Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  I wanted to confess to her that I didn’t think that I could survive much longer before having yet another breakdown. I wanted to tell her that I was scared and that I missed her so much that I had become a waterworks display at night. Above all else, I wanted to tell her that I was sorry for all that I had ever done to make her cry and that I wished that it was me dying of cancer and instead of her. Maman shouldn’t have been made to fight for her life; it should have been me, the one who clearly had no regard for life.

  But I didn’t tell Maman anything that was on my mind. I told her that my room was nice and that I enjoyed the view of the pool below. I told her that Madame Laurent was an excellent cook. I told her that I was trying to give Philippe a chance and that I had made an effort to curve Cienna’s nasty comments during dinner. I told her that I was working on a new painting to pass the time.

  I could not and would not tell her the truth. Happy patients had a better chance at responding to treatments. Mothers who were fretting over their depressed children would not fare well. I refused to be the one to kill my mother.

  I was all alone except for my pack of cigarettes and my friend, Grey Goose.

  *~*

  “Where the fuck is Philippe?”

  My room door banged against the wall, and Cienna stormed in.

  “I am going to set fire to his fucking Mercedes!” She stepped onto the balcony and grabbed the glass that was on the table. I said nothing as she chugged my vodka cranberry; I simply refilled my glass before disappearing.

  On my way down to the cellar, I passed Camelea in Philippe’s study. Just like the last time that I had caught her in his study in Paris, she was reading the Bible. It had been the Sunday of Grandpa’s arrival.

  After lunch, Cienna and I were walking to the pool when we passed Philippe’s office. The door was open, so we went in. Camelea was curled up on the chaise with the Bible spread out in her lap.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “Reading the Bible.” Camelea held up the book.

  “Why?” Cienna’s eyes narrowed.

  “Father Tautou says that Jesus will see me through this difficult time,” Camelea replied, looking down at the pages.

  I snorted. “Father Tautou is paid to say that.”

  “That’s blasphemous!” Camelea cried. She gripped the edges of the Bible.

  “You’re a fool,” I said.

  “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful,” Camelea chanted.

  “Freak!” Cienna hissed.

  “Sinner!” she countered.

  I looked her up and down and took Cienna’s hand. Camelea watched, clinging to her Bible, as we walked away from her. Eleven years later, neither of us had bothered to bridge the gap, and Camelea was still alone with her faith.

  I returned to my room with another glass full of ice and a new bottle of cranberry juice.

  “Dare I offer you a cigarette?” I asked.

  “Do you want me to set your car on fire as well?” Cienna snapped. She stretched out her glass for a top up.

  “You’re not burning down anything, Cienna,” I replied. After topping her up, I took a seat in the second lounge chair. “And you need to slow down.”

  “Where is he though?” Cienna demanded. “He’s been gone for three days.”

  “Working on a case in Florida.” I recited the explanation that he’d given us.

  Cienna snorted. “Typical. He’s never here when we need him.”

  “You need him?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Shut the fuck up, Noira.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ll soon have the nerve to start complaining when I take you literally and do not speak.”

  “Would you like to know what happened to me this morning?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I cried!” She slammed her fist down onto the cushion. “I realised that he came back for Maman and not for us. He didn’t even fucking come back for us!”

  “Cienna, she is the love of his life. What did you expect?” I reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Cienna jumped up, eyes wild as she marched around the tiny parameters of the balcony. “Yes, but what about me?”

  “What about you?” Noira asked.

  She stopped her mad march. Her hand clung to her chest. “What about how much I loved him? I mean, let’s be honest, Noira. He broke my fucking heart. And then he expects me to forgive and forget after he turns up for Maman and not because he wanted to see us?” The tears ran their river of black down her face, but she didn’t seem to care.

  “Everything hurts,” she gasped. “I feel like someone is sitting on my chest!”

  “Calm down before you give yourself a panic attack,” I demanded. It was too late. Cienna’s mouth opened and closed, but only hoarse wheezes came out.

  “My… throat… feels… as if someone… p-p-put a stopper down it!” Cienna grabbed her throat.

  I put down my glass and went over to her. She didn’t protest as I sat her down and pushed her head between her legs. I sat beside her and held her. A few minutes passed before she was able to sit up and lay back on the lounge chair.

  “It hurts,” she whimpered.

  Gently, I stroked her hair. “Je sais, Cienna.”

  Cienna shivered and began to cry again. I did the only thing that I knew would calm her down. I sat beside her, wrapped my arms around her, and began to sing.

  “Fais dodo, Cienna ma p'tit sœur. Fais dodo t'auras du lolo. Maman est en haut, qui fait du gâteau. Papa est en bas, qui fait du nougat. Fais dodo, Cienna ma p'tit sœur. Fais dodo t'auras du lolo...”

  With each line, Cienna’s breathing became lighter until finally, the hiccups faded.

  “Go to sleep, Cienna, my little sister. Go to sleep, you will have your milk. Maman is upstairs making cakes. Daddy is downstairs making chocolate. Go to sleep, Cienna my little sister. Go to sleep, you will have your milk...”

  Maman used to sing that to us whenever we were upset. The original line, “Fais dodo, Pierrot mon p’tit frère” was cleverly changed to accommodate whichever of us happened to be in need of an emotional check.

  “All better, mon p’tit Pierrot?” I smiled.

  “No,” Cienna replied, sitting up. “Why is Camelea able to just let go and forgive Philippe. Didn’t she get hurt by him or was I just hurt the worst?”

  “Maman was hurt the worst, Cienna,” I replied.

  “Right,” Cienna agreed. “But if the two of them can get over their hurt, why can’t I? Why can’t I let go?”

  I took her hands and squeezed them. “You’ll let go when you’re ready.”

  **~*~*~**~*~*~**

  ¯ CHAPITRE ONZE ¯

  THE WHITE OF NOON

  It seemed that since Philippe was back in our lives, we were to behave as if we did in France. His staff was French, and since they spoke no English, we only spoke French. Breakfast consisted of Cienna’s preferred baguettes and jam or Nutella with coffee, never tea. Lunch included dessert, and dinner was a five-course affair that lasted for almost two hours.

  I made the mistake of asking for tea on my first morning, much to the consternation of Amélie, the maid. She’d been pouring Cienna coffee, but she stopped, eyebrows knitted and eyes widened. “Tea?” she began shaking her head, a small frown on her face. “There is no tea in this house.”

  She’d cast me furtive glances ever since. One would think that we’d been living during the time of the Hundred Years’ War.

  I didn’t mind the French way of life; in fact, I sometimes preferred it to the American life that I had become accustomed to. I cared that we were doing these things with Philippe, and so did Cienna.

  I didn’t think that he quite got that neither Cienna nor I appreciated his existence, and each time that we met for dinner, he tried harder and harder get in our good graces. Whereas I had decided to give him short, civil responses to his questions a
nd otherwise avoid him at all costs, Cienna seemed duty-bound to spew her content.

  As Amélie brought out the dessert, Camelea and Philippe walked down memory lane together as they remembered the first time he tried to teach her to make a soufflé, which was what we were eating.

  Cienna pushed away her dish and sighed.

  “Is something the matter, Cienna?” Philippe asked looking away from Camelea.

  Camelea looked positively murderous. Cienna had interrupted her enthralling tale of the improper way that she had cracked the eggs, which had resulted in shells being in the mixture.

  “I’m not really a fan of soufflé,” Cienna lied. Soufflés were on the list of her favourite desserts; however, I knew that she was refusing to enjoy it because of Camelea and Philippe.

  “But you loved the soufflés that I made when you were younger,” Philippe said. He looked crestfallen.

  “Really?” Cienna yawned. “I have all but forgotten my life before I came to America. I must have gotten that trait from you.”

  I coughed slightly and grabbed my napkin, trying my best to conceal my laugh.

  Camelea scowled. “Never mind her, Papa. She still loves soufflés. In fact, she is the only one of us who can make them properly. She’s just being unnecessarily difficult.”

  Philippe looked like a wounded dog.

  “Cienna,” Philippe said. “I really think that you should eat the soufflé. Madame Laurent will be hurt if you send it back.”

  “The same way that we were hurt when you left us?” Cienna asked, taking up her spoon. “Or did the plight of your wife and three children not bother your conscience?”

  “Cienna, that’s a bit uncalled for,” Philippe said. His shaking fingers clutched his spoon.

  “Whatever. You are the definition of uncalled for.” Cienna retorted. She looked rather pensive as she carefully licked the chocolate from her spoon. “And you didn’t even get your stupid son, so what was the point?”

  “Cienna!” Camelea barked. She looked like a rabid dog. Her teeth were snarled, and there was the tiniest bit of saliva threatening to spill over the corner of her mouth. She glanced at Philippe, while chewing madly on her lips, and then back at me.

  “Oh shut up, Saint Camelea.” Cienna snapped. “Just because you got your perfect little family reunion doesn’t mean that I am obligated to make this a Disney movie for you. There will be no singing and running around holding hands through poppy fields, Camelea. You’re no better than a cheap whore!”

  “That is enough!” Philippe’s hand slammed down onto the table and his wine glass fell backwards and into his lap.

  Cienna smiled. “Good for you!”

  Philippe jumped up and Saint Camelea rushed to his side.

  “No,” he said to her.

  Camelea’s face twisted into the most ghastly sight and her mouth hung. I couldn’t tell if she was speechless, pained or turned retarded from the shock of it all.

  Philippe turned towards Cienna and I with his own version of a death glare on his face. “Now listen here. I understand that I hurt you, and believe me, I will regret what I did to you until my dying day, but this has got to stop. You need to show some respect for me…”

  “Respect for you?” Cienna jumped to her feet and stormed over to Philippe. “Respect is given to those who earn it.”

  “Cienna,” I said. It was the first word that I had said all evening.

  The two of them made a comical sight as Cienna, with her tiny frame, turned her face upwards to glare at Philippe, who’s chest she could barely reached. He stared down at her breathing heavily.

  She ignored me. “If you wanted my respect, you shouldn’t have waited until my dying mother rang you to find your balls and get on a damn plane!”

  Philippe stepped backwards, clearly defeated. Had I been a different person, I’d have ran to his side and cradled him in my arms. He looked so pathetic as his features whitened and his hands shook. However, he’d hurt me as much as he’d hurt Cienna, and I wasn’t quite ready to forgive and forget.

  Cienna gave him a once over before spinning on her heel and storming out of the room. Slowly, I put my napkin on the table and rose to follow her. I caught up with Cienna as she marched into her bedroom. As I closed the door behind us, she let out a howl of pain and fell to the floor.

  *~*

  Philippe was gone the next morning. Camelea did not come down to breakfast, no doubt praying at the makeshift shrine to the Virgin that she had created in her room that I had spotted while walking past her door. I knew better than to try and talk to her. Cienna went off somewhere with Andreas as soon as Amélie cleared the last plate. I called Nicolaas.

  There was the customary first kiss when we saw each other, then his phone rang and it was one of his friends telling him to meet them at a nearby diner. As we walked, he held my hand. A surge of energy jolted my system as we touched. My heart started racing.

  There were six of us. The booth was cramped. Our bodies couldn’t help but be pressed against each other’s. It felt as if we were moulded into each other. I drank my iced tea in one gulp, but I was still hot. The fact that Nicolaas’s hand was playing with mine under the table didn’t help matters either, especially when someone told a joke and the force of his abrupt laughter made his hand pull on my skirt slightly.

  Having his fingertips on that particular area of my skin was riveting. A hot, white heat seared through my body, and I felt a familiar tingle just below my bikini line. Nicolaas didn’t notice anything as he laughed with his friends. When he wrapped his arms around me and his kiss, which was meant for my cheek, grazed my lips, my eyes instinctively shut. I felt an ache for his hands to return to where they once were and move further up my legs to touch somewhere else, somewhere that would have given me infinite pleasure. I squirmed as I imagined the wonders that having his hand against my most sensitive parts would bring. I had to lie and blame the heat when he asked me what was wrong.

  Everything after was a blur. Laughing. Talking. Orders made. Bills paid for. Holding hands and leaning against his shoulder as we left the restaurant. Back to the car. Driving home. Up to my room.

  The light was blinding when I turned it on; maybe that’s why I stumbled and leaned against Nicolaas. His hand cupped my lower back; I felt like I was being shocked again.

  The kiss was soft at first. I pulled him in, determined to express my urgency. I was left breathless when we finally pulled apart. Somehow, we made it over to the bed. I loved the feel of his body pressed against mine. I struggled to not cry out when his hand finally caressed where I’d be yearning for it to touch all afternoon.

  For a long while afterwards, I couldn’t speak.

  *~*

  The next day was no better. I didn’t believe in Him, but I found myself chanting words that had been drilled into my head at our Catholic lycée in France.

  “Deliver us, Lord, from every evil, and grant us peace in our day. In Your mercy keep us free from sin and protect us from all anxiety as we wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  As we were lectured about living in the world, but not being of world, I wanted Nicolaas’s kisses all over my body. I ached for his touch as I received Communion.

  "This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper."

  I shivered as the priest made the sign of the Cross before me. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t be one with God. I was imagining what it would be like to be one with Nicolaas.

  “Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.”

  I sat in the pew and instead of listening, I remembered. I sighed as I felt his touch and heard his moans. I blushed as I remembered my incoherent mumblings. Eyes rolling, toes curling, head spinning, stars. I felt myself responding, had to go to the bathroom before we left church, immediately washed my underwear when I got home, and failed miserably when I tried to get him off my mind.

  Forgive m
e Father, for I have sinned.

  *~*

  Nicolaas came over the next morning. Being near him and not touching him had become out of the question. He’d been in my room for all of one minute before I pounced. Feverish kisses. Arms wrapped tightly around each other’s necks. Flying without leaving the ground. Nicolaas really was the sweetest sin. Giving in was the only natural solution.

  I loved the way that a simple thing such as him running his fingers up and down my arms caused me to shiver. I let him do with me as he pleased and then it was my turn to explore. I took my time learning what he liked and didn’t like. Before it had been mechanical, a need to reach my pinnacle. Now… Now it was different. Now I wanted to feel what he felt and to bind myself to him in every way possible. My reward was watching him shiver and get burned to the touch because of me. It was empowering. I didn’t stop until he was slapping me away. I sealed it with a kiss before falling onto my pillows with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “You’re my drug…” I turned on my side and smiled at Nicolaas. “You are my drug, and you need to make sure that I never lose my supply.”

  “And what will you do if you lose your supply?” He ran his fingers along my arms.

  I purred. “Mmmmmm.”

  He chuckled. The other half of my bed became lighter as he got up. I closed my eyes and relished in the memories of times spent together. I couldn’t imagine being happier than I was.