She’s wowed me again, several times.
When she ran her paint-splattered half marathon in Budapest and managed to get to the end, she blew me away. Mum had told me she wasn’t sure she’d be able to run that distance, and that it was a good thing that Edgar was going with her to help, coach and support her, and bring her back if she passed out. I told myself she could have asked someone else, of course, but when I heard Charlotte and Grandma giggling the day before Mum and Edgar left for Hungary, I figured that something was going on. That really hurt. It made me feel that Mum had decided that life would go on for her, without me. Because, actually, I think Mum had a good time in Budapest. And Edgar supported her and protected her, she told me with a thing in her voice that sounded like hero worship. Yes, as I said, I’m envious.
A little while ago, Mum came into my room with Isa. At the time, I was thrilled that Isa had come to see me, even if I imagined that seeing me like this must be a real passion-killer. Yesterday, Mum went to the N.R.J. Music Awards party with Isa. She was determined to tick one of the boxes that I thought was the hardest, and she did it. She’s crazy, my mother. I laughed, I cried, I thought it was genius that she did that duet with Maître Gims, because I know how much Mum hates rap, but, once again, I nearly died of jealousy that Isa went with her.
Of course, I want Mum to carry on living and to see people again. But, at the same time, I hate the idea because it means that I’m becoming less important. That soon I’ll be part of the furniture, and the centre of Mum’s world will be somewhere else, with Edgar, with Isa, with Grandma, with Charlotte. When Mum talks to Charlotte, she says ‘tu’ now, and it’s obvious that they share a life outside the hospital, a life in which they see and talk to each other. I get the impression they’ve become mates. That’s weird, because, from her voice, I get the sense that Charlotte’s much younger than Mum. Everything’s so strange and nothing’s strange any more. When I think about it, I get the impression that Mum’s got younger. Maybe that’s what’s really changed in her voice.
Mum’s done almost everything I wrote in my notebook. She’s nearly finished and I find that very frightening. What’s going to happen next? I try not to think about it, but actually I think about it all the time, because the second thing that Mum hasn’t said, but which I’ve clocked anyway, is that she’s got new plans. She wants to start her life afresh, she’s got ideas for a new job, too, I’m certain, and that drives me mad because I know that, for Mum, her work is all-important. With all these people and a new gig, where does that leave me? On the fourth floor of the Robert Debré Hospital. Not in her life any more.
The last thing that Mum isn’t saying, the thing that’s the most painful, is that any hope that I’ll wake up is fading. I’ve concluded that they’ve given her a date. I don’t know when it is, but I sense it’s very close. I feel it when she tells me to keep fighting, that I can do it: she doesn’t have the same strength as she did a few days ago. Sometimes she sounds resigned. At those times, I want to yell that I’ve been awake for donkey’s years (as Granny Odette would say), but that no one gives a stuff, that those stupid doctors aren’t even capable of seeing it, despite their umpteen qualifications and their state-of-the-art equipment. A shit show, that’s what this hospital is. Excuse my language, but I’ve had it up to here. What does Mum think? I feel that, if my body doesn’t start sending signals, I’m going to give up soon. If I’m still hanging in here, it’s purely for her sake! For everything she’s done for me, for everything she’s still doing, I’m only sticking around for her. Because, me, I’m beginning to accept the idea. I understand that I’m an immobile object, a burden that has no useful purpose. I’m not even decorative – decorative, what a joke! I know I’ve got tubes sticking out all over my body, that they stuff pre-chewed mush directly into my stomach, that they put me in nappies, like a baby or an old person. I picture myself, I see myself, and I’m disgusted. I must be horribly ugly, and, with no voice to wow the jury, Hop it, out, sweep him away, bring on the next contestant. Mum tells me I’m beautiful. I don’t believe her, but it makes me happy to hear it anyway. Grandma tells me that I’m her miracle, that my room’s ready at home, that there are loads of presents waiting for me.
But I’ve started to tell myself that I’m certainly going to die. The first time I thought about it, it was super, super hard. I cried inside, a lot, for a long time. It was impossible to know how long, but it felt like ages. I’ve thought about it every day ever since, and now I’m resigned. Perhaps it won’t be so bad for Mum and Grandma, after all. They come and see me in hospital every day – that’s not a life. So I tell myself that, if I were dead, well, they’d be upset at first, but then it would pass and things would be better. Things always pass. Little Louis was cute, but it was better to put an end to it, because seeing him like that was slowly destroying his family. And I don’t want to destroy Mum. I don’t want to destroy Grandma. They don’t deserve it. It would be better for them if I gave up. That’s what I tell myself every day.
But I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t accept that it’s over. Deep down, something is telling me I can still wake up. Actually, it’s not something saying that, it’s someone. Mum. I want to see her again. Hug her tight. Even if it was just once, it would be worth the fight. I’d like to say thank you to her. Tell her I love her. Tell her that she’s the best mother in the world. Just once. Well, if it’s more than once, that’d be OK too . . . Then I could die, if that’s what’s meant to be. I know I keep contradicting myself, but try to understand, imagine yourself in my place. What would you do? Give up or carry on? I simply listen. No choice; it’s the only option available.
When I hear Mum, even with her new voice, she sounds as if she still wants me to wake up. So I’ve got to keep trying.
20
Day 3
Louis’s Heritage
I asked to see Dr Beaugrand at the end of the day. He had a solemn expression and seemed worn out, a distant look in his eye. For a moment, I thought he was trying to avoid me, but I was there and I was waiting for news.
Over the past few days, I’d sensed something was happening inside Louis, even though the electroencephalograms were still as haphazard. But I could see signs that the others didn’t seem to have picked up. Or, at any rate, didn’t interpret in the same way. For some time now, Louis’s body had regularly trembled with slight spasms, movements. Reflexes – nothing conscious, nothing coordinated, nothing logical. I agreed with the diagnosis, how could I not? I was so desperate to see some meaning in the brief clenching of a hand, the twitch of a cheek or a foot, in those soft yelps. But they happened randomly, sometimes even while his brain was being scanned . . . and the tests were still showing the same anarchic pattern. And yet, in the past few days, I’d noticed some changes. Real changes. The intensity when he clenched his hand was different at different times, I was certain of it. And, most importantly, I’d noticed that the movements were more frequent and lasted longer when I was speaking to him. As if he were trying to communicate. No one in this damned hospital would listen to me – or, rather, everyone listened to me, everyone knew the situation. The countdown. Hope does your head in, makes you imagine an awakening that isn’t happening. So, when I spoke about Louis, people’s faces changed. I could see the pity and what they were really thinking in their eyes: She’s losing her mind as well as losing her son, it’s not surprising . . . It’ll all be over soon, in any case.
But I was certain of what I was seeing, of what I felt. Maternal instinct. I’d never really understood what that meant. Now, the expression really resonated and seemed so utterly appropriate. Maternal instinct means seeing things others can’t see, feeling the slightest fluctuation in your child’s behaviour in your bones. I could feel Louis. I could feel Louis, and Louis was talking to me.
That was why I wanted to speak to Dr Beaugrand. I thought he would listen to me, that he’d try to do something. He listened to me, his face blank. He had the direct look of the expert navigator whose
job it was to bring those who are adrift back to the shore. Charlotte was with me. She spoke in my defence, arguing that I was the one who spent the most time with Louis, that, statistically, if anything happened, I was the one who had the greatest chance of witnessing it, so account should be taken of my observations and views.
Alexandre Beaugrand told me I should prepare myself for the worst, adding that the medical team was increasingly concerned because there was no change in Louis’s condition and the clinical evidence was undeniable. To show his willingness, and because he accepted Charlotte’s reasoning, he was prepared to increase the frequency of the electroencephalogram over the last remaining days, but he did not share my observations, or my conviction. Over the last remaining days. Alexandre Beaugrand had just stabbed me brutally in the back. I concluded that he couldn’t be a father – which Charlotte confirmed. How would he handle these situations when he was able to apply feelings he had personally experienced to other people’s tragedies? How would he react when the face of his own youngster superimposed itself on the ashen face of a child in the final stages of life?
Charlotte took me home. I didn’t feel like seeing either Edgar or Isadora.
I knew there’d be something with Edgar, one day. It was a certainty I had a gut feeling about, which was reinforced by the time we spent together. But, right now, my heart was closed to everyone except my son. Edgar would have to be patient. He assured me he would be, and I wanted to believe him. At any rate, I didn’t want to think about that sort of thing, not at present. So, I let things take their course, I let things go.
When we were on our way back from our trip to Budapest, in the taxi taking us to the airport, we exchanged a kiss. Or rather, our lips brushed. Chaste, pure. Let it stay that way for now.
‘I can’t give you any more,’ I whispered.
‘I don’t expect any more,’ he replied, taking my hand. ‘We have plenty of time. Think about Louis, do what you have to do. Don’t have any regrets.’
Three days to go until the end. I needed my mother by my side. To have her squeeze me. Hard. My mother and I had never been very demonstrative, but I do believe that, over the past few weeks, we’d made up for a good ten years or so. I couldn’t get to sleep any more without her. Finding myself alone in my bedroom terrified me, I needed to feel her warm body next to mine, and I could tell she needed that too. Every day, my mother repeated the words she spoke too rarely when I was a child: I love you. My mother and I were experiencing a total revolution. Why had it taken such a tragedy for us to discover how much we meant to each other? Why had we ruined all those years hating each other through all that remained unspoken, when, deep down, nothing was broken? So much time lost, so many missed opportunities, so much emotional damage.
I needed my mother to face the challenge that Louis had set me for the next day. I’d turned the page in the Book of Wonders. It was the penultimate entry. After this, there’d be just one left, and then that would be the end. I wiped away the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.
There was just one line. I’d dreaded that line. I’d wondered at what point it would appear, but I knew it would be there. Painfully logical.
– Find out who my father is. And see him, just once.
I’d had a relationship for nearly two years with Louis’s father. It was a typical story, I realize with hindsight. At the time, I’d felt as if I was living in a fairy tale, a waking dream. That had made the fall hurt all the more.
I met Matthew in May, fifteen years ago. I was sitting at a pavement café on Place de la République. It was a very hot day, and Parisian women had finally ditched their woollen sweaters for the irresistible combo of sunglasses and strappy tops, while the tourists displayed their sweaty armpits. Matthew was sitting at the next table, with the Lonely Planet guide to Paris in one hand, and a beer in the other. No perspiration rings – that was a point in his favour. I noticed him at once. Matthew exuded sexiness: tall, greying at the temples, athletic looking. He reminded me a little of George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven. Branded shades, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up – very important, long sleeves on a shirt; for me, that shows good taste. Slow gestures, even when he picked up his beer, delicate fingers – not the sort to get his hands dirty. An intellectual. Forty-something. I had just turned twenty-four. He could have been my father. That was probably one of the main things that attracted me, because I’d never had a father. I only admit this subconscious Oedipal pull with hindsight. At the time, I don’t think I was aware of it.
I was reading an excruciatingly boring management book, and my gaze was naturally drawn to the neighbouring table. After a few moments, I could feel his eyes on me. He smiled and I noticed the dimple that appeared on his right cheek. Louis has one in the same place – totally adorable. He asked me if I could help him; he was on his own in Paris and was looking for a good restaurant for that evening. He lived in London, was on a work trip. Two whole weeks. So, rather than going backwards and forwards, he’d chosen to spend the weekend in France. He didn’t regret staying. I laughed, and he added, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, that he was talking about the lovely weather compared to rainy London, of course. Of course.
Matthew had an art gallery in Notting Hill. He spoke French with a charming accent, and had a slightly caustic sense of humour. So British. How could a man like that still be single? He hadn’t found his princess, that was all, but he hadn’t given up hope. Paris was the capital of love, wasn’t it? Matthew wanted to go up the Eiffel Tower, at night. See the city at his feet. He asked me to go with him. I warned him that there’d be long queues, that we’d have to wait ages. Matthew was better informed than I was. At the last minute, he managed to book a table at the fine-dining restaurant at the top of Paris’s emblematic monument, which allowed us to jump the queue of tourists. A very expensive privilege, but so romantic.
I fell in love with Matthew that first evening. I’d just started working at Hégémonie. My first job. I gave myself, one hundred per cent, to my employer, not knowing that fifteen years later it would still be the same. Matthew and I had a passionate long-distance love affair. Twenty-three months, to be exact. We met once a fortnight. Two entire weekends each month – usually, one in Paris, the other in London. Matthew actually visited Paris regularly, and knew the city inside out. I learned much later that the Lonely Planet on his table was part of his baiting strategy. That I wasn’t the first Parisienne to fall into his trap.
In Paris, he usually came to my place, but sometimes he preferred to go to a luxury hotel, and we’d spend the entire weekend between the bed, the private pool and the restaurant. When he was in Paris with me, he was with me. ‘A matter of principle, beautiful.’ Matthew called me beautiful. I’d never felt as beautiful as when I was in his arms. Nothing was too good for his princess. I was his spoilt baby. We spent our time blissfully locked away together.
In London, I wanted to meet his friends. He told me he wanted me all to himself, only for him. He’d meet me on the Friday evening, at the gallery, when everyone had left. Sex with Matthew was impatient, urgent, sometimes on the floor, surrounded by the artworks, my weekend bag flung in a corner. Sex with Matthew was passionate, with no half measures, with biting, groans of pleasure and post-coital bliss. Sex with Matthew was intoxicating, I developed a taste for the glass of champagne we drank naked after orgasming, savouring the earthquake amid the priceless contemporary debris. I’d never felt that way about anyone before. He’d never felt that way about anyone before. He did his utmost to preserve the extraordinary nature of our affair. Sometimes, we went to what he called his ‘little pad’, a tiny apartment in Notting Hill that was nothing special, around the corner from the gallery. But, in London, as in Paris, Matthew liked to take me to incredible hotels, fabulous settings for our love – that was the exact expression he used. Better still, I sometimes had the surprise of finding in my letterbox a proper handwritten invitation, with a plane ticket to Barcelona, Dublin, Venice or Lisbon. The old-fashione
d charm of pure, simple romanticism. Of the successful – not to mention rich – man who showers his soulmate with kindness. I kept telling him it was madness. He invariably replied that money was for making the people you loved happy – otherwise, what was the point of it?
I wanted to believe that this was life with Matthew.
In reality, it was everything but life.
In the twenty-third month of our relationship, I became pregnant. It wasn’t planned. I went to see my doctor, describing my symptoms. I felt tired all the time, I vomited sometimes, my energy level dropped in the middle of the day. Had I been having periods? My periods were irregular, I hadn’t had one for a while, but that wasn’t unusual. I didn’t see the connection. It hadn’t even occurred to me. When the pregnancy test showed two blue lines, I cried my eyes out. I didn’t want this child, not now, not like this. My life was all mapped out. I was planning to have a child when I was around thirty, not before. Before was too soon. My career at Hégémonie was my priority, and Matthew and I still had so much more we wanted to do. Matthew didn’t want children, he’d been very clear about that. I’d always told myself I’d manage to convince him, when the time was ripe. Certainly not now.
But, gradually, the tiny bird unfurling its wings in my belly started to carve out a place for itself. At first, discreetly, then more and more insistently. I caught myself in the middle of a meeting, imagining the child I might have. I didn’t say anything to Matthew, and I didn’t see him for a whole month. I wanted to make the decision on my own, and I also wanted to avoid him discovering the truth. Five weeks later, my mind was made up. The feeling was visceral. I was going to keep the baby. It would be a girl and I’d call her Louise. Matthew would be besotted with us. I’d move to London. We’d be happy.
The Book of Wonders Page 12