My mother has always been able to defuse the most serious situations – it’s a real gift of hers. I would so like to have that ability, too.
Charlotte spoke softly. She gave me a hug as well. She smelled nice. I asked the question I’d been burning to ask: would Louis remember . . . me?
She answered that I’d have to speak to Dr Beaugrand, that he’d explain everything. That it was impossible to know whether Louis would get his memory back and, if so, what and who he would remember. Recovery after a coma varied from one person to another. What we were seeing was exceptional. Before opening his eyes, Louis had given no visible clinical signs of being awake. It had been sudden. And already, within a few hours, his progress had been swift. It would take a while to establish precisely which of his bodily functions were back to normal. Medicine had its limitations, and it was very hard to forecast. But we had to remain hopeful. My mother was right to be optimistic. It was obvious that his brain was working. He was trying to speak. He was moving his limbs. These were giant steps.
Charlotte also told me that I could be proud of what I’d done for him. What’s more, a number of parents of other children in the hospital had begun to do likewise. I told her to stop kidding me, but she meant it. Even without a Book of Wonders, some parents had started asking their children what their most cherished dreams were, and fulfilling them. The children often had straightforward wishes that weren’t so difficult to achieve. The joy of these new questions and rewards was spreading through the entire hospital. Of course, not all of these adventures would have a happy ending, but they were morale boosters. They injected doses of happiness, hope and life into existences devoted to fighting terrible diseases.
‘You’ve done them an incredible amount of good, Thelma,’ Charlotte went on. ‘You’re a role model for them.’
‘Me? A role model? That’s a first—’
‘Don’t do yourself down, darling,’ my mother broke in. ‘Be positive, for heaven’s sake! You’ve done something extraordinary for your little boy, you’re an inspiration to other parents – accept it, without tying yourself in knots. Celebrate, appreciate this enormous step you’ve helped Louis make. I know, before, you didn’t know how to take your time, to relish things. But that was before. He’s alive, for goodness’ sake! Alive. We’re all alive, and we’re together.’
My mother was right. As always. Her words resonated with others – the ones I’d set down on paper, the previous night.
She was spot on.
I gazed around that room of wonders, which I would never forget. That emotional roller-coaster room, which had in turn broken me, shattered me, shaken me up, thrilled me, transcended and transformed me. That room, every square inch of which would remain etched in my mind.
My eyes roved over the walls, rested on a photo of me in shorts and football boots, between Isa and Edgar. I knew they were probably not far away, that they’d be here soon. All this kindness, all these people who cared about me – it was all new. In the course of this journey, I’d rediscovered the importance of those around me, those I’d call my close family and friends, and who, too often and too quickly, I’d distanced myself from. Might they be feeling the same way as me, right now? It was strange to feel a tiny flash of happiness in that cold, impersonal room.
I started to cry again.
For joy, and from giddiness at the thought of the unknown that lay ahead. But mostly for joy. Louis was alive. He really was.
I went over to him. I stroked his cheek and whispered to him not to be afraid, saying that I was his mum, and always would be, whatever happened. That I loved him, we loved him. That it was natural he couldn’t remember anything right now, but I didn’t hold it against him. I’d never hold anything against him. That I was so happy.
That tomorrow would be a new adventure. Each day would bring new surprises and discoveries. It would be a fresh opportunity for all of us, a new start, the possibility to reinvent ourselves and build something even more solid.
That he had to carry on fighting. It would be a long road, but he could lean on me. Lean on all of us. That I’d be there to support him, day and night. Come what may.
That there would be laughter. Love. Tears. Shouts. Football. Karaoke. Crazy parties, half marathons and car chases.
Joy, more of it. Happiness, always.
That he would remember.
And that, if he didn’t remember the past . . . Well, we’d create new memories – simple.
I thought I could hear my mother.
I had heard a mother. It was me.
‘I love you, Louis.’
He looked at me.
I think he smiled.
Thelma
Not to be opened until 17 February 2027
Dear Thelma,
When you read this letter, you’ll be ten years older than you are at the time of writing. You’re nearly fifty. You’re still alive, despite all your overindulging – congratulations, that’s no mean feat . . .
It’s a beautiful morning. The sort of winter sky you so love. Winter 2017 is now just a dream. When you talk about that difficult time, you and Louis even manage to laugh about it. You haven’t forgotten, of course. The memories are intact. Vivid. Time has polished them, your mind has gradually erased the pain, the contours are less sharp, beauty has taken its place. Louis often watches the videos you made with your mother. He always laughs when he watches you sing Johnny Hallyday in Tokyo. And, best of all, those images are now mixed in with others – the ones you took afterwards, when you went on exciting new adventures from Louis’s notebook together. That was very special.
It’s a beautiful morning. You’ve just got up and you’re looking at the trees through the window. Because there are trees where you live, in Provence. They’re a bit bare, but spring is just around the corner, and, besides, it’s never really cold here. The garden is enormous. You and Edgar haven’t had time to prune all the branches yet. You’ve got time. You’ve got all the time in the world. Edgar’s already up, you can see him in the distance. He likes to rise very early, much earlier than you. It’s his favourite time of day. He goes and sits by the lake below the house, alone, and he paints. You love watching him draw, paint, sculpt. Sometimes, you sit for him. Edgar is so talented.
It’s a beautiful morning. You go downstairs into the big living room. Mum’s already there, bustling about, getting breakfast ready. She smiles at you, asks if you slept well, calls you her pussycat, as always. You smile at her, kiss and hug her. It’s your new morning ritual. You’ve become the most demonstrative mother–daughter duo in the world. Who would have believed it? You tell her you’re going to help her, that there will be a lot of people this morning, that it’s all hands on deck. She laughs and answers that she didn’t wait for you to get started. You roll up your sleeves and start to lay the long, solid-wood table.
It’s a beautiful morning. Yesterday, you had an email from Louis; he’ll be there in a few hours. Louis is studying medicine. His stay in hospital triggered something in him. He’s found his vocation. Not via a conventional route, admittedly. You would have preferred a session with a careers adviser to several weeks in a coma. But this is the result: Louis has decided he wants to be a paediatrician. At the moment, he’s doing an internship at Great Ormond Street Hospital, in London. He’s staying with Matthew for a few months. When those two met, it was a foregone conclusion. Matthew was annoyed with you for having kept Louis’s existence from him. Then his anger gave way to the joy of discovering this surprise child.
It’s a beautiful morning. Yesterday, Louis met up with Isadora at their place in Paris. They’ll come down together on the train. When they’re here, everyone thinks they’re your children, that they’re brother and sister. They’re not wrong. They are your children. And when they kiss and there’s an awkward silence, you burst out laughing and explain the situation. You’re not an ordinary family. You never have been and never will be. Luckily. Isadora still plays football with Louis from time to time, but, nine years a
go, she took up ballet again. And, today, her profession is the one her mother and grandmother dreamt of for her. She’s following the path that’s in her D.N.A. Isa and Louis are radiant, and it is a pure delight to watch them. You are so proud of the adults they are becoming.
It’s a beautiful morning. In half an hour, the big living room will be filled with some twenty people. It’s eight years, now, since you bought this big Provençal farmhouse, which you and Edgar fell in love with, using the compensation you were awarded after your legal battle against Hégémonie. It’s a huge property, which you did up and converted into the most amazing place. This is where you decided to carry out the plan that had formed in your mind when Louis was in a coma. This is where you moved to, seven years ago, with Louis, Edgar, Isa and your mother. This is where Charlotte joined you all, a year later. She’s part of the project, too.
It’s a beautiful morning. You recall the day when you outlined your idea to your whole little gang. They were immediately up for it. They trusted you at once. They trusted the businesswoman you are. They trusted the mother you are. They trusted your intuition. Investors bought into it; they also believed in you.
It’s a beautiful morning. The sun is already high in the sky, the table’s ready. Your first guests are beginning to come downstairs. There’s little Mathis, with his parents. They arrived the previous day. Mathis doesn’t have any hair at the moment. It will grow back very quickly. In the meantime, he likes to dress up. You greet him Avengers-style, entering into his superhero game. He laughs and his smile brightens the start of your day. There’s also Alice, who’s been here for a week with her mother. Alice is already better. She’s champing at the bit because, in an hour’s time, she’ll be meeting Edgar at the foot of the big olive tree for a sculpture session. She adores Edgar. Everyone adores him. Whether he’s teaching them to draw or doing physical exercise, Edgar is universally loved. And then there’s your favourite, little Francesco. Francesco has been with you for nearly three weeks. His parents take it in turns to be with him, because they’re divorced. This week, his father’s here. Francesco’s a comedian, who lights up the room. He and your mother form an unstoppable double act. In an hour, Odette and Francesco will do some gardening together, and then cook. Shrove Tuesday’s already past, but they’re planning to make pancakes, and your mother promised him he could toss them. Francesco is all excited.
It’s a beautiful morning. The farmhouse is full. Your life is full. Most of the time you’re here, in what is now your element. Sometimes you travel, because you’re invited to speak to local authorities and entrepreneurs in France and abroad. They want to know how you designed and built all this. When you’re away, Charlotte takes the reins. Charlotte has proved to be an excellent manager, in addition to having great nursing skills, which are always very useful here.
It’s a beautiful morning. You walk down the little dirt track to pick up the post. On the letterbox is the name of your little paradise: The Rooms of Wonders.
It’s a beautiful morning. You stroll back up to the house, taking the time to breathe in the Provençal country air, squinting because the sunlight is dazzling and memories come flooding back. It’s like this every morning. The minute you see those words in purple lettering – a colour chosen by Louis – you recall the place where it all began. The room of wonders, room 405 in the Robert Debré Hospital, which gave you the idea for this house. There, you realized the importance of family, of shared projects, for all those children and their loved ones. You understood that, for all those kids, the path back to life was long. That hospital could distance patients from their loved ones rather than bring them closer, whereas experiencing joyful things could be simple. That’s why you decided to open this rather special holiday home. A house where children who’ve just come out of hospital – or who are given permission to have a few days away – come with their parents and their families. A house where everything is done to make them feel at home. Where you feel good. You have found your place. Useful. At last.
It’s a beautiful morning. You glance at your watch. The same watch that was smashed when Louis had his accident. It, too, has been repaired. It, too, is a survivor. The time is 9:40. You walk faster, because soon your son’s train will arrive. Soon, you’ll be hugging him. You will tell him you love him, as always. Louis texted you yesterday to tell you the train time. The coincidence is disturbing, but it makes you smile. Louis is due on the 10:32.
It’s a beautiful morning, Thelma. Make the most of your life. Make the most of those you love. You have all the time in the world. Take it.
Thelma,
London,
17 February 2017.
Acknowledgements
A huge thank you to my editor, Caroline Lépée. Thank you for your enthusiasm and your expertise. Thank you for believing in this book from the start.
Thank you to Philippe Robinet and the entire Calmann-Lévy team. It is a privilege to work with you. And a special thank you to Patricia Roussel and Julia Balcells; the Kawaii Cat landed on Saturn, thanks to you.
Thank you to Caroline R. for her advice. Thank you to Florence B. and Renaud M. for the memorable (and inspiring) trips to Tokyo.
Thank you to my family for their unflagging support and encouragement. To Alexandre and Andréa, my indispensable ‘little bros’. To Floriane, Jules and Fanny, my avid readers. To my amazing parents-in-law, André and Raphaèle. To Pierre and Steph. To my grandfather, Pascal: keep telling me stories, it is precious. To Sandra, Jeanine and Aimé for the beautiful yesterdays.
To my mother and my father, of course. Mum, Dad, thank you for everything, and for always.
Thank you to my three loves. Alessandro and Éléonore, I am so proud of you . . . my two wonders. Mathilde, none of this would mean anything without you at my side. To life, to life.
The Book of Wonders Page 14