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When I was a little girl, my parents took in a foster kid.
They didn't love her.
She would clean the house and serve the guests. My mother would beat her.
One day it stopped. The girl was still there, but my parents ignored her. She did no work
She did not speak
I tried to ask about her, but my parents would tell me that she had gone away.
The little girl became my imaginary friend.
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The news of her mother's death does not come as a shock to Eponine. Mrs. Thernadier had never been the same after the death of her husband.
No, Eponine was t shocked. Nor was she particularly sad.
Eponine hadn't spoken to her mother much. In fact, when the lawyer contacted her, it was the first she had heard from her mother since Azelma's funeral.
The only reason she was contacted at all was because, as the only surviving child, Eponine was inheriting the house and bar.
"I booked the flight, Ponine," Grantaire says, as he moves their luggage to the door.
Eponine barely nods. She is numb.
Grantaire takes her hand, a simple reminder that she still has a family.
Her friends have been trying hard to make sure she knows that. Joly has sent over cookies. Feuilly sent soup and a cabbage roll.
Eponine still felt alone.
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When she ran away, Eponine had sworn that she wouldn't come back to this place, but here she was.
The house looked mostly the same, though a little older, and falling apart.
Mrs. Thernadier had not had the money to fix it up in later years. Besides, she had likely been to drunk to notice most of the time.
Gavroche and Azelma's rooms were bare.
Gavroche had taken his things when he'd left.
Azelma's room had been emptied after her death.
Eponine's room was a monument to the girl she'd been when she left. She had taken almost nothing with her when she ran away in the middle of the night.
Eponine had to pick the lock to get in.
The room was untouched. Her nightgown still lay on the floor.
But something seemed wrong.
It hit her as she ran her fingers across the titles on her bookshelf. There was no dust. The room was airy. A room that had been locked up for nine years should be musty.
She frowned, but continued walking through the house.
The pictures were all gone. The frames were all broken as if her mother had smashed the glass to remove the pictures.
The only one left was a small photo on the mantle. The picture showed a young Mrs. Thernadier, laughing, as she held baby Eponine in front of the newly opened bar.
Eponine turns the frame over and opened the door to the stairs.
"I'll do this part alone," she told Grantaire, who had been following her silently.
"All right. I'll go get lunch."
She walked down and opened the door to the bar.
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When she was younger, Eponine had lived the bar. She didn't really know what a bar was, but during the day it was a play room for her and her siblings.
She had loved the quaint light fixtures and the little bar stools and the big mirrors.
She had even lived the pretty bottles behind the counter.
As she grew up, it became an awful place. The men there would say nasty things when she brought them her drinks and the whole place smelled.
There was no smell when she walked into the bar. Her mother had closed up the place a while back. The room had fallen into disrepair. The tables were broken. The quaint little light fixtures had been shattered.
There was a woman standing at the bar.
"Who are you?" She asks. She means to sound angry, but her voice is flat. "What are you doing here?"
The woman jerks back, as if she's been burned. "You can see me?" She asks.
Of course Eponine can see her. In fact, she can't stop staring. The woman is beautiful. Perfect.
She nods her head.
The woman's eyed go wide. They are beautiful eyes. Deep and dark. "Eponine?"
And then Eponine knows. She goes pale.
"What are you?" She's caught between fear and awe, both emotions drilling through her numbness to settle in her stomach.
'I'm wrong,' she tells herself. 'I have to be wrong.'
It's been 9 years. But there's no mistaking her
It's been 9 years, and Eponine thought she had gotten past this.
"Cosette," she says finally.
"Eponine."
"But you aren't real."
"I am real." Cosette says, leaning against the bar.
"You're not. My father killed you. He went to prison for it."
"I'm real. Just not alive."
"I imagined you," Eponine says, unable to move, unable to think. "My imaginary friend. Brought you to life in my head as a defense mechanism. My therapist said-"
"Your therapist was wrong," Cosette says, gently, moving around the bar, holding out her arms. "I'm here, Eponine. I'm real and I'm here. I waited for you."
Eponine's hands are trembling and her eyes burn.
"If you're here, she asks, her voice rough. "If you're here and you're real and not imaginary, the why didn't you come with me?"
Eponine is suddenly angry. She feels betrayed.
"You're the one who talked me into running away!" Her voice has gone up. She's yelling. Tears stream down her face. "I was ALONE! I was SCARED! I WAS FUCKING FOURTEEN!"
Cosette tries to take her hand, but Eponine pulls away. "I wanted to go with you!" She says urgently. "But I'm tied down here. I can't leave!"
"THEN WHY DID YOU SEND ME AWAY? YOU SAID-" her voice cuts off with a sob. When she continues its in a quiet, defeated tone. "You said you loved me."
This time, Eponine doesn't pull away. Cosette embraces her, holding her tightly, holding her together.
"I do love you," she whispers into Eponine's hair. "I do love you."
Eponine sobs again. She is trembling and she's getting Cosette's cardigan dirty.
"I love you too," she whispers into Cosette's shoulder. "I love you too. You can't send me away anymore. I'm staying here"
Cosette leans down and kisses her hair. "I'm so glad."