17

Gouin Reservoir, Quebec, Canada

It was Monday morning, and they had just one day left.

The glorious aroma of strong, black coffee and thick Canadian bacon lured David from his slumber. He put on his glasses, stepped out of his cabin into the brisk fall morning, and inhaled the smoke drifting his way. He looked around the campsite but saw no one, save Marseille. Wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt with pink lettering that read Jersey Girl, she stood over the fire, scrambling some eggs.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Famished,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

“The First Church of the Walleye.”

“They’re fishing already?”

“It’s almost ten.”

David couldn’t believe it. He rubbed dirt off the face of his watch. She was right. He must have been more tired than he’d realized. The day before, David had spent another day with his dad, this time going farther up a river they’d found and discovering a small lake full of pike. They had caught far more than they could possibly eat, thrown most of them back, and broiled the rest over the fire for dinner.

“How come you didn’t go fishing?” David asked.

Marseille laughed. “I needed my beauty sleep.”

David doubted that but said nothing as she served him runny eggs and burnt bacon on a cold tin plate.

“Hope you like ’em,” she said, turning back to the fire to pour him some coffee.

David choked down the food and a cup of coffee so bitter he had to add four cubes of sugar to it. Cooking evidently was not one of Marseille’s strengths. When she suggested they hike back to the A-frame they had made their own, David readily agreed. He gratefully set down the mug, helped her douse the fire, and led her into the woods.

“My dad says your mom is the best cook in the world,” Marseille said as they began.

“Really?” David said, genuinely surprised.

“Apparently your mom makes some kind of Persian stew that is out of this world,” Marseille continued. “My mom has tried to make it I don’t know how many times. It’s horrible.”

“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” David said.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Marseille said. “She’s a great mom. The best. And she’s brilliant. My dream is to become a smidgen as smart and successful as she is. But cooking is not exactly one of her gifts. Let’s just say, we eat out a lot.”

“Really?” David said, restraining a smile. Like mother, like daughter. “So what else do your parents say about my parents?”

Marseille shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they went through quite an ordeal together,” David said. “They must have told you some interesting stories—maybe some I can use to, you know, blackmail my folks next time I want something good.”

David expected her to laugh. Instead, Marseille suddenly grew quiet. Her smile faded. “I wouldn’t know.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

David was confused.

“What just happened? Did I miss something here?”

“Really, it’s nothing.”

“Marseille, I can see I’ve offended you. I just don’t know how.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, and then she said, “It’s just that . . . my parents don’t talk about their time in Iran . . . ever.”

“Why not?” David asked as they came over a ridge and spotted the old cabin.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you must have a guess.”

“Maybe it was just too painful.”

“I don’t understand. What was so painful? They were only there for a few months, and they were heroes.”

“That’s not how they see it.”

“Why not?”

“You’d have to ask them, David. I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” David said.

“You’re calling me a liar?”

“No, I’m just . . .” David didn’t finish the sentence. There wasn’t any point.

They were silent until they got to the cabin and flopped on their chairs, side by side.

“Do you know the story?” Marseille finally asked.

“What story?”

“You know, how our parents escaped.”

“From Iran?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course—don’t you?” David asked.

Marseille shook her head, then turned and looked him in the eyes. “I’ve stopped asking,” she explained. “I asked them for years, but they always changed the subject.” There was another long pause, and then she said, “It’s not fair. It’s a part of my life, too, not just theirs. It’s part of who we are as a family. Don’t I have a right to know?”

David was moved by her desire to figure out a piece of the puzzle of her family’s past. At the same time, he felt deeply uncomfortable. He couldn’t imagine why the Harpers weren’t proud of what they had done. Their story was amazing. It was certainly worth sharing with their only child. But if—for whatever reason—they didn’t want to tell her what had happened, was it really his place to do so?

He looked into her eyes and saw pain he hadn’t seen before. “That’s really between you and your parents.”

She took his hand, pulling him toward her, to the edge of his chair. “I can’t talk to them,” she said. “Not about this. Not about Iran.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t.” Then she whispered, “Please, David, tell me the story.”

He said nothing but felt strangely electrified to be so close to her.

“Please,” she whispered. “It would really mean the world to me.”

David swallowed hard. He didn’t trust himself alone with her just then. A storm of emotions was erupting inside him. He needed space—a walk, a swim, some kind of change of pace and setting.

“I can’t, Marseille,” he said. “I wish I could. But it’s not my place.”

There was a long, painful silence.

“Fine,” she said, letting go of him and looking away. “Never mind.”

“Marseille, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be hurtful to you; it’s just—”

“Forget it. It’s no big deal.”

He reached for her hand again, but she drew it away. He was hoping desperately that the chemistry in the room would change back. But it did not.