Destiny

SEVENTY-EIGHT

At 5:00 a.m., Marcus placed a call to the Mayflower Assisted Living center in Virginia, apologizing for calling so late. The night nurse on duty was empathic and said, “Your grandmother had a severe stroke. We did all we could before transporting her to Georgetown University Hospital for further treatment.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“I’m not a doctor, but her age, it doesn’t look good. I’m so sorry. She is one of the most delightful residents we have, a real pleasure.” Marcus thanked the woman, disconnected, and called the hospital. He was told his grandmother was resting but unresponsive. He was asked if she had a living will. “No,” Marcus answered. “At least she never spoke of one.”

“Do you have power-of-attorney over her affairs?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Marcus, I hope I don’t sound callous when I suggest that we need to have you make arrangements in the event of your grandmother’s death. If you choose to remove her from life support, please transmit a signed authorization form to us. You can download one from our website. I’m sorry you’re faced with this. Please let us know your decision as soon as possible.”

Marcus held the phone in his hand for a moment, not sure what to do. He glanced over at Alicia and used a hand signal to indicate they were leaving the room. They turned up the television volume and quietly left.

Ten minutes later, they were exiting the hotel building from a side entrance. Marcus flagged down a taxi, and the two of them climbed into the back seat. “Bonjour, parlez-vous anglais?” Marcus asked.

The taxi driver looked in his rearview mirror at them. His eyes were puffy, a long, thin face, mid-fifties. “Of course, I drive a taxi. Where can I take you?”

“Chartres. Do you go there?”

“Yes, but not often. It is about a one hour drive.” He pulled away from the curb.

Marcus glanced out the back window. A car was following in the distance. “At the second traffic light take a right.”

“No problem, however, that is not the way to Chartres.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The driver signaled and turned right entering the intersection. After a block, Marcus looked out the window again. The car made the turn. “I’ll add a two hundred dollar tip if you can lose that car behind us.”

The driver glanced in his rearview mirror. “There are two men in the car.”

“Can you lose them?”

“It is no problem. I was one of the drivers with Team Porsche at Le Mans in 1977. But that was another time. Before two divorces, a broken leg…Mais c’était il ya une éternité — a life time ago, yes. Hold on.” He floored the accelerator, raced down Rue Poliveau, made a sharp left turn and sped down an alley. He cut to the right and went up a second alley, knocking over a garbage can and accelerating. Alicia squeezed Marcus’s arm. After a block, the driver pulled onto Rue de Tolbiac. He sped into the commuter traffic, pulling in and out of the cars and trucks, heading south on A10. “We have lost the car you didn’t care to have following us.”

Marcus looked out the back window. The car was nowhere to be seen. “Did you win at Le Mans?”

“I was in the lead at the twenty-fourth hour, and then I crashed at sunrise. A morning like today.”

Marcus glanced out the window. The pink of dawn shimmered over the Seine River. He inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly. Alicia watched the traffic, her face secluded in thought. The driver looked at Alicia in the rearview mirror, and then lowered his eyes to the road. “Many go to Chartres looking for something. Are you two pilgrims?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” Marcus said, his eyes burning.

The driver nodded. “Some people believe the old cathedral is the most holy in the world. My mother took my brother and me there when we were teenagers. She said the cathedral is Mary’s womb on earth. Our time in the womb is the safest. Then we are born. I don’t know why that car was following you, but I hope you will find safety in the womb of Chartres.”

In less than an hour, the taxi driver turned off the main road and drove the back roads toward the town of Chartres. The taxi wound through a small hamlet, the rural road leading across the wheat fields. Marcus looked out the window. Ahead, in the distance, Chartres Cathedral, with its massive spires, seemed to float above the wheat fields like an optical illusion. He touched Alicia and pointed. Her eyes bright, focused.

“Paul, it looks surreal from here — almost like the Emerald City in the land of Oz. I can see a huge church and nothing else around in any direction. I don’t know why, but I feel an unusual connection with it…like it’s somehow calling me.”