Sunflowers

by Sheramy Bundrick

  Françoise stirred when I said Vincent’s name. “Rachel, thank God!” She hurried to me and felt my forehead. “Your fever’s broken. Merci à Dieu! Are you thirsty, do you want some water?”

  “Where’s Vincent?” I asked. My tongue was tangled wool, my head a mess of cobwebs. “I had a terrible dream, Françoise, the strangest dream…”

  She brushed the hair from my eyes. “It was no dream, little one.”

  What does she mean?

  Monsieur Roulin led Vincent away after the fight, but he returned. Françoise came to my room to find me. We went down the stairs. His haunted eyes, then…

  My hand. The blood. The red, red blood…

  Dizziness flooded me as I gripped her arm and tried to sit up. “Gauguin did it! The police must arrest him before he leaves town!”

  Françoise urged me back onto the pillow, but I’d have none of that. Didn’t she hear what I said? The police, I kept telling her, you have to get the police. Gauguin cut him. Gauguin hurt him. My fault, all my fault, if I’d only gone with him…

  “Lie down, dear,” she begged, “please lie down and listen.” She took my hand, and her voice was patient and gentle—more patient and gentle than I’d ever heard her sound. I listened to her words but could not understand them. They made no sense. Gauguin didn’t do it, she said. He was in a hotel the whole time, he couldn’t have. The police made sure of that during their investigation. No, it was not Gauguin.

  Vincent had done it to himself.

  I sat up again, the dizziness flooded me again. “That’s a lie! A filthy lie! Where is he?”

  “In the hospital—Rachel, please, you must calm down—”

  “Take me to him! Take me now!”

  She held my shoulders to keep me from climbing out of bed. He needs me, I shouted, he needs me, and I struggled against nausea and fatigue while I struggled against her. “Rachel, stop,” Françoise ordered. “I’ll call for Raoul if you don’t stop. What good will it do if you make yourself more sick than you already are?”

  I couldn’t fight anymore. I let Françoise ease me onto the pillow, and when she brought a glass of water, I let her hold the glass to my lips. “There’s a good girl,” she murmured. “You must not worry. The doctors are looking after Vincent at the Hôtel-Dieu. He’s safe there.”

  “Is he going to die?” I whispered.

  She set the glass aside and avoided my eyes. “He’s very ill. He lost a lot of blood.”

  “When can I see him?”

  “Not yet, Dr. Dupin said you must rest quiet.” She smoothed the blanket, still not looking at me. “Anyway, it’s Christmas Day, they won’t let you in.”

  “Christmas Day?” I exclaimed. “Why did I sleep so long?”

  “Dr. Dupin gave you some medicine.”

  There’s something else. Something she is not telling me. Something I do not remember. Something I do not want to remember.

  “I fainted…”

  Françoise brushed the hair from my forehead again, fingers warm against my damp skin. “Yes, dear, you fainted. You had a miscarriage.”

  Flashes of memory, flashes of pain rushed back to me, pain in the night. I’d awakened from the faint with blood staining my nightdress, dripping down my legs. Someone ran for the doctor, Raoul carried me upstairs as I cried out in terror—Vincent’s blood, fresh on my fingers, mingling with my own. I couldn’t stop screaming as I felt the life inside me slip away, as I learned for the first time the life was there. Our baby, our baby, I screamed, and I thrashed on the bed as Françoise and Madame Virginie held me down, and Dr. Dupin gave me an injection. Everything was red, the whole room was red.

  I remembered everything.

  I began to shake, expecting to see the sheets and blanket covered in blood, my hands covered in blood. “No…no…Vincent!” I cried as the room spun about me, as if he’d magically appear to keep me safe and chase the red away.

  Françoise rocked me like a child and tried to soothe me, whispering, “It wasn’t meant to be” softly in my ear. Wasn’t meant to be, wasn’t meant to be—words I tried to hear, tried to understand, but in my mind I saw only pictures of what could have been. A baby…a family…a home. Now the baby was gone, and maybe Vincent would go too, maybe he’d die there in the hospital, and I wouldn’t get to say good-bye.

  Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me.

  It was another day and another night before I felt well enough to sit up, or eat anything but the smallest spoonful of broth. Françoise stayed with me every moment, even though I barely spoke and kept my face turned to the wall. She held me when I cried, wiped my forehead with cool cloths when I felt feverish. I wandered in and out of sleep, dreams haunting me when I closed my eyes, questions plaguing me when I woke. How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed the signs, how could I not have known? The blood that still flowed frightened me: had I lost not only this child but any chance of another as well? And Vincent…I knew nothing of his condition, only that he was alive. Only that kept me from going mad.

  When I felt strong enough, I asked Françoise to tell me everything that happened that night, everything that happened to Vincent after I fainted. “Oh, Rachel, no,” she said, “it’ll only upset you.”

  “I have to know. Tell me.”

  Vincent had stared when I’d collapsed at his feet, then knelt beside me and stroked my hair. “He had no idea who or where he was,” Françoise said. She rushed to help me, while Joseph Roulin hustled Vincent back home and Minette ran for Dr. Dupin. Roulin returned and said the house was filled with blood-stained rags and towels, and Vincent had gone unconscious. Could the doctor come? The gendarmes appeared then, alerted by whom Françoise didn’t know, and they hurried away with Roulin to take Vincent to the hospital. The next morning the police questioned Gauguin, convinced he had some role in it, but he’d been sleeping in the hotel all night, ever since Raoul took him there. Vincent had done the unthinkable—he’d injured himself. Had he not come to Madame Virginie’s, had he not been discovered, he would have died for certain.

  There was something else I had to ask. “Did the doctor…did Dr. Dupin say…how long? How long I…”

  Françoise sighed and handed me a cup of tea. “Drink this. Millepertuis and verbena chases away the devil, my grand-mère always said so.” I held the cup and waited for her to answer. “Nine weeks,” she finally said, “maybe ten.”

  It must have been that day before Gauguin came, I thought, when we argued and we made up and Vincent whisked me to his bedroom to make love for hours. That day I didn’t wash myself with vinegar afterward, that day we took no precautions.

  Vincent would have wanted the baby, I knew it. I could imagine the smile on his face when I told him the news, the light in his eyes. He would have been so happy. All those other things—the feelings of failure, Theo’s engagement, the strains of sharing the yellow house with Gauguin—those things wouldn’t have hurt him, and even now we would be planning our life together. He wouldn’t be lying in the hospital, I wouldn’t be lying here. “I could have saved him,” I whispered. “If only I’d known.”

  “What?” Françoise asked. “No, you stop that, right now. This is not your fault. Plenty of women don’t realize—What happened is not your fault.”

  Old Dr. Dupin came to examine me again. “You will continue bleeding for some days, perhaps a week or even two. You must forgo intercourse until it ceases, and you must eat more so you’ll regain your strength.” He patted me on the arm and said gently, “You can have other babies, Mademoiselle Rachel, if you want them. You are young and strong.”

  “She has nightmares, Doctor,” Françoise said. “Frightful dreams that make her cry.”

  Dr. Dupin frowned and peered into my eyes. “Shock,” he said. “And it’s no wonder. The cure for that is rest.”

  Françoise pulled the doctor aside so I couldn’t hear what she asked him next. He shook his head, and I couldn’t hear his reply. But I knew they spoke of Vincent, and I pressed my hand
to my empty womb, slow tears streaming down my cheeks.

  The two of them were still whispering together as Françoise escorted Dr. Dupin into the hall. When she came back, she tried to sound cheerful. “Oh, don’t cry, he said you’ll be just fine. Are you hungry, do you want some hot broth?”

  “How is Vincent?”

  She poured me a fresh glass of water. “Still at the hospital. His brother came to see him, though. Someone sent a telegram, Joseph, I guess.”

  “Theo’s here?”

  “He was. He’s already gone back to Paris. Gauguin left too.”

  Why would Theo leave so quickly? Vincent was all alone. “Can I go see Vincent soon?”

  “Dr. Dupin says you must rest a few more days. When you’re better, we’ll go see him together. Now let’s get you to the chair, so I can change your sheets.”

  “Françoise?” I said quietly. “The baby was his. I know it was.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “So do I.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Hôtel-Dieu

  The prospect of losing my brother…made me realize what a terrible emptiness I would feel if he were no longer there.

  —Theo to fiancée Johanna Bonger,

  Paris, 28 December 1888

  D

  ecember 29, the feast day of Saint-Trophime. At last I felt strong enough to go out, and I leaned on Françoise’s arm as we walked toward the hospital. Before we left, she warned me that we might not be able to see Vincent, an announcement that nearly sent me into hysterics. Joseph Roulin had brought her news from the Hôtel-Dieu—Madame Roulin had visited Vincent a few days earlier and he’d seemed better, but afterward he’d gone into another fit. The doctor looking after him had forbidden any more visitors. I heard all this, and yet I insisted we try.

  The faithful had attended Mass at the first sign of the sun, to ask for Saint-Trophime’s continued protection of Arles and their families. Services now over, parents and their little ones, dressed in their churchgoing best, leisurely strolled the streets and gardens. Seeing them reminded me what I’d lost, and it brought a chill to my heart that mirrored the chill in the winter air. A wee boy dressed in yellow scampered past, his papa in pursuit; the boy’s laughing blue eyes, smiling up at us, cut me to the quick.

  As we passed the church of Saint-Trophime, the sight of the sculptures carried me to the last happy night Vincent and I had known together, and a strange pulling sensation compelled me to stop. Perhaps if the saint listened to the prayers of other Arlesians today, he’d listen to mine too.

  Françoise looked skeptically at the church door when I said I wanted to go inside, the same way I had the night of the pastorale. “Do you need me to come with you?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied, “I’ll go alone.” I covered my hair with my shawl and ducked in a side door, avoiding the main portal under Christ in judgment. A seashell carving welcomed pilgrims on the road to Santiago de Compostela, as it had since medieval times. I was the only pilgrim here now.

  Awe overtook me as I crept inside and my eyes adjusted to the dimness. I’d never seen a building like this—so much larger, so much older than my family’s church in Saint-Rémy. The long vault overhead soared to fifty or even sixty feet, and huge pillars lined the aisles. A spicy smell of incense clinging to the stones revived memories of Masses when I knelt next to Maman and Papa, blending my voice with theirs as we recited the responses and sang the psalms. Small windows high in the thick walls and stained-glass windows behind the altar admitted enough light for me to see the church was empty. Only the myriad of glowing candles in iron stands betrayed that anyone had been here.

  The Christmas crèche stood nearby, its tall wooden figures smiling and joyful. Soon the Three Kings would be added for Epiphany, and the crèche would be complete. Until then, santons dressed like Camargue shepherds watched shyly while Mary and Joseph gazed in adoration at their newborn child. After Maman died, I would look at Mary’s serene face in every crèche I passed and envy baby Jesus for having a mother. Today, I envied Mary.

  Another morning I might have slipped into a back pew, prayed, and hurried out before anyone saw me. That morning, I forced myself to walk boldly down the aisle between those huge pillars, summoning all my courage to ask for what I wanted. I stood before the altar and stared at a large painting of one of God’s miracles, a painting darkened by centuries of candle smoke that had witnessed centuries of prayers. But my own prayers for my own miracle would not come. Even tears would not come. Anger swept over me in their place, a suspicion that we were all pawns in some divine chess game. I wanted to knock over the statues, tear the tapestries from the walls, and scream, “Where were you? How could you let this happen?”

  What self-respecting saint would listen to a fallen woman whose illegitimate child had died and whose lover had gone mad? A whore who wanted him to be healed so she could feel his arms around her, who felt no remorse for loving him and desiring him with every fabric of her being? What had I ever done to merit Christ, the Virgin, Saint-Trophime, or anyone listening to me? I could say nothing. All I could do was stand there, clutching my shawl around me and trembling with emotion.

  A priest with a kindly face and black cassock appeared beside me. I hadn’t heard his footsteps. “Mademoiselle? Is there something you need?”

  So many things I needed, so many things I wanted. But I could not ask for them. I did not dare. I shook my head, then hastened out of the dark church, back into the sunlight.

  The hospital stood a few minutes’ walk beyond the church. The stone portal with “Hôtel-Dieu” above the doorway looked as forbidding as the entrance to Saint-Trophime, and I balked in front of it. “What’s gotten into you?” Françoise asked. “You’ve been wanting to see him for days, now’s your chance.”

  I didn’t know what frightened me more: seeing him, or not seeing him. “What if…what if he…” She shushed me and pulled me through the gateway.

  Françoise gave a name to the porter on duty—“Dr. Félix Rey, please”—and he told us where to go. As we crossed the courtyard garden toward the men’s ward, Françoise said Joseph Roulin thought highly of the doctor, thought him a nice man who knew all the latest treatments and medicines. If anyone could help Vincent, he could. She told me this to make me feel better, but when we reached his office, guided now by a nun serving as a nurse, I was scared again. Françoise knocked instead. “Entrez,” came an efficient-sounding voice, and Françoise had to practically push me through the door.

  I couldn’t believe this was the doctor. He couldn’t have been much older than I. “I’m sorry, do we have an appointment?” he asked. When Françoise told him my name and said we wanted to see Vincent, I thought I saw recognition in his eyes. “Please come in and have a seat,” he said and waved us toward overstuffed chairs. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Yes, please.” I spoke for the first time, and he looked at me curiously before handing us teacups and taking his place behind the desk.

  “Vincent is extremely unwell,” he began.

  “Will he live?” I asked at once.

  “I’m trying my best to ensure that, Mademoiselle, but it has not been easy. The situation was critical when he arrived last week.” He described Vincent’s condition in a dispassionate voice—delusional with hallucinations, extreme mental shock, severe loss of blood—and added, “We couldn’t do anything with the ear except dress the wound to prevent infection. It was too late to reattach the portion of the lobe he cut off, even though the gendarme had the foresight to bring it here.”

  My stomach twisted, and Françoise patted my hand. “Is he better now?” she asked.

  “His brother came from Paris to see him, and that seemed to help. After Monsieur van Gogh left, the hallucinations mostly stopped, and Vincent began to eat again. Madame Roulin came to visit, and Vincent carried on a lucid conversation with her. But something triggered a relapse afterward. He started hallucinating again, became violent, and we confined him to an isolation room for his
own safety. Once we did that, he wouldn’t speak, he wouldn’t eat, he did nothing but sit and stare at the wall or floor.”

  Vincent, my Vincent, caged like a dangerous beast. It couldn’t be.

  Dr. Rey looked at my face and cleared his throat. “A few hours ago, however, he tried to talk, and he ate some soup. He’s resting now and hasn’t had any hallucinations in over twenty-four hours. This represents a marked improvement.” I asked if I could see him, and the doctor told me what Monsieur Roulin had told Françoise, that no visitors were allowed except the Protestant preacher, Reverend Salles. Then his voice softened. “Seeing you might overexcite him, Mademoiselle. He doesn’t remember what he did, but he knows he frightened you, and it upsets him. We must avoid unnecessary adverse stimulation.”

  My hand flew to my heart. “You know who I am—he’s mentioned me?”

  “He kept calling your name when he was first brought here.”

  “Let her see him,” Françoise begged. “You don’t know what a state she’s been in, fretting about him. And who’s to say it won’t help, seeing she’s all right? Maybe he’s been fretting about her!”

  I gave Françoise a grateful look as Dr. Rey gazed from her to me and back again. He tapped his pen on the desk and sighed. “Let me see how he’s doing. I shall return presently.”

  His clock ticked away the time as we waited. I tried to drink my tea, but it’d gone cold and bitter. Françoise amused herself by browsing the bookshelves. “What the hell is anti—antisepsis?” She pulled a volume from the shelf to flip through it. “Tiens, the doctor’s got dirty books. Look at this picture.”

  “Françoise, stop!” I whispered fiercely. “If he catches you, he might not—”

  She got the book put away and herself back in the chair just as Dr. Rey opened the door. “I will permit you to see him for a few minutes, Mademoiselle,” he said to me. “I gave him a mild sedative earlier, so he’s resting quiet. If he becomes agitated, you must leave immediately.”