Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  Maman closed her eyes for a few moments. “This is different,” she said.

  “How?” Cienna snapped.

  Maman’s eyes were so narrow that they appeared to have black daggers shooting through them. The tick in her jaw ran wild. I’d never seen Maman look like that before, not even when she was scolding me. After staring each of us down, Maman continued. “A little over a year ago, I went to the doctor for my annual check-up. Everything seemed fine at first, then I fell ill shortly afterwards.”

  At the same time, Philippe rose. My eyes followed him as he walked through my house, as if he lived had always lived there, and disappeared up the stairs. When he returned, it was with a glass of water and the unlabeled prescription bottle that I’d once had to run and get. He handed them to Maman before resuming his position beside Camelea on their loveseat. I stared at Maman. She wouldn’t look at me as she took two of the small pills.

  “What’s wrong with Maman?” Camelea turned to look at Philippe. There was no love in her eyes, only vapours.

  Maman coughed again, and it was then that I saw the bruise, as faint as white against snow, on the back of the hand that brought a napkin to cover her mouth. I thought back to the night of my arrival from Connecticut. I stood.

  “You lost weight because you’re sick, didn’t you?” I demanded.

  Maman looked away.

  “And that night when you were in pain, you made me get you those pills.” I placed my hands on my hips. “What are they for?”

  Maman tried to respond, but ended up finishing her water as she struggled to recover from yet another coughing fit. I couldn’t breathe. Why hadn't we noticed that her slight cold had carried on for a month? I already knew the answer. We were too busy with our own lives. Like a sleepwalker, I wasn’t aware that I had crossed the distance between myself and Maman until I was standing in front of her.

  "Which type?" I whispered. For the first time since the evening had begun, I acknowledged Philippe as a person and not an annoyance.

  "Leukaemia." He ran a weary hand through the mop of his hair.

  Like paper swept up by the wind, I floated down, down, down, until the current faded and I was on the floor. I thought of all of the ways that I had ever given Maman some sort of trouble over the past year. The breakdown, the subsequent hospitalization, snapping at her on the first night that I returned. I’d been bitter about her incessant need to check up on me. I all but refused to speak to her as she sat during her vigilant watch in the evenings and juggled answering office emails and writing up briefs between my sulks and protests that I was old enough to be by myself. She never complained. It was as if her illness never really existed, when in reality, it had been eating her alive.

  "Which type?" I whispered.

  Philippe’s boyish features disappeared as he looked at me. He looked like an aged undertaker who was ready to settle into his own crypt. “Chronic myeloid leukaemia. She's stopped responding to local treatment. Those pills are to ease her pain." Philippe replied.

  "Now what?" Camelea asked.

  Philippe glanced at Maman. "Now she flies to Switzerland."

  "Switzerland?!" Behind me, Cienna shrieked.

  "Yes, she has to go to Switzerland." Philippe repeated. "It's only for two weeks."

  "Only two weeks?" Cienna snapped. "We only just found out that she has cancer. Why does she have to leave?"

  "They have a new treatment there that they'd like to try on her. It’s too late for her to get a bone marrow transplant; this is her last option."

  "So when does she leave?" Camelea asked.

  My heart started slamming over and over again against my chest. All of the 'she' and 'her' made it seem as if we were talking about a dead person.

  "The flight is at six a.m." Philippe added.

  “WHAT?” Cienna howled. “And you waited until the night before to tell us?”

  “I was scared,” Maman replied.

  “You should made her tell us earlier, Philippe!” Cienna screamed.

  In the middle of the subsequent argument between her and Philippe, I stood. I doubted that anyone noticed my disappearance until the front door slammed and the sound reverberated off the walls and into the parlour.

  *~*

  I followed the cracks on the sidewalk, but I did not walk on them. Step on a crack, break your momma’s back. I laughed. At least broken backs could be repaired; they didn’t require last resort trips to Switzerland for experimental treatment.

  The cracks led me further and further away from my neighbourhood. When they disappeared, I let the sidewalk be my guide. I didn’t quite know where I was going, but I knew that I couldn’t go back to that house of cards. I didn’t want to see what other surprises those tricksters had in store for us.

  I walked past the park where Maman used to take us when we first got to New York; the organic food store, where Maman shopped; and my old middle school, where my teachers ganged up on me and made Maman send me to my first psychiatrist. I walked past my life, and I did not look back.

  My legs started to feel like lead, but I did not care. My body had been through suicide attempts and had replied with a resonating “Fuck you!” It could handle a little walk. I trudged onwards and arrived at another park. It had nothing but a three-person swing set and a couple of trees stretched out over less than a mile or so of land. I cared neither for the trees nor the swings.

  The rain started to fall. Its fat welts slapped my shoulders as I resumed my march towards the forest across the park. Onward Christian soldiers, marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before. Jesus had long since forgotten my name.

  As the rain fell harder, the grass squished under my feet and turned into mud. It was like a sinking pool of cement, sticking to my feet and trying to suck me in. I kicked my shoes off my feet and continued at a steady pace, murdering the grass as I stomped across the clearing. What use was life? There would be no purpose if Maman died. Thunder roared and lightning clashed in the sky. I wished that the lightning would strike me as I crossed the middle of the clearing.

  Even when my body yelled at me to stop, I marched further. Finally, my knees buckled, and I was tossed onto a flowerbed, taking more life as I fell. I felt no pain as I sank into the mud. The rain fell into my nose and went straight into my nasal passage. I inhaled deeply; drowning didn’t seem like a bad idea. I closed my eyes hoping that the rains would push me downwards.

  Sometime later, I fell asleep.

  “Noira!”

  I covered my ears.

  “Noira!”

  I wished that the noise would stop. I thought that dying was supposed to be peaceful.

  “Noira, damn it! Is that you?” The voice got closer. “Noira!”

  My eyes rolled upwards. Nicolaas.

  “Jesus Christ,” Nicolaas said.

  “Adonis!” I gave him a toothy smile. “Are you here to bring me to Saint Peter?”

  I was being carried like the weightless angel that I had become, cradled by a god. Eventually, I felt myself being lowered and blankets were tucked around me. Heat poured on me.

  “Noira are you okay?” Nicolaas looked over the front seat at me, a fretful look on his face.

  I smiled drowsily. Dying apparently felt like falling asleep. The car hummed to life, and we were off at the speed of light, where Saint Peter surely awaited. But we didn’t go to the pearly gates; we went to my personal hell.

  “No!” I croaked as we sped up the drive.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to go to Hell,” I mumbled into my blanket.

  “Noira, what are you talking about? You’re not going to Hell.” Nicolaas parked the car in front of my doorway and turned to look at me again.

  “I’m not dead?” My eyebrows knitted. I took a better look at my surroundings. No devil, no roaring fire, no instruments of torture to punish me for revelling in the Seven Deadly Sins. I was alive.

  Fuck.

  “Noira are you feeling feverish?”

 
; When I didn’t reply, he opened his door and came around. In one swoop, I was on his lap, and he was feeling my neck with the back of his hand. I pushed him away.

  “She has cancer,” I simply said.

  “I know,” Nicolaas replied, hugging me closer. “I’m sorry.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Cienna called,” he replied stroking my hair. “She thought that you were at Bryn’s; I answered. When you didn’t show up, I went looking for you. I almost gave up, but then I saw something fall to the ground in that clearing and decided to see if it was you.”

  I burrowed my face into his chest. I liked the way that it felt in his arms. “You’re my guardian angel.”

  Nicolaas chuckled. “I guess so.”

  “I’m scared to go back in there.”

  “I know.” He kissed my forehead. “But your mother needs you.”

  I sighed.

  “If you don’t see your mother before she leaves, you’ll never be able to live with yourself,” he pressed.

  “Damn you for always being right!” I cursed.

  He chuckled. The vibrations tickled my face as I smothered myself in his chest.

  “You have to go inside.”

  “Fine.” I pulled away from him. “Get rid of me.”

  He pulled me closer, and I eagerly drank him in. As quickly as the kiss began, it ended. I bit my lips.

  “Arrête,” Nicolaas commanded.

  With a quick peck to his lips, I stole another kiss. Knowing that I would not be able to hold myself back if I was forced to be in such close proximity to him, I opened the door and disappeared into the rain before he could so much as comprehend what just happened. I did not stop running until I was in the house. It was only once I was safely indoors that I took a peek at the car inching further and further away from me. I still wanted him.

  “He’s gone.”

  I jumped backwards almost knocking over the table in the foyer.

  “Who is?” I asked Cienna. She had entered the room almost as soon as the front door had opened.

  “Our sperm donor.”

  “Oh.”

  Cienna looked down at my feet and frowned. “Where are my shoes?”

  “Shoes?” I walked past her in an attempt to get up to my room to change.

  “The black pumps that I lent you last week to wear on your date; you had them on at dinner this evening,” she said following closely behind me.

  Fuck.

  “Where are my shoes?” Cienna demanded. She pulled my arms to stop me and stepped in front of me.

  I swallowed, unable to bring myself to say the words.

  “Noira! Those were $600 shoes!” She stomped her foot on the ground and let out an ear-piercing shriek.

  I cringed. “I’ll buy them back, Cienna. They’re just ordinary shoes.”

  “Tomorrow,” Cienna said. “You’ll buy them back tomorrow.”

  At the top of the stairs, Camelea appeared with a frown on her face. “Cienna,” she scolded. “Is now really the time to be vain?”

  “Shut up, Judas!” Cienna hissed.

  Camelea rolled her eyes. “Maman wants us, so hurry up. She needs to get some rest.”

  At the thought of Maman, I took the stairs two at a time. As we got to the top of the stairs, Cienna muttered something so that only I could hear.

  “They were not ordinary shoes!”

  **~*~*~**~*~*~**

  ¯CHAPITRE NEUF¯

  THE SUFFERING

  Maman’s suitcases were packed and waiting for her by the side of her door. I wondered how long they’d been sitting there waiting for the moment when she would leave us to the mercy of that despicable man. Maman sat in the middle of her bed with its white sheets and pillows. She was so pale; one might be able to glance over the room and not notice that she was there. More peculiarly, she was surrounded by photo albums and pictures that I wasn’t aware of her still owning. Wordlessly, we approached her makeshift altar.

  She was staring at a picture of her and my father at their wedding. Maman looked lovely in a form-fitting off-white silk dress with pearl straps. She smiled in a way that I had not seen her smile in years; one that let all who witnessed it know that she was utterly blissful and content with life. Even her eyes seemed softer and brighter. Philippe looked at her as if he could not believe that Maman was his and his alone. Tidying up the family picture were Philippe’s mother on one side, a haughty look on her face, and Grandpa Bill looking on with his usual sombre and all-knowing expression.

  “Do you girls remember the last time that you saw your grandmother?” Maman asked.

  I remembered the day that Maman was talking about, and I knew why she brought it up. I was twelve, and I doubt that I’ll ever forget the details. It was a Sunday, and in France, you spent Sundays with your family, usually at your grandparents’ house. We only visited my father’s mother a few times when I was younger. I used to wonder why we didn’t see her often. After I visited her for the last time, I instantly regretted ever wanting to see her.

  I wore a white dress. I remember dancing about my room just so that it would sway around me. “I’m an angel,” I told my attendant, spinning and laughing. My dress turned into a flower, petals opening and closing as I wove my way around my bedroom.

  Before I knew it, Maman was at my door with my sisters in toe, and we were being told to put on our seatbelts as we drove away from the house. The ride there was unusually silent; we all knew that it was a big deal that Grand-mère had invited us over for dinner, we just didn’t know how big of a deal it was.

  I grabbed onto my seat as we drove through the gates of Grand-mère’s house. It snarled over us with its crooked chimneys and curtains drawn shut to block out all outside light. It was February, and the leaves on the trees were gone. The howling wind didn’t add much to the feel of the place. I clung to Maman as we ascended.

  Once we arrived in the parlour, I turned to see what my sisters were doing. Cienna and Camelea had taken a seat beside Maman.

  “Papa, may I sit in your lap?” I asked.

  It was a relief when he lifted me up. The five us sat in silence until Grand-mère arrived.

  “Good evening,” she stepped into the doorway. Even though she was barely taller than me, Grand-mère seemed to loom above us all.

  I jumped down from Philippe’s lap, and he stood. “Maman.”

  He kissed both of Grand-mère’s cheeks and escorted her to her seat. While he did this, I squeezed in between Cienna and Maman. Grand-mère was sitting beside Philippe, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Her eyebrows’ arches were so high that she bore a permanent look of surprise.

  “I trust that you weren’t waiting for very long,” Grand-mère said once we were seated. She sat with her back so straight that I wouldn’t have been surprised if there were whalebones in her dress.

  “We weren’t,” Philippe replied.

  “Good,” she said. “Be a dear, Philippe, and fix us some drinks. I’m confused as to why you haven’t done so already. You know that I don’t like to wait.”

  Like a startled cat, Philippe sprang from his seat and went over the bar.

  “And will you be having a drink, Trischa?” Grand-mère asked, smiling. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Maman stiffened beside me. “No, thank you.”

  “No, thank you to the drink or the pregnancy?”

  Philippe almost knocked over the bottle of Cognac.

  “No, thank you to the drink.”

  “I see,” Grand-mère said, turning to accept her drink from Philippe.

  I frowned up at Maman. I didn’t know that she might be pregnant. I looked at Philippe; he was rather pale. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening.

  “I do so deplore Sundays,” Grand-mère went on. “There’s hardly anything to do after Mass, so one has to amuse oneself with whatever type of company one can find. Don’t you agree, Philippe?”

  “Yes, Maman.”

  Grand-mère sighed and took
a sip of her drink.

  I sat up, ready to tell Grand-mère all about our fun Sundays, when I felt a sharp pain in my side. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maman’s hand return to her lap. I didn’t say anything.

  “How is your work at the hospital, Maman?” Philippe asked.

  “Ghastly. You wouldn’t believe the kind of riffraff that they allow into the hospital now. Apparently it’s illegal to turn people away. As for the Africans, well, they clearly didn’t have bills for their huts at home and simply cannot be bothered to learn how to pay them here...”

  Maman stiffened again.

  “…I am simply exhausted from having doubled my efforts at fundraising,” Grand-mère finished.

  The maid arrived and announced that it was time for dinner. Maman didn’t wait for Grand-mère to lead us through to the dining room; she marched right on ahead and dragged me behind her. Cienna and Camelea hurried after us.

  Once the butler finished serving, Grand-mère began again. “Have you heard that Françoise and Yves had a little boy, Philippe? They named him Étienne after his grandfather.”

  “I heard,” Philippe said.

  “Cienna?” Grand-mère said.

  She looked up from her soup.

  “Oui, Grand-mère?” Cienna asked.

  Grand-mère smiled at Cienna in a manner that I suppose was meant to be sweet. However, with her arched eyebrows, she looked frightening. “Wouldn’t you like a little brother to play with?”

  To this day, I wish that I had been somehow able to stop Cienna before she had given her answer. It was meant in innocence, but as we later found out, it only served as support for Grand-mère’s loathing of Maman.

  “That would be nice.”

  “Please pass the salt, Noira,” Maman said.

  I looked up at her. She winked. Grand-mère spent the rest of dinner tossing names at Philippe and asking him if he happened to have kept in contact with any of them. They were all daughters of her friends and people who, I assumed at the time, he’d grown up with.

  “No, Mother, I can’t say that I’ve seen much of her recently,” he always replied.