The House of Saint Etienne

Don’t mind me, I’ll just stand here. Well, to be fair, “stand” may be a strong word. I guess “stay” would be more appropriate. It’s not as if I can move, right? But anyhow, this story isn’t about me. It kind of is…maybe, but it’s really about those who inhabited me.

I guess it started around fifteen, no, twenty-five years ago. This cute old couple bought me from my previous owners and came to live within my walls. They were in love. They had been for a long time. He was quiet; she moved a lot.

He stored his wine in my cellar and cut wood in the garage. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he had been through a lot. He cared for me a lot. Every summer, he would mount the wooden stairs he kept in the garage and remove the plants that had grown over my roof. He tended to the garden where the most beautiful flowers grew to adorn me. I was the most beautiful house in the village – by far. I could tell how loved I was.

She was more nervous, moved around a lot. She’d been a cook before coming, and always made the most incredible dishes in the kitchen. I hope I helped her with that, but I could tell she was happy, as she showcased all of her old pans on the ceiling. She always had a snack for people coming in to see her, always a hug, always something nice.

I could tell they had gone through a lot. Yet, they never let their pain diminish the love they had for each other, and the care they put into me. I would come to know their story much later, when their daughter came with her own son.

He was born in 1916. His mother left him on the farms, and he started working at 9. During the war, he was captured and sent to the camps. When they asked for volunteers to work in the fields, he was the only one who raised his hand and narrowly escaped the showers. When he came back to France, he had lost everything.

And then he had met her.

She’d been abandoned and raised by nuns – maybe abused is a more fitting word. They would hit her regularly, and killed her best friend with a frozen shower during winter. She saw her die in her arms when she was twelve.

When she left at eighteen, she never looked back. She got pregnant, and her husband left her before their daughter was born. She kept working for years, going through poverty and facing hate and discrimination. But she never gave up.

And then she met him.

Her daughter was eight, and he didn’t care. He raised her like his own, taught her how to defend herself, and brought her with him to work. They opened a restaurant, had several dogs, and built their happiness. She would cook, eventually became an excellent chef, and he’d tend to the clients.

They went through ups and downs, but never as bad as before, as they had each other. Eventually, they chose me to live out their olden days and filled me with love. Their daughter would come and visit with her own son. Every year, he grew more and more. He’d explore my caves and run through the house, smell the flowers in the garden, and laugh. He would laugh so much.

He became more serious as he grew up. A scientist, someone respectable. But he kept somehow that spark that his grandfather kept mentioning when he said, “Don’t worry about the kid, he’ll accomplish great things.” The seasons would pass. Winters got colder, summers warmer, but I always tried to keep them safe from harm. They had gone through enough.

One day, the grandson came, as the husband was ill. He stayed a week and helped her out with chores. When he left and said goodbye, there was a moment when they looked at each other. They both knew it would be for the last time. I did too, but I couldn’t help.

He died at 96 and left her behind. Fifty-five years they had been together. And now she was alone again. Her Parkinson’s got worse, and she started trembling more and more. Her daughter and grandson would come and visit, but it was not the same.

I tried to be there for her, keeping her warm in winter and cool in summer, but eventually she fell on my stairs or slipped on my floor, and I could just watch as firefighters had to come in and help her up. Friends and family would come and visit. But every time the visits were farther apart. She stopped talking and just went about her day. The one thing that made her happy was when spring came around and the flowers in the garden bloomed. Around that time, I’d do my best to help the plants grow strong. Not much I could do, but I put into the soil the same love and care they had both put into me.

I think even though she had back pain and trembled more and more, she liked to garden because she somehow felt closer to him, even when he wasn’t there. She started talking to him, as if he were still accompanying her. Eventually, she started seeing him.

That is when the hallucinations started. From that moment on, she’d imagine noises, see shadows in the house. I did my best to shelter her from danger, but there was not much I could do about the pain that came from within.

One day, the daughter came and helped her move to a medicalized home. To my chagrin, I was no longer a safe place for her. She had hurt herself too many times just being within my walls, and so, I watched as she left the porch for the last time. That spring, the garden remained barren. The plants on the roof grew, as he was no longer there to tend to them.

The daughter came back again, and I would be sold. I don’t know who the next owners will be, but I hope they will come to love me and care for me as much as the nice old couple that came to stay within my walls.

They had both been through hell and back. I hope I’ve managed to give them some modicum of peace while they were within me. I know I have felt loved and cared for. I don’t know who my next owners will be, but I know I will miss this old couple, the combative and loving daughter, and the laughing and serious grandson. All of them, you’ve made my walls just a little more special.

Don’t mind me. I’m just a house; people come and go, but I remain. But some of those who stay within me leave a trace that goes beyond repairs or work, but that imprints on how it feels to live in my rooms. If you ever go to Saint-Etienne, look out for a cave-house with a large cactus on the roof, and perhaps you’ll still find a trace of the love that this old couple had for me, and each other.