Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  “Suh wah? Because him sin dem a bite him, wi fi pretend seh everyting alright?”

  The buzzing grew louder as Cienna used a Jamaican phrase for Philippe being on bad terms with his conscience. Maman looked appalled by her utterance.

  “Cienna Saint Clair, I don’t know where you’ve gotten that little attitude of yours from, but you need to drop it. Fast.”

  “What are you not telling us? Why now?” Cienna barked. Gone was the carefree woman who beamed for the camera and sashayed down runways in diamonds and furs. Anyone who looked into Cienna’s eyes could easily see the little girl, curled up into a ball and crying along with Camelea and myself as we waited in the dark for someone to come and tell us that it had all been a joke—Philippe hadn’t left us, and Maman hadn’t refused to see us.

  Maman returned her laser-like glare. “There is something else, but you’ll find that out after dinner. And yes, I expect all of you to be at the table this evening. He is your father and you will be present.”

  Cienna snorted. “He’s more of a sperm donor than he’s a father.”

  “Call him whatever you want, Cienna. You’re still going to have to see him for a few days. All of you.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “You said that he was coming over to dinner. How does dinner turn into a few days?”

  “That will be discussed tomorrow night. Until then, try to act with extreme maturity.” The last statement was directed at Cienna. Maman’s eyes rested on her for a few seconds before she disappeared through the door.

  I remained on my bed with my head against the bedpost long after the others had gone. The buzzing in my ear was incessant and seemed to fill the room. Grey spots danced before my eyes, until they merge and everything became black.

  Of course Philippe would appear when I was finally coming to terms with my issues and attempting normalcy with Nicolaas. Why wouldn’t he time his entrance so that he could screw with our heads again?

  It was only seven-thirty at that point, but I didn’t care. I went to bed.

  *~*

  If I hadn’t known any better, I would have mistaken Maman for one of the more extreme cases at Golden Ridge. Mumbling under her breath and glancing slyly at the crockery that was conspiring against her, Maman belonged in a straight jacket with a nurse who never left her side.

  As requested, we had all showed up for dinner the next evening and were sitting in the parlour watching her across the hall as she flittered about the dining room. A glass almost dropped from her shaking hands. None of us attempted to help her.

  When the doorbell rang, my sisters and I grabbed the couch in synchronized movement. I felt like a severe anaemic, but no amount of iron consumption would correct my weakness.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Maman slammed a glass onto the table. “Will one of you please get the door?” She screamed.

  Maman never raised her voice.

  Cienna sucked her teeth in a long, slow manner and began examining her nails. The fear in her eyes could have burned a hole through her flesh. Camelea paled; the whites of her knuckles were even more pronounced as they tightened around the edges of the cushion that she clung to. Clearly, I would have to be the one to answer the door. Like a heavily pregnant woman, I pulled myself up from the sofa and walked out of the parlour.

  When I was younger, I used to wonder what it would be like when I eventually saw my father. They were fantasies really, figments of a lonely girl’s imagination. We’d wake up one morning to a letter sent by express mail telling us that he was miserable and that he was coming to get us. He’d arrive that afternoon, and we’d forgive him because after all, everyone made mistakes. We’d all sleep together in Maman’s bed like we sometimes did when I was a child. Philippe would hold Maman the way that he used to, as if she were the last beacon of light in the world and if he blinked, she’d disappear and he’d be eternally consumed by the darkness.

  Fantasies, however, are for children, and I eventually grew up. I stopped thinking about Philippe and our life in France. It’s a horrible moment when you realise that your father isn’t coming back.

  My hands shook as I opened the door. I took a deep breath and swung it open before my courage failed me. The man before me was awkward, like a shy homecoming king pushed to the front of the parade. He bore a nervous, lop-sided grin that appeared to be hastily sketched onto his face.

  After all these years, he still looked as I had remembered him. Not even the specks of greys in his otherwise brown hair and the faint traces of crow’s feet around his eyes could have diminished the boyish charm that he always had. I could easily see why Maman fell for him; his face was as charming as it was handsome. Our eyes met, and mine widened with the realization that despite all this, I had missed him.

  “Noira,” he spoke.

  It was the same voice that used to tell me that I had done wonderfully after he presented me with flowers at my ballet recitals. He used to call me danseuse étoile, his prima ballerina, and I’d smile, fantasizing about the day when I’d be centre stage.

  “Dan…”

  Whatever I felt for him disappeared. I jumped backwards, stung by his attempt to touch my hair.

  “Don’t call me that,” I hissed. “I gave up dancing.”

  His forehead resembled a flow chart with lines going every which way. “But you loved dancing.”

  “I’ve stopped loving a lot of things.”

  “Oh.” His voice dropped to a whisper. His eyes no longer met mine.

  “I’ll take your jacket,” I announced. “You may go on through to the parlour.”

  Wordlessly, he shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to me. As I opened the door to the coatroom and hung up his jacket, a single tear escaped. I quickly wiped it away. I kept my distance as I followed behind him and took my seat beside Camelea.

  We weren’t exactly the most optimistic bunch, having somehow managed to be coordinated in all-black ensembles. His eyes ran slowly from myself to Camelea, then onto Cienna. Cienna jumped up, as if being attacked by biting ants, and fled. Camelea ran behind her. Saint Camelea, always the one to try and save the day.

  Maman went back to nervously setting the table. Philippe dropped into an armchair. He tugged at his collar and loosened the top button. Maman’s nerves must have really been frayed, because she forgot to offer him something to drink. I sure as hell was not about to. I stared at him, as uncomfortable as I knew that he already was. I knew that it would make him even more so; I wanted it to.

  “Cienna got sick by your sight,” I informed him.

  He swallowed and ran a hand through his brown locks. “I know.”

  “Can you really blame her?” I pressed. “After all, there’s no one in this world that she hates more than you, and yet she’s been walking around all these years proudly bearing your features.”

  Something heavy banged against the kitchen floor. Philippe looked through the dining room and at the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, then back at me.

  “I suppose that you’re correct.” He fidgeted with his tie.

  “You suppose?” I raised an eyebrow.

  He cleared his throat and crossed his legs. “No, I don’t blame her, or any of you girls for that matter.”

  “As if you could ever have an effect on me,” I sniffed.

  Cienna and Camelea re-entered the room. Cienna looked very much like a drooping lily as she was helped onto the sofa and had her dress straightened out for her by Mother Hen. Philippe looked at her, eyes brimming with concern. He probably remembered those Sundays after church when she’d curl up in his lap and take a nap before we left for the return trip to Paris. He used to have that look on his face as he watched her sleep, as if scared that she’d somehow fall and hurt herself.

  “Are you okay?” Philippe asked.

  The colour returned to her cheek, and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think that you should have thought about whether or not I’d be okay before you left?”

  “I…”


  Cienna sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. It was a very unladylike thing to do, especially in front of Philippe who, from what I could remember, was all for being well-mannered. Camelea, reminiscent of a dog at a shelter, begged with her hungry eyes for Philippe to take her home and shower her with love.

  “Just leave me alone.” Cienna closed her eyes, wincing slightly at whatever image may have formed in her head.

  Philippe’s eyes mirrored her pain as he silently heeded to her command.

  “À table!” Maman appeared. She was wearing a dress that clung to her and accentuated her features. It was red, a colour that always looked good on her. Any other time, I would have complimented her on her appearance, but not tonight. Tonight she was Judas, and unlike Jesus, I didn’t forgive those who betrayed me.

  “It smells wonderful,” Philippe said, standing.

  Beside me, Cienna pretended to gag again. I took her hand as we walked into the living room.

  I remembered the last time that the five of us sat down for a meal together. It was late April. My sisters and I were sitting at the dining table waiting for Maman to come and join us when Philippe showed up. He was always busy during the week, so after breakfast, we wouldn’t see him again until bedtime, when he came to tell us goodnight. I should have known that something was wrong when the both of them joined us for dinner.

  We were too happy to see him to notice anything, but the signs were all there: the way that he and Maman barely said a word to each other and the fact that they sat at opposite ends of the table, when Maman usually sat at his left during meals. I caught Philippe staring at us a couple of times during dinner, but it wasn’t a normal gaze; he looked sad. Later, his voice cracked as he read a chapter of Le Petit Prince to me before bed.

  “Ça va?” I asked. “Voudriez-vous que je lis?”

  “I don’t need you to read,” he replied. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”

  “Okay.” I smiled then, closing my eyes as his words lulled me into a peaceful slumber.

  He was gone by the time I woke up the next morning. I couldn’t help but notice that we were sitting in the same order as we had that night. Once again, no one was talking.

  No longer able to keep up with the formalities, I put down my spoon. I wanted answers.

  “So,” I began. “What have you been doing with your life since you stole away in the middle of the night?”

  Maman almost dropped her water goblet. Cienna continued eating her salad, but she sat up a little. Camelea’s ears seemed to perk upright as she turned towards Philippe.

  Philippe put down his spoon and cleared his throat. “I did not steal away…”

  I stopped him. “Cut the crap, Philippe. You left in the middle of the night when we were asleep, and you never said goodbye. You can live in denial all you want, but by definition, you stole away.”

  “Noira!” Maman exclaimed. The effect of straining her throat sent her into a familiar coughing fit, and she shakily reached for her glass of water.

  “C’est OK,” Philippe said. “She has a right to be angry; you all do.”

  “I’m not angry,” I said. Under the table, my hands shook.

  “Well if you were,” Philippe corrected himself, “then you’d have a right to be. I’ve been living in Belgium and Amsterdam since I last saw you girls.”

  “And for how long have you been living in Garden City?” Camelea inquired, tilting her head towards Philippe as if in prayer. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide. She looked almost rhapsodic as she waited for her beloved to give her a sugar-sweet answer for leaving her alone for all these years. She would obviously be the first to forgive Philippe, if she hadn’t already done so.

  “A year.”

  “So you’ve been living in New York for a year, and yet you chose now of all times to see us. Why is that?” Camelea asked. She wasn’t the only one to stop eating when the question was asked. The three of us stared expectantly.

  He glanced at Maman before answering. “I wanted to see you girls but…”

  I cut him off. “You know what? Save it, because there is absolutely no excuse for not seeing us, just as you had none for leaving in the first place.”

  “That is enough, Noira! I will not have you disrespecting your father while you are in my presence!” The veins in Maman’s neck bulged against the side of her neck, struggling to pump their way through.

  “Father? Fathers don’t take off in the middle of the night! Fathers don’t cause their children unnecessary pain! He was not our father when he did those things, and he most certainly isn’t our father now. He will never be for that matter!”

  Those were the first words that Cienna had spoken since she sat down at the table.

  “And just who are you to be scolding Noira?” She turned to Maman, her face splotchy and red from the tears that were barrelling down her face. “After all that he put you through, you actually have the gall to sit here and defend him? Don’t tell me that you didn’t suffer, Mother, we saw your tears!”

  The colour drained from Maman’s face. No one could have hurt Maman more than Cienna, her baby, choosing not to call her ‘Maman.’

  After a long period of silence, Maman spoke. “You're right. I did get hurt; we all did. But you cannot let it get the best of you, because believe me when I say this, it will turn you into something so hideous that no one will want to come around you unless they absolutely have to. For that, you will hate yourself."

  She stood and began clearing the dishes. Philippe stood to help her, but she waved him away.

  I reached under the table and took Cienna’s hand, squeezing it gently. Despite my own pain at Philippe’s disappearance, I knew that it could not compare to that of Cienna’s. Parents are supposedly unable to choose favourites among their children, but Philippe failed terribly. Everyone knew that Cienna was his darling girl. She could always be found perched in his lap or being carried around on his back. The only person who could control her sass was her Papa. Papa was gone, however; all that we had left was Philippe, a man who we did not know.

  “Alors,” Camelea began. “Vous aimiez votre séjourne en Belgique? Did you live in Wallonia or at the house in Brussels?”

  On the table, Cienna’s right hand formed a tight fist around her knife.

  “J’ai habité à Wallonie pour un an. Je suis allé éventuellement à Brussels.”

  “Let me guess,” I began. “You hid out in Wallonia for a year to give Paris a while to get used to the fact that you were single again and then find a new cover story, right?”

  Saint Camelea began trembling, revealing her manipulative nature.

  “I was painting actually,” Philippe replied.

  “Painting?” I demanded. Surely I had heard incorrectly.

  Philippe nodded, smiling boyishly. “Yes. I painted all the time as a child. I came across some old pieces when I was wandering the chateau and realised how much I’d missed doing it. That’s why I ended up staying for the year in Wallonia. I got caught up once again. The grounds are magnificent. I spent the year painting the scenery.”

  I tried, and failed, to process what he was saying. Philippe painted?

  “I remember you showing me your drawings as a child, Noira,” Philippe continued. “Perhaps I passed these talents down to you.”

  “You could say that,” I replied. “But I may have gotten it from whomever it was who passed it on to you, if you want to get into specifics.”

  “You should see her work,” Camelea interjected.

  Almost instinctively, Cienna grabbed my hand under the table. Had she not done so, Camelea would have had to dodge my wine glass.

  “I’d like that,” Philippe replied.

  I shot Camelea a dangerous glare. My jaw chattered as I struggled to swallow the words that were on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I replied, “I don’t think so.”

  Philippe looked like he had taken a gunshot.

  Camelea reached over and squeezed his hand. He looked down at her hand
over his and then back up at her. I could have laughed when I saw his struggle to not let his the tears fall from his watery eyes.

  **~*~*~**~*~*~**

  ¯ CHAPITRE HUIT ¯

  KHALIL GIBRAN

  The apple really didn’t fall far from the tree, and Saint Camelea stepped in line as Maman’s partner of treacherous acts. Once it was time to retire into the parlour for coffee, I sat as far away from Philippe and Saint Camelea as possible. All that they had left to do was have a tearful embrace with soft murmurs of “I’m sorry,” and “I love you,” to make the perfect end to those stupid family sitcoms that television stations insist on airing. It’s all about learning lessons, forgiveness, and healing on those shows. Bullshit. Real life didn’t work like that.

  Had I not expected anything better from Camelea, I would have been disappointed. Cienna took my hand and squeezed it. I knew what she must have been thinking: her desire to heal had willed the bastard into existence. God was surely a sadistic pervert who got off from other people’s suffering.

  “Would anyone like to inform us as to the real reason why we’re gathered here on this rather unpleasant evening?” I asked.

  The mother and donor exchanged yet another nervous glance before, quite surprisingly, Maman spoke. “Your father didn’t just decide to move to America last summer; he moved here because I asked him to.”

  “What?” Camelea asked.

  I smiled at the thought that her little fantasy of his maddening desire to once again be reunited with us was crushed by Maman’s news. He hadn’t been stricken with regret and an uncontrollable need to see us, after all.

  “I asked him to move to New York because I knew that one day something like this would happen, and he’d need to be here.”

  Cienna stopped pouring her coffee. “Something like what?” she demanded. Her head seemed to spin 360 degrees as her rays shot between Maman and Philippe. “And why the hell does he need to be here? He needed to be there for us eleven years ago and he didn’t come back then, did he?”