“But…”
I pressed my fingers to his lips. “I went to Golden Ridge because I had a manic episode that induced a nervous breakdown. I went mad. I stopped eating and sleeping, and I had slashes all over my arms and legs from cutting myself… I looked like an extra on a Tim Burton set. I did not want anyone to see me in that state. It’s as simple as that.”
“Noira, nothing is as simple as that,” Bryn replied. There was a slight twitch in his jaw. “I’m supposed to be your best friend, and yet I never knew that you were struggling. If you had said something, I would have come straight away. I would have taken care of you. You wouldn’t have had to…”
This conversation was what I had foreseen when I refused to allow Bryn to be added to my list of approved visitors. I knew that he would take my failure personally. It was enough knowing that my cycles between mania and suicidal thoughts was also chewing away at Maman; I didn’t trust myself to have the will to live if Bryn had arrived with the same cloak of insurmountable sorrow that Maman donned every day for me. She always tried to disguise it with her makeup and her constant smiles, but like everything else, it had a distinct odor, and the air was always sour with her pain.
“Bryn, let’s not do this right now,” I said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “We can save the depressing conversation for another day.”
I resumed leaning my head on his chest, content to listen to the steady beat of his heart.
After a while, his chest rose more than usual, and he let out a loud sigh. “Are you happy now and ready to face the world?”
“Are you?” I replied.
**~*~*~**~*~**
¯ CHAPITRE DEUX ¯
A WHITE DEMON LOVE SONG
Being at home was no better than being at Golden Ridge. From the cradle to the grave, I was to be shuttled from one prison to the next.
Maman and Cienna were clearly on a mission to cement me firmly on the path of normalcy. They thought that I didn’t notice what they were doing. My IQ was 150; I was smart enough to know that they were never going to give me a moment by myself.
Maman might as well have slept in my bed for all the times that she kept coming to check on me during the night. Cienna was running out of ways to compliment my dismal appearance. She no longer knocked on my door with a smile on her “I just came to say ‘Hi!’” face after Maman left for work in the mornings and her patrol shift began. My room had become her room, apparently. My mid-century chaise was covered with various fashion magazines waiting for her to just breeze in, sans announcement, and read them all day as she waited for Maman to come home and relieve her. Except for a photo shoot that she went to last week, wherever Cienna went in the days, I followed.
Now, Camelea was my warden. Though she and Maman didn’t know it, I had been on my way to the kitchen the night before and had heard Maman giving her the “We’re all in this together” speech as I walked past her room door.
“We have to form a solid support system for her Camelea, or else she’ll never get through this,” Maman implored.
I could picture Maman’s face—the slight frown, the premature crow’s feet that would dust the corners of her eyes as she narrowed in on Camelea. The way that she would hold Camelea’s gaze until whatever words of protest melted down Camelea’s throat. It was the look that struck fear and swayed opinions in her favour. Even I, no matter how familiar I was with the Look, had no other choice but to succumb to it.
“Oui Maman,” Camelea said a few seconds later.
“Bon,” Maman replied.
When I returned from getting my glass of water, Camelea and Maman were in my room. Camelea’s eyes narrowed as she saw me. I rolled mine in response.
“If you need anything tomorrow,” Maman began, “Camelea will be here.”
I took a seat on the edge of my bed, brought the glass to my lips and took a long, slow sip. “D’accord.”
Maman’s face softened as she smiled. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew that beneath the concealer, the foundation, and the eye shadow were deep purple rings around her—medals, you could call them, gained from championing me to good health and forgoing sleep in order to do so.
I knew that I should have felt some kind of remorse for my mother’s deteriorating state, but I was beyond capable of that. My twice-daily cocktail of get-well-pills had rendered me incapable of feeling anything beyond the desire for the sleep that never came.
“I’ll leave you both to discuss your day tomorrow,” Maman announced.
I could have laughed. Camelea’s jaw twitched as Maman almost skipped, beaming all the while, out of my room.
I tried, and failed, to remember the last time that Camelea and I had been alone in the same room. Perhaps it had been while we were still living in Paris. Perhaps it had been immediately after our move to New York and before my need to have the family cheerleaders root for my seemingly impossible breakthrough. Perhaps it had never happened at all.
Camelea’s eyes rested on me. They grew smaller at a most alarming rate, until it was nearly impossible to tell whether or not she could actually see me. I didn’t break contact.
“I’m only doing this because it’s my Christian duty,” she whispered, least Maman heard, I supposed.
“I figured as much,” I replied.
“It’s what Jesus would do,” she continued. Her fingers wound themselves into the tightest of fists around her rosary.
“Amen.” I raised my glass.
I could hear Camelea’s sharp intake of breath. She looked like a lizard as her throat puffed up. It was as if she was trying to inhale all of the air in the room. She left without saying another word. The next day, she didn’t so much as come and ask me if I wanted a glass of water. Still, I was glad for the peace.
At least there was silence during the nights at Golden Ridge. At least there were no infernal questions about if I’d given much thought to whether or not I wanted to go back to school in the fall or the spring. At least Anne-Marie, my nurse, didn’t give a damn about what either Monique Lhullier or Vivienne Westwood was creating. Anne-Marie would never try and get me to wear tulle anything, and I doubted that she even knew the difference between a V-neck and an A-line.
I’d imagined a summer of undisturbed slumber, but I should have known better; my jailers would never let me sleep away my life. It made me wonder what really awaited me in the afterlife.
Since I was finally alone, when the time came for me to take my medicine after lunch, I threw the five pills down the toilet: Cymbalta for the depression, Geodon for my psychotic episodes, Lamictal for the mood swings and Clonazepam for the daily anxiety attacks. It wasn’t as if they were bringing me happiness. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, hoping for sleep, even though I had long since given up on it. I was so very tired of living in a haze.
*~*
I was never too sure if I had slept during the night. I would often come to the realization that I had been staring at the wall, but I was never certain if I had been staring for a very long time, or if I just woken up. This started happening once I’d been switched from Lexapro to Cymbalta. The Lexapro had been successful in stopping the depression, but only because it made me spend my days and my nights asleep. Once I switched to Cymbalta, sleep stopped being my friend. I wasn’t depressed any more; I became devoid of energy. It didn’t help that shortly after taking the Geodon, I always had an overwhelming desire to sleep. I ran on autopilot with a bubble of permanent haze threatening to suck me in.
I called it sleeping awake.
Two mornings after Camelea had failed to watch me take my medicine, and had I stopped taking my medication, I once again found myself staring at the wall. This time, however, it was because I felt as if I had left my brain in the other room. I tried to sit up and felt a jolt of electricity surge up my chest and straight to the centre of my brain. ZAP, like a baseball had been smashed into the back of my head after sailing through the air at 65 mph.
“Fuck,” I hissed. I was going through withdrawal. I
laid back down and waited a few minutes for my heart to stop racing before trying again. The room began to spin as my feet touched the ground, and I had to grab the bedpost in order to steady myself.
“Fuck!”
I didn’t dare shower, least of all I experienced another shock and slipped and fell in the tub. For the first time in a long time, I was absolutely ravenous. I dressed as quickly as I could and made sure to hold on to the railing as I descended the stairs. When I finally made it to the kitchen, it was to find Cienna eating her customary baguette with Nutella and orange marmalade.
“You look cheerful,” she observed, reaching for the coffee cup.
I shrugged, taking the kettle off the stove and pouring out the contents into the sink.
“Why do you always use a fresh pot of water for your tea?” she asked.
“Because the tea leaves need oxygen in order to steep. Over-boiled water doesn’t exactly offer that, does it?” I replied, reaching for my jar of tealeaves and my teapot.
“That sounds like too much work for me; I’ll just stick to the coffee.”
I rolled my eyes. She would say that; the only thing that was worth exerting energy for that girl was haute couture.
“There’s an art to making tea, you know,” I said, pouring exactly one quarter of a cup of water into my teapot and placing it in the microwave. Teapots needed to be hot in order for an excellent brew. “Not every pot of piss can be called tea.”
“Are you English or French?”
“Fuck off Cienna,” I hissed.
“Calm down,” Cienna muttered. “I just find it strange, that’s all.”
“Indeed.” I brought my teapot to the kettle as soon as I heard the whistling, and poured the water over the tealeaves. “I find it strange that your daily breakfast routine involves eating something which has two primary ingredients of sugar and oil.”
Cienna shrugged. “It tastes good, doesn’t it?”
“To each its own,” I replied. I set my teapot on the table and sat across from her.
After pouring myself some tea, I took up that day’s edition of Le Monde and began to read the front page. I hadn’t been to France in almost twelve years, but I always knew what was happening there.
“They passed the burqa ban in the lower parliament,” Cienna said. “The vote was 335 to 1. It goes to the Senate on September 20.”
I lowered the paper. “Thanks for that, Cienna.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, not looking at all sorry. “It’s just that I have a bit of a quandary, and it requires your undivided attention.”
I put down the paper and took a sip of my tea. “What exactly is this problem of yours?”
“It’s about the charity event this evening,” she explained.
I closed my eyes and gripped the edge of the table tightly as another jolt of electricity zapped my brain. I had read somewhere that Cymbalta and Lamictal withdrawal could last as long as three months.
Once the jolts had subsided, I felt safe enough to respond. “I know how to behave at public functions, Cienna. You needn’t worry about my embarrassing you.”
It was a testament to Cienna’s self-centeredness that she did not notice my odd behaviour.
“Good,” she said, squirming in her seat. “I love you as much as one can a perpetually depressed older sister, but seriously! I’m meant to be modelling down the runway at a breast cancer benefit, not fretting about whether or not you’re looking at the hairstylist’s scissors with a little too much lust in your eyes!”
I choked on my tea as I began to laugh.
Cienna scowled. “It’s not funny!”
I rolled my eyes and struggled to catch my breath. Honestly, if there were a prize for the World’s Vainest Person, Cienna would win it by a landslide. Nothing can come between her and her precious haute couturist extraordinaire-supermodel ambition.
“In any case, that’s not the quandary,” Cienna continued, chewing on her lip.
I raised an eyebrow and made another attempt at drinking my tea.
“My quandary lies in not knowing what to wear tonight.”
I put down my teacup. “Cienna, do you mean to tell me that you interrupted my morning routine because you don’t know what to wear to the event at which you will be modelling? You will be wearing whatever outfit is put on you, you stupid cow!”
“You don’t understand!” Cienna said, slamming her hands on the table. Her cheeks were a mad shade of red as she huffed and puffed away. “I have to mingle with the crowd after we model the pieces that are to be auctioned off. I have to network, Noira. No one is going to look better than me!”
I simply stared at her.
“Black is out of the question,” she rattled on, nodding in my direction. “You will be wearing black. If Camelea and I never dress like twins, I’m not about to start doing so with you.”
I tried not to throw my cup at her. All that I could do was hold a steady, icy gaze. She held the edge of the table. It was what she did whenever Maman was giving her this same look and she was trying not to squirm.
Watching her, I imagined that this must be how Maman’s cross-examinees felt sitting there in the courtroom after lying that they would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help them God, and then finding out that they couldn’t bear false witness under Maman’s menacing glower. She looked a bit like a bulldog, all huffy and puffy and ready to chow you down.
“Really, Noira, I promise that I’ll leave you alone after you help me pick a dress,” she said, squirming a bit in her seat.
I said nothing.
“I’ve already narrowed it down to three dresses, so all that you have to do is watch me model them and tell me which one you like the most.”
I contemplated her offer. An entire day free of Cienna’s endless chatter seemed like a reasonable reward for half-hour or so of her madness. With any luck, she’d be too busy at the auction to pay any attention to me. Not going with her was out of the question. Maman was away for the weekend, and Cienna was taking her warden responsibility very seriously.
“Fine,” I replied.
Cienna smiled then, wide-eyed and looking mighty proud of herself. “Good. I’ll just go up now and finish assembling my accessories for each dress. You can come up once you’ve finished eating breakfast.”
After she left, I cleared the table and poured my undrunk tea down the kitchen sink. Thanks to Cienna’s foolishness, not only had I not been able to read my paper at a leisurely pace, but my tea had gone cold. I resigned myself to half-hour’s torture before I could get back under the covers and block out the light of the day.
*~*
On my way to Cienna’s room, the doorbell rang. In all likeliness, whoever was on the doorstep was there for her. However, I knew that she wasn’t about to halt her shoe and jewellery selection for something as bothersome as answering the front door. As for Camelea, if she was at home, she only ever knew to leave her room in order to attend Mass or give Maman puppy eyes for neglecting her. It was clearly up to me to find out who it was.
I squinted when I opened the door. It wasn’t because of the sun.
“How may I help you?” was at the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t remember how to speak. Whoever he was, he was criminally beautiful, and the liquid gold specks in his eyes seemed to be shooting warmth throughout my body.
“Axel Almstedt,” he said. He stretched out his hand casually, as if used to the temporary brain freeze of the women under his radar. “And you are?” he asked.
“Noira,” I managed.
He smiled; it made his eyes seem even warmer. I wanted to ask him where he was from. His accent was barely noticeable as he spoke English. I guessed that he was perhaps Swedish or German. His cell phone rang before I could ask.
“Excuse me,” he said, taking out his phone. “Hej? Lucas? Hej hur mår du?”
So he was Swedish. He was dressed as impeccably as one does for the cover of GQ and radiated a perfect blend of confidence and sex
appeal. For some strange reason, I was tempted to touch him to see if he was real.
I watched as he got off the phone. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I know that it was quite rude of me, but it was rather important.”
I gave him my best attempt at a smile. “It’s no problem. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Camelea,” he said. “We’re friends.”
Camelea? What on earth did he want with my psycho-Christian-sister? He didn’t look like the Born Again type.
“This way please,” I said in my best hostess voice. “If you’d just follow me through to the sitting room upstairs, I will get her for you.”
If Axel was here to see my sister, there was no way that he’d be interested in sampling any of my treats. It was such a pity, because Camelea sure as hell wasn’t going to be offering him a taste of anything. That girl clung to her virginity and her Jesus as if they were oxygen and water.
I showed him where to sit and went down the hall to Camelea’s bedroom. Bracing myself for her foul behaviour, I knocked on the door.
After opening the door and realizing that it was me, she pulled her bath towel closer and straightened up.
“What is it? I thought that Cienna was home,” she said. She suddenly looked very fatigued.
The feeling was mutual. “There’s someone here to see you,” I said.
“What?” Her eyes narrowed into the teeniest of slits. Had I not been the one to answer the door, I wouldn’t have believed it either.
“Axel Almstedt; he says that you two are friends.”
Camelea began to pale. The way that she looked at me, you’d have assumed that I was the Ghost of Horror’s Past come to snatch away her happiness. My interest in Axel piqued.
“Shall I send him away?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No!” Camelea snapped. “Tell him that I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She reached for her crucifix.
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