Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  Sleeping Awake

  By Gamali Noelle

  Text copyright © 2014 Gamali Noelle

  All Rights Reserved

  To Raecine-Ashley, without whose enthusiastic support through several drafts this novel would not have been possible, and to Moshe, for giving me the courage to continue writing.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 The Greatest

  Chapter 2 A White Demon Love Song

  Chapter 3 Colorblind

  Chapter 4 All I Really Want

  Chapter 5 Woods

  Chapter 6 Not At Home

  Chapter 7 Silent My Song

  Chapter 8 Khalil Gibran

  Chapter 9 The Suffering

  Chapter 10 Lost!

  Chapter 11 The White of Noon

  Chapter 12 Welcome Home, Son

  Chapter 13 Return to Oz

  Chapter 14 Now Is the Start

  Chapter 15 Origin of Love

  Chapter 16 I Would Like to Call It Beauty

  Chapter 17 On My Way

  Chapter 18 Ocean Breathes Salty

  ¯ CHAPITRE UN ¯

  THE GREATEST

  I was born and then I died. The end. My entire life’s story wrapped up in a nutshell. To be quite honest, I died even before I was born.

  I somehow managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck, and Maman, not in the know of my attempted suicide, pushed and pushed with all her might. Still, I would not come. Maman opted for a home delivery, because Grand-mère said that all Saint Clairs were born at home, and she’d be damned if my mother did away with centuries worth of tradition. Like Maman in Grand-mère’s eyes, the home delivery proved to be a failure, and Maman was rushed the hospital to undergo a Caesarean section. My heartbeat was nonexistent.

  Maman claimed that she didn’t know what happened after the doctor took me out, because she was under anaesthesia. When she eventually came to, I was in the bassinet beside her, very much alive.

  She called me her miracle baby.

  Outside the Towncar’s windows, what had once been mere drizzles had turned into shrapnel pounding against the car from every which direction. I shivered slightly as I leaned over to adjust the heat. The sleeves of my dress shifted in the process, and the sudden pink caught my attention. I hadn’t seen it in months. Scar tissue had grown over the wounds of winter, protected in its masquerade effort by a plastic hospital wristband. However, summer had arrived with the numbness of yet another attempt to start anew.

  The pink scar looked odd against the pale of my skin. I closed my eyes as the thin welt screamed up at me and involuntary spasms jerked me out of my peaceful state. My third suicide attempt had proved as futile as the first.

  What a miracle I was indeed.

  Un…deux…trois…quatre…cinq…six…sept…huit…neuf…dix…onze…douze…treize…

  Slowly, I counted from one to one thousand in French as I had done countless times before.

  By the time that I arrived at one hundred, my breathing regained a semblance of normalcy. Somewhere between three-hundred-and-fifty and a thousand, the film stopped reeling in my mind and everything went black as my eyes closed and the howls of the tempest rocked me to sleep.

  “Ms. Saint Clair?”

  Sometime later, I opened one lazy eye. My driver, Joseph, gazed at me through the rear view mirror.

  Sitting up, I yawned and covered my mouth. “Yes?”

  “We’re ten minutes away,” he drawled.

  “Thank you, Joseph.”

  Groggily, I looked outside and saw that the Old Westbury streets of my adolescence had replaced the familiarity of New Canaan.

  As we turned into the driveway and drove towards the house that I had so desperately hoped to never see again, I opened my compact mirror and began retouching my makeup. The play was about to begin, and I could be nothing short of perfect.

  *~*

  As expected, Maman greeted me at the door with a school-girl grin and pulled me into a bone-crushing embrace. She was so tiny, only five-foot-four, and her apparent weight loss left her barely making the one hundred pound mark. I didn’t know where she found the strength to lift me, a good five inches and twenty-five pounds more than her.

  I stiffened upon contact.

  “Désolée.” She pulled away, a nervous smile on her face.

  I gave her an awkward smile and stood frozen in the foyer as she settled things with Joseph. Almost immediately, something caught my eye.

  A picture of my sisters and I, each in various states of toothlessness, was blown up and placed on the archway that gave way to the rest of the house. I was about eight in the picture, and Cienna and Camelea were seven. We had our arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders as we stood beside the sandcastle that we had built together in Cannes.

  “Noira, tu vas bien?” Maman asked.

  The picture hadn’t been there when I’d left.

  “Noira?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied.

  “Okay,” she said. She turned slightly to look over her shoulder. “Filles.”

  My hands clenched the strap of my shoulder bag as Camelea came around the corner. I couldn’t bear to look at Camelea for more than a few moments. Her mouth was permanently etched in her trademark sneer of a smile. It was as if we were all an amusing puppet theatre, far inferior: mere commoners. I always wanted to punch her. Perhaps then the sneer would turn into a howl or maybe a frown, something more humanlike.

  I watched her brown eyes, hardened and dull as used marbles, gave me a slow, appraising look. Her sneer turned into an unbelievable and snooty smile.

  After the customary kiss on each cheek and a slight tug on her ever present rosary, she said, “I’m glad that you’ve recovered, Noire. I’ve prayed for you.”

  I did not bother to smile for her.

  Cienna, who had rounded the corner after her, floated towards me then, looking, as usual, as if waiting to be captured on film in her flowery silk dress and heels.

  “You look well.” Cienna kissed me delicately on each cheek. She smelled like an enchanted forest ought to: sweet and tangy. “That colour is very becoming on you,” she added.

  I glanced down at my black dress-turned-sack against the backdrop of her colourful, glove-like ensemble. “Merci.”

  “De rien.” Her eyes flickered in their usual pixie-like manner as she stepped forward and whispered in my ear. “Ignore the bitch.”

  Involuntarily, my mouth hitched into the same awkward smile that I had given Maman.

  Cienna winked at me and floated away with a suitcase in hand. Camelea stared at her, the sneer deepening, marring her already tainted features.

  I wondered if it really was true that twins, even if they were fraternal, could sense what the other was thinking and feeling.

  *~*

  I took my time walking through the airy house and ran my hands against the cool of the walls as I briefly visited each room. As far as I could tell, besides the pseudo-romantic picture above the foyer, nothing else had changed. I had been gone for seven months and not so much as a scented candle had been purchased. It was as if Maman was purposely trying to leave everything as I remembered it; her way of saying “You weren’t forgotten.”

  Turning my back and heading towards the stairs, I sighed as I glanced at yet another photograph. The table at the bottom of the staircase had always been there, and so had the picture. My hands rattled their protest as I lifted the frame and threatened to drop it. The blood disappeared from the surface of my skin as I held on in defiance and stared at the glossy paper beneath the glass.

  I closed my eyes and tried to tug on the distant memory that lurked just beneath my grasp. As of late, I found myself unable to remember much. Sneaky little wisps would float around and create dull sp
arks that would quickly fade away before I had a chance to comprehend what was before me. Months of staring at beige walls, while a nurse sat quietly in a corner ready to stop you from attempting suicide, would render anyone incapable of producing memories.

  As with all my other failed attempts at recollection, I eventually gave up. I knew that the picture was of was my graduation based on my attire and my presence before a “Class of 2008” banner, but beyond that, nothing.

  The girl was supposed to be me, but I felt no connection. The confident smile seemed foreign and out of place upon my face. And her eyes…Her eyes told the world to get out of the way or follow her lead. Absolutely nothing was going to stop her from achieving the greatness that she was destined for.

  No, I decided shaking my head; the girl was most definitely not me. It was absolutely criminal that Maman would flaunt such blatant lies before me, especially after the ordeal that I had just been through.

  I opened the top drawer in the table and placed the picture inside. With the faint pat of the drawer closing, air finally fed my starving lungs.

  *~*

  From the top of the stairs, I could see that the light was on in my bedroom. Medusa lounged on my bed, gently patting the space beside her with her sea urchin hands, beckoning me into her lair. I closed my eyes.

  Maman. Maman. Maman.

  “It’s too bright,” I said.

  “Comment?”

  “The room is too bright.”

  “Noira.” Medusa stood up and started towards me.

  I closed my eyes and stepped back into the darkness of the hallway where it was cool, where it was safe. “The room is too bright.”

  Maman. Maman. Maman.

  “Noira.”

  Her voice was like a soothing lullaby, pulling me gently to the warm surface.

  I opened my eyes. Maman.

  “What’s wrong?” The crow’s feet around Maman’s eyes seemed more pronounced than usual as her eyes narrowed.

  “Please turn off the light,” I whispered.

  “But then how will you be able to see?”

  “I’ll be fine. Just please turn off the light.”

  I watched as she swallowed whatever pleading words had tried to give themselves a pointless life. “If that’s what you wish.”

  As the room darkened, I slipped inside and went directly to my bed. I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and never wake up. I knew, however, that this was not to be the case. You can only attempt suicide so many times before realising that you are simply doomed to suffer in the land of the living. I was resolved to exist and to wait until old age, or perhaps a car or a bus, brought about my final end.

  “Aren’t you coming to dinner?” Maman asked.

  “No.” I did not turn to look at her as I undressed. “I’m too tired.”

  I felt as if I had molasses running through my veins.

  “Mais Camelea a fait du ratatouille, et Cienna a fait une tarte framboise. Elles les ont fait juste pour toi.”

  I crawled into my canopy bed and pulled the heavy curtains shut. “I’m too tired, Maman. I’ll eat them for lunch tomorrow.”

  Very faintly, I heard her reply. “Okay”

  Any other time, I'd beg her to crawl into bed with me and to sing me

  one of her Jamaican folk songs, but not that night. I would find no warmth in her embrace, no safety in her arms wrapped tightly around me singing, “Come back, Liza, come back gal…”

  I was too tired, sluggish and muggy like the air before a hurricane waiting to make its descent.

  *~*

  “Christ, Noira. You look like hell.”

  Three days later, my best friend, Bryn, waltzed through my door without bothering to knock. Having no regard for my comfort, he pushed me out of his way and sprawled his massive six-foot-two frame on my bed.

  Had it not been for the fact that his body was pressed against mine, I would have thought that he was an illusion. I had not seen him in almost a year. Bryn attended Cambridge, and up until November of the year before, I had been enrolled at NYU.

  “Gorilla!” I hissed.

  His familiar scent was all the satiation that my parched body needed. Trying to be coy, I snuggled closer to him under the guise of a rude shove. He smelled like home.

  “Yes.” He waved his hands casually in the air. “But this primate has a treat for you. Baby want some juicy?”

  “You did not!” I sprang up, eager for what I knew that he had brought with him.

  “I did too,” he replied, grinning. Like a magician, he reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose.

  “Be a dear, will you? Go and get us a couple of glasses and some ice. It’ll bring your mother immense pleasure to see you walking about in the light.”

  “Did she tell you that?” I asked.

  Maman had spent the past three days hovering above my bed and asking me every few hours if I didn’t want to take a walk with her through the garden, run to Whole Foods with her, get a pedicure with her and Cienna, etc. Always, my reply was “Pas maintenant, Maman. Perhaps later.” Always, she would look as if I had snatched another piece of her soul. Always, she would produce the most pathetic of smiles and reply, “Okay, Coucou. Perhaps later.” Always, I would turn on my side and face the other wall or declare that I was going to take yet another bath. Anything to avoid having to meet her eyes.

  “Yes,” Bryn replied. “She’s the one who rang me, you know. What with you disconnecting your phone and all, I had no way of contacting you. Thanks for doing that, by the way. It really showed how solid a friendship we have.”

  “I’m sorry.” I leaned over and kissed him on his cheek.

  “Whatever.” He waved his hands again. “Go and get the ruddy glasses.”

  I walked through the house with a slight bounce in my step, marvelling at how my feet didn’t quite seem to touch the floor. For the past year, the ground had been their best friend. My steps were still slow, but I did not drag my feet along the wood as I used to. Bryn, I could remember. Bryn I could more than handle. There were no bad memories attached to Bryn.

  Bryn and I met after we were placed in the same homeroom during our junior year of Lycée Olivier Dumas, a private French high school on the Upper West Side. I was the sulker in the back, sullen and bored by the triteness of the education system and my desire to be anywhere but there. He was the blonde-haired, blue-eyed British import who exploited his good looks by posing bare-chested for Abercrombie and Fitch on a giant billboard above Times Square.

  Our homeroom teacher, Madame Qui, a real tub of lard if I ever saw one, barely had time to say, “Con-chuh-bayer,” before Bryn cleared his throat.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Conchobair?” Madame Qui’s owlish eyes ogled at us from behind her glasses.

  “Yes,” Bryn replied in his perfected drawl. He had an uncanny way of letting people know just what he thought of them without actually saying it. “My surname is not ‘Con-chuh-bayer.’”

  Madame Qui looked down at her roster and frowned. “But it says…”

  “It’s pronounced ‘Con-ah-war.’” Bryn replied. Under his breath, I heard him mutter, “Perhaps it’s time that you learn to pronounce things other than the names of desserts.”

  I giggled, and he looked over at me. It was probably the first time that he ever noticed me; I didn’t blame him. It probably didn’t help that I avoided the lunchroom and the morning mass. Too many people, too much noise.

  “Saint Clair, Nor-rah.”

  “It’s Nwor-ah,” I snapped.

  “Pardonne?”

  “It’s Nwor-ah,” I repeated. “You know? Pronounced the way that it looks… en français. Vous parlez le français, non?”

  I didn’t bother to wait for her to yell at me and threaten me with a conduct mark. “I have a headache,” I declared. “I’m going to the nurse.”

  When I left the Sick Bay at the beginning of the first period, Bryn was waiting for me.

  “I have to hand it to
you, Nor-rah,” he said, handing me my forgotten bag. “That was some rather surly behaviour back there.”

  “Whatever, Mr. Con-chuh-bayer.”

  We’d been best friends ever since.

  “Con-chuh-bayer!” I sang as I returned to my room.

  Bryn turned slightly and smiled from his position before my window. “That was fast, Nor-rah.”

  “Fill her up!” I thrust my glass into his hand and did a little dance as he began to pour.

  “I like your backyard.” Bryn turned to gaze out at the deep red and orange of the setting sky. “Reminds me of my villa in Strawberry Hill.”

  “Well that’s the whole point,” I said.

  “To remind me of my villa?” Bryn leaned casually against the window. He looked perfectly at ease. I envied the way that he could look so relaxed, no matter the circumstance.

  “Just Jamaica, fool.”

  “Oh right. I’d forgotten that your mother’s side is Jamaican. My au pair was Jamaican, you know.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I replied. “London is the new Kingston.”

  “Indeed it is,” he turned away from Maman’s version of paradise. With a look of firm resolve on his face, he added, “So now that we’ve gotten the formalities out of the way, are you going to explain to me why you’ve been home for three days and haven’t called your one and only mate?”

  I didn’t reply. What could I have possibly said that would be sufficient enough to excuse my behaviour, which was perfectly normal to me and so obviously offensive to him?

  “How was the psych ward?” he tried again, returning to his usual dry humour.

  I shrugged my shoulders and patted the spot beside me on the bed. Once he sat down, I curled up in his lap and leaned my head against his chest. “I like how you smell…”

  “Noira, I’m being serious,” he said. “Do you think that being at Golden Ridge has helped you? I don’t know why you refused to let me come and visit you!”

  I sat up and looked him in the eyes. “I couldn’t let you see me like that, Bryn. It was bad enough having Maman visit me every week.”