Face in the Crowd

He could hear it now – the growing roar of the crowd gathered.

From his seat on the bus, Patrice tried his best to estimate how many were waiting. Hundreds…maybe over a thousand. He had been told to expect many but this – this was beyond what he could imagine. A smile curled his lips and he felt a swell of pride.

With his parents and brother behind him, Patrice emerged into the waiting crowd. He held the Cup high and the noise grew steadily as he moved toward the platform. He felt hands reaching out to touch him, the Cup. There were shouts of victory, of pride hurled in his direction. By the time he reached the front of the crowd he wondered if he had gone a little deaf.

Still, nothing could wipe the smile off his face.

He set the Cup down on the table and looked out at the sea of black and gold. It took him a moment but he soon became aware that the cries had become a unified chant – “BERGERON!” Feeling a little greedy, he allowed himself to soak it all in. This was different than the parade in Boston. While he had been proud to hold the Cup there, it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now.

He was bringing the Cup home to his city.

One of the organizers had the microphone now, extolling the virtues of both the Boston Bruins and him. Not one to revel in praise, he paid more attention to those that had come to see him. Old, young, children, men, women – people from all walks of life. Some sported his number, others wore the shirts, of his teammates and some had come as they were.
While he waited, he thought of what he would say. He had been thinking of it since it was first announced he would bring the cup here. He wanted to keep it simple – to express his gratitude to his hometown for helping mold him into the player he was now, and for always supporting him even through his injuries.

Finally Patrice was given the microphone. He said the first thing that came to mind, “Merci.” It had been meant for the man to his left but in reality, he supposed it was a fitting way to begin. As he recounted what it was like to grow up here, he was bombarded with memories of his childhood, of falling in love with the sport of hockey, of the people who had influenced the man he now was along the way. The crowd listened, each smiling face confirming the support he felt.

He was almost finished when his voice faltered.

For there she was, standing front and center next to a teen in his jersey. Unlike the others, she wasn’t smiling. In fact, she looked scared.

It was as if she had been transposed from his memory.

Patrice blinked, willing her to go away. But when he opened his eyes and they made contact with icy blue ones, he knew he was not imagining anything.

She was really here.

Why?

He wanted to drop the microphone, jump off the platform and demand an answer. He wanted to pull her from the crowd and find out what on earth possessed her. But he was trapped. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked back to see the organizer’s concerned face. He had been silent too long. Muttering an apology, Patrice raised the microphone, intending to finish his speech. His eyes immediately returned to that spot.

She was gone.



Geneviève finished putting away the dried dishes.

She turned to survey the spotless kitchen. It had taken her nearly an hour to make it so. Now she was at a loss as to what to do next. She had already tidied the living room, scrubbed the bathroom and taken out the trash. The entire time her grand-mere had insisted that she didn’t have to do any of this –she was a guest and she should be relaxing.

She didn’t need that - she needed to keep busy. Anything to distract herself from reliving what had happened just hours before.

Geneviève should have known better. Correction, Geneviève had known better. Even has she driven into the heart of the city, her mind was screaming at her to turn around and go back to the safety of her grand-mere’s house. But much like a moth to a flame, she had continued until she was standing amongst the crowd.

At first, she had meant to stay near the back. She would listen to what he had to say and then leave, nothing more. But when she had heard the crowd scream at his arrival, she immediately began pushing towards the front. With her tiny frame she was easily able to slip in and around many. She ignored those who protested her intrusion – after all she had one goal in mind.

If she just saw him up close, then she would be satisfied.

When he set the Cup down and turned to the crowd, her breath caught in her throat. He looked almost as she remembered – perhaps a little older, a little wiser. But still, he looked like her Patrice. And he sounded like him too – soft spoken and full of love and gratitude for his birthplace.

She was tempting fate and she knew it. She knew she should turn back into the crowd before he spotted her. As she considered the idea, she saw him scanning the crowd. Now Geneviève now, she urged herself.

But he was speaking of his teenage years and how much he had loved growing up in Quebec. She couldn’t leave – not when he was speaking of something that had connections to her. So foolishly, she had stayed.

And had gotten caught.

Geneviève could pinpoint the exact moment when he recognized her. His entire body went rigid and he had stopped mid-sentence. Her face grew hot, her breathing shallow and she longed for an easy way out, going so far as to plead silently for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She wished she could look away but it was as if he had pinned her to spot. When their eyes met, she could see the confusion, the hurt, the anger.

God, she needed to get out of there.

She got her opportunity a moment later when he was forced to look away. She moved quickly towards the back, noting this time that the crowd parted to let her through and immediately surged forward to take her place.

Geneviève fled to her car and make quick time returning to her grand-mere’s house outside of the city. The elderly woman was engrossed in a book when she had all but slammed the door off its hinges and bolted it for good measure. A silly move - but given the overwhelming myriad of emotions coursing through her perhaps a necessary one.

With her age came great wisdom and it seemed the Manon Lambert knew better than to question her granddaughter’s sudden frantic appearance. Geneviève suspected that her grand-mere knew just what she had been up to and she thanked the heavens above that Manon let it be.

Just as she had let it be when Geneviève returned from her bedroom dressed in grey sweatpants and purple t-shirt and had announced her intentions to clean. Although Manon kept insisting that she was a guest, she did not push any further.

Now, with everything scrubbed clean and her emotions still churning, Geneviève was at a loss as to what to do next. Her grand-mere had retired to her bedroom an hour earlier, no doubt to read a little and then to sleep. Geneviève knew from past experience that there would be nothing on television she would wish to see. Still, perhaps the background noise would calm her down enough to allow her to sleep.

She settled on an episode of a cop drama, translated into French. She was barely following the storyline, instead choosing to pick at the blanket she had covered herself in. Her mind kept replaying the day’s events, as if it were stuck on an infinite loop.

At first she didn’t hear the knock. It was soft and she was so distracted she attributed it to the television. It came again, louder and more insistent this time. She sat up immediately, the blanket falling away. A knot formed quickly in her stomach and she tried to tell herself that she was being paranoid. What she was thinking was not possible.

But still, she was wary as she moved toward the door.

Geneviève turned the lock and pulled back the solid wood. Her heart fell as she realized her fears were warranted.

He was there.

For a moment, they stared one another down.

It seemed that neither wanted to be the first one to speak. Geneviève leaned heavily against the door and watched as Patrice stuck his hands in his pockets. His mouth was a tight line and she knew he was considering what he wanted to say to her.

“I thought I would find you here,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

“And if you hadn’t?” She found herself asking.

“Then I would have given my regards to Manon and left,” he answered.

Geneviève found herself wishing she had retreated further. Knowing him as she did, she could have predicted this would be his course of action. She glanced over her shoulder to the stairs. The second level was dark, an indication that her grand-mere had given up reading for sleep. She had no desire for Manon to wake to find him here. There would be too many questions. She would have to find a way to make this quick as possible. “I am sorry if I ruined your homecoming.”

“You are giving yourself a lot of power, don’t you think?” Patrice shot back. “It’s been eight years.”

He was right. It had been years since they had last talked face to face. So much had happened between then and now and she was left wondering. “Why are you here?”

“That is a stupid question, Evie.”

The use of the nickname he had bestowed on her when she was fifteen was like a kick to the stomach. She did her best to remain calm, not wanting to dissolve right there in front of him. “I shouldn’t have come to day.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Patrice agreed. “Not if you were going continue to be a coward and not face me.”

“That was not the place,” Geneviève countered. She could only imagine what would have happened if she had stayed, shuffled into the line and approached him on stage.

“This is,” he declared. “And I am not leaving.”

Once again she glanced over her shoulder. “We can’t do this here. I will not wake Grand-mere and have her wander into this.” She hoped the respect that she knew he still had for Manon would make him realize that this was not a conversation to be had in the mudroom of a house that wasn’t even hers.

Patrice retreated down a step. “Then we will go somewhere.” When she didn’t budge, he pursed his lips together and she couldn’t quite read the emotion that played across his face – anger perhaps? Frustration maybe? “You owe me this much, Evie.”

Geneviève could not argue with him on that. She slipped into her shoes and grabbed the spare key off the ring. Wondering if she was about to make yet another mistake she stepped out into the crisp evening air and shut the door behind her. Patrice was already down the steps heading toward his car. She hesitated for a moment, thinking that perhaps it would be a better idea of they just took a walk. But like her grand-mere, the thought of disturbing the neighbours on the tight knit street had her following him.

She remembered when he used to open the door for her, insist that she put on her seatbelt, and suggest that she pick the radio station. He did none of those things now. Then again, he used to drive a lemon that she often thought would come apart around them. The sleek luxury car he now possessed was a far cry from what she remembered. She sat stiffly in the leather seat as he backed it out of her grand-mere’s driveway and headed into town.

It was hard not to compare this drive to the countless others they had taken through the streets of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré. She rested her head against the window and watched the sights flash by. So many of these places she could connect with a memory of him, of them. When she was young, she used to love coming to visit her grand-mere for the summer and now it was hard not to find the visits painful.

It was there that she met him, out of the city for the day with his family and eager to help the young girl whose French was still coming along. It was also there that she left him, although he didn’t know it at the time.

In between they had shared two years. The summers were spent in Quebec, as all her summers were at the request of her mother who wished her to learn about the French culture – only now she was dividing her time between the watchful eyes of Manon and Patrice’s kind and welcoming parents. The rest of their time together had been spent on the phone, in various arenas across the Eastern portion of the country and occasionally in her parents’ home in New Brunswick. She had been excited when he began to play for Acadie-Bathurst Titan. She had been able to convince her father, a self-proclaimed hockey fan, to take in as many home games as possible.

As the car turned off the main street and away from the more populated area, Geneviève remembered how eager she was to follow him anywhere. Even if it meant cramming herself into his car with a few of his teammates, risking hypothermia in some of the more beaten down venues and sleeping in motels she was sure were invested with all manner of vermin. How quickly she had let that change for her.

Patrice had remained silent the whole time, seemingly concentrating on the road. There was little traffic out – this was a town that believed in rolling up its sidewalks the moment the sun set. He made one more turn and he switched the car off.

She recognized the place immediately.

Her breath caught in her throat and she twisted in her seat. “Why would you bring me here?”



In all honesty, Patrice was wondering why himself.

He had a game plan when he left the Quebec City. He would find her at her grand-mere’s house, say his piece and be gone. A few minutes at best but well worth it to finally put that demon to rest. However, the game plan disappeared immediately when she opened the door, looking shocked yet resigned to his appearance at the same time.

He no longer wanted to tell her off. He wanted answers.

He had meant what he had said – he would have stayed until she agreed. He would have slept in his damn car. He knew that none of this was rational. Already underway at his house was a party in his honor. Friends, family and the Cup. And instead he was driving through the streets of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré being assaulted left and right with memories.

He was amazed to see that like the town, she had changed little in appearance. Perhaps there was a hardness in her eyes but he suspected that came with age – or with her ability to grind a man’s heart into complete dust. She had pressed herself so far into the door and fallen silent the moment he started up the car. Which was fine with him. She had no desire to hash things out on the front steps of Manon’s home and he had no desire to hash things out in the confines of his car.

When he made the final turn, he now understood where he had been subconsciously going all along. But now faced with her question, he could only come to one conclusion. “We may as well pick up the conversation right where it left off.”

She reacted as if he had physically struck her. He tore his gaze away, feeling a small measure of guilt but at the same time anger. She had no right to act so offended. His memory of that day was clear – and he was the wounded party not her.

He got out of the car and leaned against the hood. From their elevated position, he was given a view of the town and the grand Basilica. It was a beautiful sight and no doubt the reason he had brought her there when they were younger. The teenage version of him probably thought it was the easiest way to have her in his arms.

The teenage version hadn’t been wrong.

Geneviève was still sitting in the passenger seat, looking pale as a ghost. Like him she was no doubt relieving the stolen moments shared there. Perhaps it was mistake to come.

His patience soon wore thin and he found himself moving to open the passenger door. “Evie,” he said quietly. She wouldn’t even look at him now. “Please.” It came out as more of plea then he had intended. But it garnered a response. She unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the vehicle. Her arms crossed her slender body in a stance he immediately recognized as defensive. Perhaps he had gotten it wrong – she wasn’t playing the victim. She knew she had done wrong – and the guilt was what was causing her to act as she did.

His hypothesis was confirmed when she rubbed her arms once. Her face broke and the words poured from her mouth as if she could not stop herself.

“You have to know how sorry I am Patrice.”

It had not been the first words he expected to hear.

In fact, he was surprised to hear them at all.

Patrice leaned against the hood of car again and looked over on the town. Geneviève was standing at his side, looking at him with wide eyes. She was waiting for him to say something. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. “Are you sure?”

“What?” She exclaimed, her surprise evident.

“Are you sure?” He repeated.

Her eyes immediately tore from his, and found the ground instead. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“You do,” he confirmed.

When she looked up, he saw unshed tears. He knew he had to steel himself now. Even after all that had happened, the sight of her so unhappy tugged at him in a familiar way. Eight years ago he would have immediately pulled her to him, ran a hand down her back and told her that he would do whatever he could to make it all right. His hands clenched at his sides in an effort not to act on that instinct.

“Still,” she said slowly and he knew she was trying to compose herself. “I mean it. I am sorry. I know it’s too late. But that doesn’t change the fact that I mean it.”

“And I am supposed to trust anything that comes out of your mouth?” He asked.

“No, I know you don’t. I don’t blame you one bit. If the situations were reversed…”

“They never would be. I would have never done that to you – I would have never disappeared without so much as an explanation,” Patrice shot back, the anger that had been building since he had first laid eyes on her simmering to the surface. When she flinched again, the guilt returned. He chided himself for allowing it to override what was a legitimate reaction to the whole situation.

Geneviève nodded. “I know that now.”

“But you didn’t then?” He asked, screwing his face up in a look of disbelief.

“No, I didn’t,” she said and he could tell she spoke with conviction. She truly meant what she was saying. He was left to wonder what had happened that had shaken her trust in him. “God, I was such a stupid kid.” It was an offside comment, perhaps directed more at herself then him. “I screwed everything up without a second thought. If I had understood the way I do now I would have never hurt you the way I did.” The tears were on her cheeks now.

“But you did,” Patrice ran hand over his face. “…hurt me. You broke my heart.”

The words seem to crumble her and she leaned heavily against the car. “I know.”

The question that had been on the tip of his tongue for years waiting for the day when he would be face to face with her again easily spilled out now.

“Why?”



Logically she knew he would ask.

Geneviève had had years to formulate her answer. Now what she had so carefully prepared seemed selfish – focusing more so on her own feelings and not taking into consideration how fully she had hurt him. Although he had seemingly been casual when he had thrown out the words, she could see the pain written out all over his face.

Now she felt stuck, unsure of what to tell him.

“You don’t have answer for me?” He asked, and she detected a hint of bitterness.

“I do,” Geneviève corrected. She took a deep breath. “I left because I thought I was going to lose you.” She watched him carefully in the dim light, seeing how the confusion was quickly replaced by anger.

“Why the hell would you think that?” Patrice demanded.

“Because that’s what happens right? Or at least that was what I was told. You were going to the draft – and I knew that you would soon be some place that I couldn’t easily get to. I thought you probably wouldn’t even want me to come anyway. You would move on to bigger and better things…”

“Meaning someone else?”

“Yes,” she admitted, surprised at how much pain she felt. Shouldn’t the years have lessened it? She rubbed her bare arms, realizing that they were now cool to the touch. “You’d be surprised what kind of gossip runs through those tiny arenas. It was hard not hear people talk about how you were going somewhere – how everything would soon be a distant memory for you.”

“So you broke my heart before I could break yours?”

It sounded so cruel but he had effectively summed up what she had done. Geneviève nodded, her guilt overwhelming. “I told you I was a stupid kid.”

“Yes, you were,” he said evenly. “I may regret this but I am going to ask anyway – that night when we came here…” He trailed off and she didn’t need him to spell it out. She remembered every detail – how he had held her, told her how beautiful she was, how much he cared for her. “Did you know then that you were going to leave the next morning without so much as saying good bye? Did you know then that you were going to refuse my calls?”

“Yes.” The word choked out with a fresh sob and Geneviève reached up to brush the tears away. She didn’t know why she bothered for others soon took their place. “I was greedy – wanting one more night with you before I went into self-preservation. I knew that if I spoke to you after that then I would crumble. I thought if I ended things on my terms then it would hurt less in the long run.”

“And did it?”

“No,” she answered truthfully. “It hurt so much more – especially when I realized that I had made the biggest mistake of my life.”

“When did you realize?”

“I watched you,” she admitted. “In your first years in Boston. I watched for that change I expected. Something to show me that you had become that bigshot they said you would become. But I never saw anything. And the more I watched the more I realized that you were still the same man I fell in love with – caring, giving, a work ethic so many envied.”

“You should have told me then,” Patrice said, his voice quiet. “Eight years is a long time to wonder.”

“I know, I know. I almost did so many times. But I couldn’t face the fact that you hated me,” Geneviève confessed. She sat on the hood of his luxury car now, pulling her knees up so she could hug them. If he minded, he didn’t say anything. Instead he stood there, staring out at Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré. The silence stretched and became unbearable. “Patrice?”

“I don’t hate you.”

She lifted her head off her knees. “What?”

“I don’t hate you,” he said louder this time. He made a face as if he disliked the sound of his own voice. “I should hate you for what you have done and the pain you have caused me. I thought I did. Even today when I first saw you, I thought I hated you. But I don’t.”

Now it was her turn to ask.

“Why?”



Patrice almost wished he had kept that to himself. It was a startling revelation – realizing that he did not hate the woman who had caused him so much pain. Having just been hit with it, he wasn’t even sure he understood the reasoning behind it. How could he explain it to her?
He turned so that he was facing her now. She was practically curled up in a ball, her face wet with tears. She was shivering and he had no idea if it was from the cold or the roller coaster of emotions overwhelming her at the moment. Either way, it didn’t matter. He gave in, just a little, slipping his coat off his shoulders and placing it around her. She gave him a questioning look but pulled it tight around her frame.

She was still waiting for that answer.

“Maybe there is some part of me that understands how impressionable a seventeen year old girl would have been to suggestions like you heard,” he suggested. “Maybe we shared too much for hatred to even be a possibility.” He suspected that was closer to the truth.

Silence came now – enveloping them both. He was unsure of what to say, where to go from here. They had picked old wounds, perhaps even created new ones. He couldn’t leave things unfinished now. He couldn’t risk the chance that it would be another eight years before they finally found a way to let go of the mess she had created.

Geneviève shifted, a soft cry falling from her lips. He hadn’t realized she had been hit with a fresh wave of tears. He felt his own measure of sadness for what they had lost. “I should have tracked you down. Made you confess everything. I should have talked some sense into you.”

“I wish you had,” she told him. “But I understand why you didn’t.”

“Things could have been different,” he said and this time he couldn’t stop himself when he reached out, his hand landing on her cheek. She closed her eyes and moved into his touch. Surprisingly it didn’t burn him like he thought it would.

It was a dangerous place he was circling.

Patrice knew better. He knew that in this moment he was vulnerable. He knew right now he had the potential to make things worse.

Or make things better.

He took a deep breath and hoped he was doing the right thing in stepping forward. His arms easily fit around her, and she moved toward him, her head coming to rest against his chest. She was surprisingly cold and he knew he needed to take her back to her grand-mere’s soon. He knew his phone would be full of missed calls and messages as to his whereabouts.
He would deal with all that in a moment. For now he was content to let the remainder of the anger dissipate as he rested his chin on the top of her head. His eyes closed.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, wrapped up in her. He reasoned he might have stayed like that all night if Geneviève hadn’t spoke up. Her voice was muffled by her positioned pressed into his chest but her words were clear. “Where do we go from here?”

A fair question and one that he had subconsciously been asking himself. In the end, he did the only thing he knew how to – he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”