspended from it.

“Please, God,” I said, feeling the kind of desperation that presses all the air out of your lungs. “Let Gray be all right. Let him be alive. Please, please, please.”

I repeated that
please
over and over again, wishing there was something more I could do.

Mademoiselle Veilleux found me in the chapel an hour later and sat down next to me. “Your father just called,” she said. “I'm so sorry, Emma.” She put an arm around me, and that was it. I started crying—desperate, hiccupping sobs.

When I finally pulled myself together, Mademoiselle Veilleux said, “Don't lose hope, Emma. Here, this might help.” She handed me a small card. It had the picture of a saint in brown robes holding the Baby Jesus in one arm and a white lily in the other.

“What's this?” I asked.

“It's a prayer card,” she said. “Turn it over.”

The other side of the card read:
Saint Antoine est invoqué pour retrouver les objets ou personnes perdus
.

It was only then that I realized Saint Antoine, the school's namesake, was actually St. Anthony.

The patron saint of missing things.

I remembered a verse I must have learned as a child:
Dear Saint Anthony, please come around. Something's lost that must be found.

I recited it to myself all the way back to my room, where I fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep. And when I woke in the morning, I relived the nightmare all over again by telling my friends what had happened.

Over the next few days, they did everything in their power to comfort me. Owen rubbed my back and made me tea. Elise sat in my room with me after classes, not talking, just making me feel less alone. Flynn just wanted to fix things, asking over and over, “What can I do?”

But there was nothing to be done.

My father called every night to make sure I was okay, and every night I startled at the sound of my ring tone, my heart clenching with fear that this would be the call that would seal Gray's fate forever.

The days idled by, and I went robotically to my classes, then came back to my room, feeling grief descend on me like a lead blanket. Despair turned to disbelief to numbness to anger and then back again to despair. I felt lost. Broken. Grief took me by degrees, as I vacillated between hope and despair, sometimes within the same day.

After two weeks, the Coast Guard gave up their search, listing Gray as “missing in action,” which usually meant
dead
. Gray's little sister, Anna, seemed to be the only one who hadn't given up hope. She began texting me numerous times a day.