Julian

by William Bell

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Paladin.”

  The room was silent, airless. I could hardly breathe.

  “Does she know?”

  “I spoke to her just before you came by the nursing station.”

  I nodded.

  Dr. Mody rose and went to the door. “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes. Perhaps you’d like to call your family.”

  She left, letting the door close behind her.

  I fell back into the chair. Family? Who could I call? Who would answer?

  ——

  I stood outside Ninon’s room, too terrified to step across the threshold. My heart thrummed hollowly in my ears, my lungs tugged in small gulps of air. What should I say to her? Where should I begin? I couldn’t stand beside her bed with a stuffed teddy bear in one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other and mumble worn-out phrases like How are they treating you today? or When will you be coming home? All that was gone now. The doctor had swept aside Ninon’s future the way you’d brush a crumb off the table with a flick of your hand.

  The rustle of cloth behind me, and the squeaky wheels of a medication trolley, rallied my thoughts. I couldn’t help Ninon get better. All I could do was be with her. I went into the room.

  Her eyes were open, unfocused, turned slightly toward the window. I wanted to pull away the needles and tubes, take her into my arms and carry her out of there to somewhere safe. Instead I kissed her on the forehead, then on her dry lips. She reached up, hooked her arms around me fiercely and held me so tightly she lifted herself off the mattress for a second.

  The effort exhausted her. She let her arms fall across her chest, the backs of her hands purple with bruises from the IVs. I made myself look into her eyes, where tears gathered and overflowed, running across her temples and into her hair. Her voice was barely audible.

  “They told you?”

  I nodded, unable to speak, and kissed her again and buried my face in the pillow beside hers, felt her arms around me again, her hair against my cheek.

  “Don’t cry,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  I SLIPPED THROUGH the following days like a shadow, unconnected to the world except when I was in Ninon’s room. In the mornings I walked along the streets to the hospital, barely conscious of my surroundings. When visiting hours were over in the evenings, I reversed the journey. I couldn’t have described the weather or the traffic on Coxwell Avenue or the brief conversations I had with Rawlins and Fiona as I came and went.

  I spent every minute I could with Ninon. As time passed I watched her fade, each day losing ground to her disease, powerless to defend herself. Seeing her driven helplessly toward her fate, unable to help her, was a prison sentence in hell. If ever I had wondered what it was like to love someone, I didn’t anymore.

  Ninon was swept by gusts of emotion. One day she’d seem confident she could get better, the next, resigned to her short future. And sometimes bitterness overwhelmed her.

  “I finally found someone,” she said one rainy afternoon, “but it’s too late.”

  As I made my way back home that evening, her words echoed inside my head like the ticks and tocks of an old mantel clock. It was a dirty trick, she had gone on to say. God must be laughing at us.

  But most of the time she didn’t have the energy to be angry. And then one day as I hugged her before leaving she whispered, “Julian, I don’t want to die here. Take me home.”

  That night I knocked on Fiona’s door. She let me in and sat me down and poured me a cup of tea. Fiona was a pro. She saw death all the time. She didn’t try to sugar-coat things, but she was comforting.

  I talked for a long time. I told her I wanted to bring Ninon home to my apartment, that it was Ninon’s wish. Could I manage it?

  Fiona stirred her tea. “The hospital might not want to discharge her. Ninon is a minor.”

  “Even if it’s what she wants?”

  “Their job is to care for her. If they think she won’t get proper care from you, they’ll object. Plus, they won’t want to be legally liable if they discharge Ninon without assurance that she’ll get competent help.”

  We sidestepped that problem for a while and discussed what I’d need in the way of supplies—bandages, IVs and so on. Then I brought us back on track.

  “How can I persuade them? What do I need to do?”

  Fiona thought for a moment.

  “It would help if you said you had hired a home-care nurse to assist in looking after her.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into that. Where should I go?”

  She smiled. “You needn’t go far.”

  “But what about your job at the hospital?”

  “I’ll be able to look in on her when I’m home.”

  I had a thought. “If the hospital gives me trouble, would a lawyer help?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt,” she replied. “Now listen, Julian. Before you make a final decision, you need to know that when Ninon gets near the end it won’t be pretty. You know she already has help using a bedpan. She’ll need to be washed, and you’ll have to be on the watch for bedsores. The worst is that you’ll see every step in her deterioration. It’s not like the movies. It can be ugly and smelly and … well, nobody would blame you if you decided to let Ninon stay in palliative care.”

  “It’s what she wants,” I said.

  “The hospital staff is equipped, materially and emotionally.”

  “But they don’t love her.”

  That night I called the lawyer whose name was on the card Chang had given me the day he presented me with my new identity. The lawyer asked lots of questions. We talked for more than half an hour. He said he’d take care of everything, that he foresaw no problems. He even agreed to arrange for a standby home-care nurse for times when Fiona wasn’t around.

  In the morning I told Ninon that I had to take a couple of hours to lay in the medical and other supplies. I’d be bringing her home the next day. The news brought a smile to her lips.

  “Just you and me,” she whispered.

  “Keep it to yourself for now,” I said.

  I returned to the hospital just as the orderlies were wheeling the big food-tray racks away toward the elevator. Luckily, Dr. Mody was at the nursing station talking to the Jamaican nurse, who I thought, for some reason, might be on my side when they heard what I had to say. I got right to the point, thanking the doctor for her help and informing her that I’d be taking Ninon home.

  She objected, listing all the reasons why this course of action wasn’t possible, growing more heated each time I stated my intention and repeated that Ninon didn’t want to face the end in a hospital. I didn’t argue, I just kept at it. The more the doctor protested, the more I admired her. She wanted what she thought was best for Ninon.

  Finally, she fell back on authority. “I’m not going to discharge her and that’s that.”

  Through it all the nurse looked on silently, her face empty of expression.

  I went into Ninon’s room. She had rallied a bit since the morning. Fiona had warned me there would be times when I’d think Ninon was getting better, that she would feel stronger, but these encouraging moments were temporary.

  “I hate to say so, Julian,” Fiona reminded me, “but this can only go one way.”

  The lawyer, George Wang, a tall man in a dark suit, arrived around six-thirty toting a fat soft-sided briefcase. With him was another man, as short as the lawyer was tall, as thickset as the lawyer was trim. Wang introduced him as Mr. Bo, his assistant. We shook hands in the hallway, then Wang went to work.

  He walked over to the nursing station, asked for the person in charge, presented his card and said he was about to confer with his clients, Ms. Bisset and Mr. Paladin, and must not, barring an emergency, be disturbed. The doctor on shift nodded and turned back to his charts.

  In Ninon’s room, with the door closed, Wang spoke to Ninon, who was awake and alert. I stood beside the bed, holding her hand. As the question-and-answer session went on, Wan
g assured himself that Ninon was in control of her words and thoughts and understood everything he said.

  Sets of papers with coloured triangles stapled to the upper left corners were produced, explained, and signed by all four of us—the two “principals,” then Mr. Wang as counsel and Mr. Bo as witness. Wang placed one set in his briefcase, left two on Ninon’s table and, after saying goodbye to Ninon and assuring her he’d see her again at my apartment in a couple of days, took the fourth set to the nursing station.

  This time a different doctor greeted him. He was grey-haired, with a kindly face. Wang presented him with the papers.

  “These documents indicate that, as Ms. Bisset’s legal guardian”—I noticed he didn’t say “half-brother”—“Mr. Paladin has taken a decision to remove her from your care with his deep gratitude, and he hereby serves notice of his decision. Ms. Bisset concurs and has so indicated in her statement. Please have the appropriate releases ready for Mr. Paladin’s signature as soon as possible.”

  The doctor took the forms and nodded.

  “We all agree, I think,” added Wang, “that time is of the essence.”

  He snapped shut the clasp of his briefcase.

  “If there are no questions …”

  Four hours later, I carried Ninon upstairs and into my apartment.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I HAD MOVED MY BED to the living room, setting it opposite my reading chair so Ninon would be able to see out the bay windows to the street. I had guessed that she wouldn’t want to be alone in my little bedroom. I would sleep on the couch so I’d be close by if she needed me during the night.

  Soon after I got her set up, Fiona dropped by and showed me how to change the bag on the glucose feed—the blood IV was no longer necessary—and change out the oxygen cylinder when necessary.

  “You could get a job as an orderly,” Fiona said, smiling.

  “No, he couldn’t,” Ninon said in her whispery voice. “He keeps kissing the patient.”

  I learned how to take Ninon’s temperature and blood pressure, how to preheat the bedpan with hot water before taking it to the bedside, how to make jelly as well as vegetable and meat broths. I kept track of the time and administered her medication on schedule.

  I read to Ninon from Captain Alatriste, the first in my favourite series.

  “I hope the story isn’t too long,” Ninon joked. “I don’t want to miss the end.”

  One early evening, Rawlins knocked on my door, his new black guitar in one hand and a beer in the other.

  “Wanted to meet your guest,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “Thought a little bluegrass might cheer her up.”

  He grabbed a kitchen chair and set it in front of the window so he’d be in Ninon’s line of sight. He introduced himself and went into a jokey patter about how I had sent all the way to Nashville for him so he could give a private concert to the prettiest girl in the country. He sang a couple of songs—all upbeat, happy tunes. No whining Appalachian laments, no my-baby’s-gone-and-left-me blues.

  Ninon brightened immediately, smiling and humming along when she could. I slipped upstairs and invited Fiona and Roger to join us.

  “Right you are,” Fiona said. “The bairn’s asleep so I’ll leave our door open in case he stirs.”

  We had a sort of party, what Ninon called a fête de la musique. At one point Rawlins stopped playing and took a swig of his beer.

  “Time for the guest of honour to sing one,” he announced, his eyes on Ninon.

  “I can’t,” she rasped.

  “I can hear you just fine,” Rawlins insisted. “Anything you like. Just start in and I’ll pick up on it.”

  To my surprise, Ninon gave it a shot. We could barely hear the words scraping from her throat. She was singing in French, and the tune sounded vaguely familiar. Rawlins played along softly, picking each note so as not to drown out her frail voice. He hummed. Then Fiona joined in.

  And I recognized the song. It was “Frère Jacques,” a simple tune about a sleeping brother and church bells in the morning. Like a million little kids, I had picked it up at school. Ninon must have learned it too, back in her hometown in France. Recalling the words, I began to sing with her and Fiona and Rawlins.

  Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,

  Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

  Sonnez les matines! …

  I watched Ninon following Rawlins’s fingers on the strings. Then she looked my way, her green eyes bright as she sang.

  It was enough to break your heart.

  A couple of nights after the fête Ninon asked me to come and sit by her. “Bring my diary,” she whispered.

  I did as she asked, sat by her bed, my knees against the mattress. She told me to turn to a blank page in the diary. She wanted me to write down her wishes for what to do “after,” and went on to dictate a short list of instructions.

  “I know it will be hard. Will you do it for me?”

  Unable to speak, I nodded.

  Fiona had warned me how I’d know it was time.

  “Her blood pressure will drop,” she had said, “and she’ll go into a deep sleep, almost like a coma. She won’t respond to your voice, but lots of people believe that the patient can feel your touch.”

  “Okay,” I replied.

  Since the day she had told me what she wanted me to do “after,” Ninon seemed to relax. She said she was ready. Her choices were all gone; there were no new challenges or dangers around the corner, no unanswered questions. We fell into a daily routine.

  Ninon encouraged me to take my regular run, but I didn’t want to leave her for long. I’d walk up to the Danforth to do some shopping, or slip outside when she was sleeping and busy myself with pulling weeds and cultivating the flower beds. Eventually, I didn’t leave the apartment at all.

  Most of the time Ninon dozed, and her periods of sleep grew longer and deeper. Her body seemed to waste away, to retreat into itself—her cheeks and eyes sunken, her arms thinner, her hair dry and without the lustre it once had. But her spirit, that sense of freedom and independence that had always defined her, was still there. Still there, but tired.

  When she was awake we chatted a little, often returning to the same theme. We were orphans. We had struggled to leave the past behind us, and we had pulled it off. We had found each other, if only for a short while.

  We relived the few times we had had together—the art gallery, the French movie, lunch at the Chongqing Gardens, and especially the first trip to the harbour islands when we had slept the night through on the beach, with heat lightning trembling behind the clouds.

  “I think we would have stayed together,” Ninon said.

  “Me too.”

  The next afternoon Ninon woke from a two-hour nap. I gave her some apple juice and as I held the glass to her lips she covered my hand with hers.

  “Julien,” she whispered, her eyes on mine.

  My heart shifted. No, I thought, not yet.

  “Alright,” I said.

  I refused to let myself think. I concentrated on the moment, the task at hand. I set the glass down and stood to shut off the glucose feed, then carefully slipped the needle from the back of Ninon’s hand.

  “I’m going to leave the oxygen on, okay?”

  Her voice was a breath. “Yes.”

  I brought the blood pressure monitor to the bed and took a reading. Her pressure was falling.

  “Do you want to listen to some music?” I asked.

  She nodded, then said, “Make me look better.”

  I brought the clock radio from the bedroom and set it on my reading table and tuned it to a classical music station. I helped Ninon into a fresh nightie, rinsed her face with a damp cloth and brushed her hair.

  “Ready for the dance,” I said, making her smile.

  I sat with her, checking her pressure every half-hour or so. It continued to fall.

  “No more,” she said.

  I put the machine away. At ten o’clock I turned out all the lights except the reading
lamp. I turned my back on Ninon for a second to shut off the radio. I heard her say, “Julien, je t’aime.”

  In a panic, I whipped around and bent over her. She was breathing deeply and evenly. I sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing her forearm. And then, without opening her eyes, she breathed, “I’m cold,” and rolled onto her side. I took off my jeans and T-shirt and got under the covers. I spooned up to Ninon to warm her, my arm around her waist, her head under my chin. I felt the faint rise and fall of her breathing. As the minutes passed the breaths she took grew shallower and further apart, as if she was gathering herself.

  “Maman. Papa. Julien,” she whispered and drew in some air, hesitated, then let it go with a long sigh that told me she was gone.

  EPILOGUE

  L’ISLE-SUR-LA-SORGUE

  There must be a highway,

  There must be a train,

  There must be a river

  To take me away.

  —Thad Rawlins

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MY PLANE BUMPED DOWN in Marseille about ten-thirty in the morning. Under a blinding sun I found the car that had been left for me in the parking lot, courtesy of Bai’s contact, and fished the keys from under the seat. Up until now I had never driven a car without an instructor sitting beside me. Rattled by the strangeness of the place—the traffic, signs, even the design of the roads—I headed northwest, away from the coast of the Mediterranean and into the hills of Provence. I cruised through villages and small towns with shaded squares and narrow streets. With a range of mountains in the distance, the road followed the Durance River, then angled north. About mid-afternoon, eyes sandy with fatigue, I motored across a bridge into the town whose name I knew by heart. I found my hotel beside the river, where a dam formed a basin and the river split into streams, climbed the stairs to my room, locked the door and shed my clothes. Thirteen hours or so after I’d left home I slipped into bed and fell into a deep sleep.