“Andreas is the person who sent you those flowers, no?” I asked.
She nodded.
“And how did he trick you into it?” I inquired.
“He showed up at the photo shoot with more flowers and got down on one knee. I only said yes so that he’d leave and stop embarrassing me. Everyone was watching,” she said. “To be honest, I forgot about it until he showed up last night. Maman opened the door when he arrived, and I couldn’t bring myself to take away her happiness. I went to dinner with him, in his home, with the candles and home-cooked meal, and I was scared shitless.”
“Well why do you think that you felt that way?” I asked, trying my hardest not to laugh as I imagined Cienna, her eyes two times their normal size and knees buckling under the table as Andreas came close to pour the wine.
“I don’t know!” She threw her hands in the air. “That’s why I asked you. You’re the one who’s been to all those psychiatrists. Haven’t you learned anything at all?”
“I’m not insane; I’m unwell. If I take my medicine, I’ll get better,” I replied, reciting the script that had been drilled into my head.
“And how’s that going for you?” Cienna asked, dryly.
I met her answer with silence and stared ahead. She started flicking the pair of ballet shoes around the rear view mirror. Eventually, I muttered my reply.
“Are you reaching out to fish, Noira?” she asked. “Humans can’t hear at those decibels.”
“Some days are better than others,” I repeated. I didn’t look at her.
“I see,” she replied. “Well you’re going tanning for him, which is a step in a positive direction, no?”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” I replied. “Enough about me. How did you survive your date if men petrify you?”
“Men do not petrify me!” she countered. “And I survived the date by drinking three quarters of the bottle of red wine.”
I couldn’t help my reaction; I threw back my head and started convulsing like an epileptic. My whole body was in that laugh. Tears sprang from the corner of my eyes. When finally I was able to stop the laughter I let out a long, low whistle.
Cienna’s teeth struggled in the corners of her mouth against her shaking lips as she watched me. “You sounded like a train pulling into a station,” she informed me. “I fully expected to see steam coming from the corners of your black dress.”
“Sorry,” I replied. “So you almost drank an entire bottle of wine…”
“Liquid courage.” Cienna continued, rolling her eyes. “It made me tell Andreas things that I’d never admit and even worse, I have another date with him.”
I reached over and patted her head.
She slapped me away. “I’m not a dog!”
“On the bright side,” I said, ignoring her. “At least people will stop thinking that you’re a lesbian.”
“And on the dark side, I’ll just get drunk again and tell him some more secrets. Want me to let him in on a few of yours?” Cienna shot me a look of contempt.
“What on earth could he have possibly gotten you to admit?” I asked. “Why are you so worked up?”
“He guessed that I use my anger as a defence mechanism,” she said.
“Well you do.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that people knew that!”
“Not everyone does;” I replied. “Just those who know you.”
“Which is precisely the point!” She wailed. “He is not supposed to know me! I don’t like him, and I have never hung out with him!”
“Maybe he’s your soul mate,” I mused.
“Like Nicolaas is yours?” She snapped.
“Nicolaas is not my anything,” I replied, staring straight ahead. There was a slight twitch in my jaw.
“Oh really?” Cienna smirked. “Then why are you getting a tan?”
I didn’t bother to reply.
Cienna started twirling the ends of her curls as she turned to look out the window. Her entire body jerked as she tapped her feet. We sat through three red lights before she spun towards me. “Do you believe that it’s possible to change after years of being a specific person?”
I thought about her question for a while before answering. “Are you sure that you shouldn’t be asking someone else who is more qualified?”
“I’m asking the right person,” she replied. “If anyone needs changing for the better, it’s you.”
I tried my best to ignore her last comment. “I think that change is possible, but only if the person really wants to change. What exactly are you trying to change?”
“Everything,” she declared. “Who lives like this, Noira?”
“Who tans regularly, gets chauffeured in a Range Rover because she’s too fragile to drive, and has a closet that Carrie Bradshaw would envy, you mean?”
She pushed me gently. “Go away. That’s not what I meant. Who gets so scared that her natural reaction is to run when a boy comes close to her? And who barks at people so that they won’t see what she’s really feeling? Up to last week, I thought that nothing was wrong with me, when clearly there was. Why did no one say anything?”
“Would you have listened?” I asked.
“Probably not,” she admitted. She sighed again and gazed out the window. “Why am I like this?” she whispered.
Do you want an honest answer?” I asked, turning the car into a parking space.
Cienna turned in her seat again. “Enlighten me, Freud.”
“It’s because you’re hurt.”
“How am I hurt?”
I smirked. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Cienna, you use words that most people need a dictionary to understand and get A’s without trying. We’re all hurt; we just show it in our own reckless way.”
“You make it sound so simple,” she replied.
“Oh but it is.”
“So if it’s so simple, why are you the textbook definition of psychotic? Why don’t you just get over your hurt and be normal?”
“There’s more to me than just being hurt, Cienna,” I whispered. My frown was back. “Besides, life is far more interesting when you’re crazy.”
*~*
My conversation with Cienna had left me drained. Once we got home, I went straight to my bedroom, kicked off my shoes and got under the covers. Functioning as a normal person was very tiring.
I burrowed deep under the comforter and willed sleep to come. After a few minutes, my breathing began to even, and I felt the familiar calm that usually came before slumber. Just before I drifted into unconsciousness, an image of Philippe popped into my head. I sat up.
“Damn you, Cienna!” I cursed. I fell back on to my pillow and groaned. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep now.
As much as Cienna’s crisis was affecting me, I was right about one thing; I was hurt. My entire family and my dog might as well have died and left me alone in the world, for that was how I felt after waking up that first day and realised that Philippe would no longer be coming back.
I ran to his office expecting to see him there, waiting to tell me that is was all a lie. His desk was empty. I knew then that he was really gone. Like a book knocked off a shelf, I tumbled haphazardly to the floor. My sorrow floated above me, bounced off the walls and barrelled their way through the office door. It didn’t stop when my attendant came and dragged me, kicking and slapping her, up the stairs. I was like a wounded stray, too wild to know that anything could possibly help me.
I didn’t understand what any of it meant. I refused to calm down. I kicked the lamp off the nightstand in my bedroom. When that didn’t stop the pain, I threw my pillows to the floor. I went over to my bookshelf and started ripping apart the books. Philippe had bought nearly all of them. If he didn’t want me, I didn’t want them. I screamed until my throat bled. When I could no longer vocalise what I was feeling, and I was too tired from destroying my room, I crawled onto my discarded pillows and fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was dark. The house was so silent that
I could hear myself breathe. Normally, I would have called for Maman, but I knew that she wouldn’t come. She’d locked herself into her room the day before and refused to come out. I told myself that I had done something wrong to push Maman and Philippe away. I was barely twelve; what did I know about life and love? What did I know about complications? Math was complicated for me at the time; I didn’t understand that things could get more complex than that.
I didn’t want to be alone; the darkness scared me. Slowly, I made my way through the mess and went into Cienna’s room next door. She and Camelea were cuddled together, sleeping on her bed. I joined them. When the attendant came to wake us the next morning, I didn’t bother to open my eyes.
“Laissez-nous tranquille!” I yelled, pulling the covers back over my head.
“But you have to go to school,” she pleaded.
“Then tell Maman to come and wake us,” I shot back.
Maman never came. No one tried to get us out of that room again. We stayed in Cienna’s bed, sleeping and crying and becoming as gray as the Parisian skies until one day in the middle of July when Grandpa Bill arrived from Jamaica, where he had retired after my grandmother, Hélène died.
Like Maman, Grandpa Bill was used to hardship when it came to love. His and Grand-mère Hélène’s story was atypical. He was the black driver, and she, the white debutante from Louisiana whom he chauffeured. Needless to say, a baby was the outcome of their secret café au lait union; Maman. My great grandfather, Marc Jeannot, was none too pleased with the news. Despite this, he paid for Maman to attend the best schools, and as a graduation present, she was sent to Paris for the summer, where she met Philippe. Fifteen years later, she was finally going to make the journey back home.
When Grandpa told us to go and have a shower, we didn’t contest.
“Do you think that he’s going to live with us?” Camelea asked as we dressed for breakfast.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Do you think that Maman is going to be downstairs?” Camelea asked again.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think that Papa is going to be downstairs?” Cienna ventured.
“I don’t know!” I yelled. “ Laisse-moi tranquille!”
They knew to stop bothering me then.
When we went into the dining room, we were surprised to find Maman sitting in her usual seat. I turned slightly, expecting to see Philippe. It was just Grandpa Bill. No one spoke during the meal. Two days later, the movers arrived. Grandpa Bill told us told to show them all that we wanted to take with us.
“No,” he said. “Before you even ask, we aren’t going to see Philippe.”
We got on a plane at the end of July and flew to New York. By August, Maman had gotten rid of our attendant. She took us to St. Croix for two weeks. She came back to us then, and we never spoke of France or Philippe again. Eleven years later, I was apparently still the wreck that I had been after I’d destroyed my room and fallen to pieces on the floor.
I got out of bed, opened my curtains and went over to my vanity. I stood before the mirror for a good five minutes trying to recognise the little girl from Paris in my facial features. I tugged on my cheeks, pulled my hair back, did a half-turn and smiled. She wasn’t there.
I went back to bed.
*~*
The only reason why I made it down to dinner that evening was because Maman had sent Cienna up to get me. The four of us sat at the dining room table, eating quiche and salad as Maman and Camelea chattered away.
“…And when will you be seeing him again?” Maman asked, reaching for her glass of wine.
I gathered that they were talking about Axel.
Camelea smiled. The bright lights of the dining room’s chandelier were as effective as a small flashlight in a dark forest when compared to Camelea’s radiance. “Tomorrow,” she replied. “He’s taking me to the opera.”
“How lovely,” Maman beamed. She looked just about ready to clap. Cienna, unnoticed by Maman, punched away furiously on her iPhone.
“I still don’t know what I’m going to wear. He only told me a few minutes ago that he’d gotten tickets,” Camelea continued. “He’s very spontaneous.”
“Spontaneity makes life more exciting, doesn’t it?” Maman replied. She took a bite of the salad and seemed to chew thoughtfully.
Camelea nodded.
Across from me, Cienna mimed slitting her wrists with her butter knife. I coughed to suppress my giggle.
“Is anything the matter, Noira?” Maman’s fork paused midair.
I shook my head.
“Well it’s seven….” She didn’t need to continue her statement. I reached into my pocket for my pill case. Maman smiled and turned towards Camelea. “Thankfully, you have a mother who has a wardrobe filled with beautiful dresses for the opera…”
I put four pills in my mouth and took up my glass. They tasted retched as they began to dissolve on my tongue. Reflexively, I spat them into the glass.
“Really?” Camelea gave a little clap.
Cienna continued to punch away on her phone.
“Mais si,” Maman replied. “Anything for you, Mia.”
This time, Cienna put her knife to her throat. I grabbed my napkin and feigned a series of raucous coughs. My eyes watered as I held my breath to stifle the laughter.
“Noira are you sure that nothing’s the matter?” Maman asked.
“Perhaps you should go and lie down,” Cienna said, smiling. Her eyes twinkled mischievously at me.
I nodded, not at all interested in continuing to bear witness to Camelea and Maman’s nauseating conversation.
“That’s a good idea,” Maman replied. “I’ll come up after dinner.”
I nodded and excused myself. No one had noticed the three pills that were dissolving at the bottom of my glass.
*~*
Midnight came and went and Maman still had not come to check me on after dinner. It wasn’t like Maman to make a promise and to not follow through. I lay in bed for a few minutes and listened to see if I could hear her feet padding towards my room. Nothing. I decided to go and check on her.
Light shone under the door at the end of the hallway, so I knew that she was awake. I paused slightly and put my head against the door. I heard a faint cough. I didn’t remember her having a cold at dinner. I knocked once to announce my entrance and pushed the door open. It wasn’t as if I expected to find her shacked up with a man in her bed.
“Maman?” I called.
It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the bright room. When they did, I found her struggling to sit up in her bed. Her hands shook, and she kept falling back against the pillows.
“Maman, what’s wrong with you?” I asked. It took me all of two seconds to be by her side.
She winced as she tried to speak. “Me…Medicine ca…bi…net. White bottle.” She ended her sentence breathlessly as if she was going over the final hurdle in a sprint.
I turned and ran for the bathroom. I didn’t need a medical degree to know that Maman was in pain. By the looks of things, she was in a lot of it. The bottle was on the top shelf of the cabinet, almost hidden behind a tall jar of makeup remover. I almost knocked the jar out of the way as I grabbed the bottle and ran back to Maman.
“How many?” I asked.
She held up two fingers.
I took out two of the pills and put them in her open mouth. On her nightstand was a glass of water. Gently, I cradled her head as I tipped the water into her mouth. Once she’d swallowed the pills, I set the glass and prescription bottle aside and sat on her bed.
“I… for…got… you,” Maman said.
“Shhh,” I whispered. I took her hand into mine. “It’s fine. Don’t try to speak.”
Maman smiled and closed her eyes.
Maybe it was my childish naïveté, but in all my twenty-two years—almost twenty-three at that—I’d never seen Maman with so much as a cold. She was always the one who was nursing us or staying up late wi
th us to tell us that there was nothing waiting for us under the bed.
I didn’t know what to do. What had caused her that much pain? I took up the prescription bottle with my free hands. It wasn’t labelled. I put it down and turned back to Maman. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but I wasn’t sure if she was sleeping. Her breathing was coming out in uneven rasps. For a moment, I contemplated calling an ambulance then changed my mind. If Maman had needed a doctor, she would have told me that instead of asking for the pills. Whatever was wrong with her was obviously not something that had suddenly come upon her in the middle of the night.
I turned off the light and I got into the bed with her, snuggling as close to her as possible and breathed in her scent. She smelled like lavender. The familiar scent was comforting. I wrapped my arm across her stomach and kissed her cheek.
“Mmm…” she murmured.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“Mmm…”
My eyelids became heavy as I listened to her steady wheezes, and I eventually fell asleep. I didn’t wake up until the next morning when I felt Maman kiss my cheek. Slowly, I opened my eyes. She was sitting beside me, dressed for work and stroking my hair. I sat up.
“Are you sure that you should be going to work?” I asked, yawning slightly.
“I’m fine,” she said, kissing my forehead. “Just some really bad cramps. My doctor gave me something for the pain, but I forgot to take them during dinner.”
“Oh,” I replied. “So you’re fine, then?”
“I’m fine.” Maman said. She looked down at her watch and kissed me once more on my cheek. “I’ve got to go, or I’ll be late.”
I watched in silence as she left. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
*~*
A week later, I found myself alone at last. Somewhere between the appetiser and dessert the night before, Camelea had mentioned that she was going with her best friend, Raecine, to see a movie after dinner and would be spending the night at her house. Cienna was going to Miami for the weekend for a photo shoot and had left before I had woken up. Maman had gone into work.
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