Sleeping Awake

by Noelle, Gamali

  Dying was such a messy business. There were all the final wishes to be granted. Old memories to be relieved. Rooms that had to be decorated. Egg shells that had to be walked around. Eyes that seemed to sink into the back of Maman’s skull. Purple-blue marks on the skin that had to be ignored in order for you to manage a smile. Bloody tissues that had to be quickly discarded. Dirty sheets that needed be scrubbed with disinfectant. Graves that were to be dug. Coffins to be built. Children to be dragged from one world to the next.

  The broken promises of a tomorrow that would never come, which had to be swept under the rug.

  *~*

  I missed Maman. I didn’t want to go to the hospital and sit beside Grandpa as she slipped in and out of unconscious. I wanted to remember happier times. I took the metro to Saint-Germain-des-Prés and went to Café de Flore.

  I used to go to Flore with Maman as a child. She would always chide me and tell me that hot chocolate could not be resplendent, but it was for me. Nothing could have been more regal, more glorious, than the rich, thick velvet cloak that tantalized my taste buds. The little brass pitcher that our individual hot chocolates came in could fill three of the house teacups, yet I always managed to have room for Maman’s third when she complained, on cue, that it was simply too much for her.

  As I was off sugar, I could not savour my velvet treat. Instead, I sipped on tea and watched people go in and out of the designer boutiques across the tree-lined street. If Cienna had been with me, I knew that we would have had to pay a visit to Cartier before we got back on the metro. I made a mental note to go in there and browse. A piece of jewellery would not fully express how grateful I was to her for how she helped me that summer, but with Cienna, sparkling items seemed to be all the heartfelt emotions that she could tolerate.

  “Tout va bien?”

  I looked up, prepared to smile politely at my waiter and let him know that I everything was fine, and almost dropped my teacup.

  “Qu’est-ce que tu fais là?” I exclaimed. Nicolaas was smiling down at me.

  “I went to your house looking for you and Cienna—”

  I did not need to hear the rest about how he managed to find me. I came alive in his kiss.

  “But what about spending your summer with Bryn?” I asked once we were seated.

  Nicolaas shrugged. “Tu m’as manqué.”

  “And so you just told Bryn that you had to leave because you missed me?”

  “Bryn was otherwise occupied.”

  “Anjali?” I guessed.

  “Yes.”

  I rolled my eyes as the waiter came over and Nicolaas ordered a special. I could have been a child at the gingerbread house for how lucky I felt. We stopped in at Cartier afterwards, and I bought Cienna a ring to match the necklace that she’d recently become obsessed with. Afterwards, we walked, hand-in-hand, from Boulevard Saint Germain to Boulevard Saint Michel, where we took the metro to his apartment on Avenue Gabriel.

  “Show me your bedroom,” I said, once he’d finished giving me a tour.

  “Right this way.”

  When you were possessed by a desire that was as strong as mine, nothing would satiate it but the one that you yearned for. As Nicolaas’ kisses rained all over my body, I cried out from the pure delight of his touch. That afternoon, I learned the true meaning of the term ‘making love.’ I never wanted to come down from this high. Strangely enough, the new realisation didn’t bother me. I was at peace with my demons, and I wasn’t afraid to give myself wholly. When I awoke, it was to find Nicolaas staring down at me. The same emotions that I felt were held in his gaze.

  “Je t’aimerai toujours,” he said. I knew that when he told me that he’d love me forever, he really meant it.

  “Moi aussi.” The words were simple, but they were my promise to love him until the very end.

  *~*

  We spent the next day wandering around Paris. We had lunch at the restaurant in Hôtel Le Bristol. We strolled through the farmer’s market in Belleville and had lunch there. Afterwards, we went to the Latin Quarter and had ice cream at Bertillon. Later that night, we danced until the sun rose at the jazz club on Rue de la Huchette.

  When we got back to his house, we made cheese crêpes and listened to Nina Simone. During those moments, the world belonged to us and there was no pain and no dying mother, just the sweet, sweet sounds of Nina’s sultry voice and Nicolaas’ kisses. The rain poured outside and washed the city clean, and we made our own heat to fight off the cold.

  “Live with me,” he said calmly.

  “When?” I asked. There was no need to pretend that it wouldn’t happen.

  He kissed my hand. “Whenever you’re ready to. Sooner, hopefully, than later. I can rouse you out of bed with a cup of tea and make you breakfast in the morning while you shower.”

  “Every morning?” A cup of tea as I opened my eyes would be a blessing.

  “Every morning.”

  I sighed and thought of the heaven that life with Adonis would be. “And what else would happen?”

  “You’ll go off to create beauty with your paint brush, and I’ll study law. Then we’ll host dinners for our friends in the evenings, or go to see ballets that open at the theatre. We can tour every single jazz club in Paris until we’re playing the saxophone in our sleep. On the weekends, we’ll visit Madrid or go to Greece, or we can just sleep in and lounge in each other’s arms.”

  “Really?” I asked. I could easily see myself living that kind of life, especially with Nicolaas.

  “Yes.” He kissed my lips. He tasted like amaretto. “And we could turn one of the rooms into your studio. There are two spare bedrooms, so your sisters would be more than welcome to visit you and spend the night. I’ve got this huge apartment all to myself, and I’d like nothing more than to share it with you.”

  I’d always have someone there who understood me¾a safe haven. “Do you really see me in art school?”

  “Where else would you go?” He kissed my cheek. “Business school and hate your life?”

  “I still haven’t applied to any school.”

  “So take some classes this fall and then start next year. Start the year after that if you want.” Nicolaas shrugged. “You’ll get in no matter what.”

  I closed my eyes. I tried to picture myself back in a business or political science class, and I could barely make out the figures through the haze. The idea of art school was appealing. Art was the only class that I ever enjoyed in school, and I did live in Paris. What was to stop me from enrolling in one of the best art schools in the world and spending the rest of my days doing what I loved with the person whom I loved?

  “So what do you think?” Nicolaas asked. “Will you move in with me?”

  It would be nice to come home to Nicolaas. He loved me. He’d do anything for me. What more could a girl want?

  “Yes.”

  “I have one more question. He sat up and reached for something in the side drawer. I stopped breathing, because I knew what was coming. I said nothing as he handed me the red Cartier box.

  “Will you marry me?”

  It was a gold band with a solitaire made of tsavorite garnet and a heart shape flanked either side and formed the band. I instantly recognised that it was from their ballerine collection. He’d gotten it custom-made without the diamond.

  “How’d you know not to get me diamonds?”

  “I know you Noira,” he replied. “Will you marry me?”

  How curious it was that one summer could change my life. I wasn’t sitting around aimlessly waiting for my prince charming to come along, yet he got on a plane anyway and accepted my crazy suggestion of testing the zodiac.

  “Noira?”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  **~*~*~**~*~*~**

  ¯ CHAPITRE DIX-HUIT ¯

  OCEAN BREATHES SALTY

  Maman came home on a Monday. My French teacher once said that the buildings were gray in Paris because of the overcast skies, but when they wheeled Maman into her new room, t
he windows let in the light of the sunny day. I waited until everyone had had their fill of her before getting into bed with her.

  “Are you scared?” she asked.

  “I’m trying my hardest not to be,” I admitted. I closed my eyes as she kissed me. I wished for healthier days, where we would cuddle and have conversations about anything else except for her dying and leaving me on my own.

  “Don’t, Noira. It’s my time.”

  “That’s what Nicolaas said.”

  “He’s right.”

  “Regardless,” I said. “I wish that it wasn’t.”

  I buried my head into her chest and breathed in her scent. I tried my hardest to remember what she smelled of before the staleness and the bleach had to be covered up by baths in perfume. I could not.

  “I want you to melt my wedding ring and use it as a part of your own.”

  I sat up. “What?”

  “You heard me, Noira.”

  Wordlessly, I watched as Maman removed the ring that could now barely fit around her bony fingers.

  “I can’t be with you physically at your wedding, but I want to be there all the same.” She placed the ring in the centre of my palm and curled my fingers around it in a protective manner.

  “But this is your wedding ring,” I protested.

  “What use is a ring on the finger of a corpse?”

  I looked down at the gold band, which was as simple as the woman who once wore it. “Don’t say that, Maman.”

  Though her hands were clammy, I didn’t flinch as she pulled me towards her. I breathed deeply as I became wrapped in a cloak of perfume and decay as Maman held me and kissed my forehead.

  Maman coughed. The door opened and Grandpa Bill came tumbling in. In an instant, he was by Maman’s side getting her water and paging for Sara, the nurse to come as her coughs became more violent. He didn’t have to tell me to get off the bed. Frozen, I stood in the corner and as Sara and Grandpa Bill fussed over Maman.

  “She needs to rest,” Sara proclaimed. She looked right at me as she spoke.

  “But…” I began.

  “I’ll let you know when you can come back, Noira,” Grandpa said.

  He didn’t turn to look at me as he tucked the sheets under Maman’s chin. She had fallen asleep in the few minutes that it had taken her caregivers to bring her relief from her plaguing cough.

  “Her fever is back,” Sara went on. She was speaking to Grandpa now. “It’s barely there, but I suspect that it’ll continue to rise.”

  “Noira,” Grandpa said.

  Pausing for only a moment, I cast one last look at Maman before turning to leave the room. Her lips were as blue as the chill that I felt knowing that it could very well have been our last hug. I turned on my heel and left the room. I didn’t stop to close the door. I didn’t trust myself to not turn back, and I knew that I had to keep moving forward. Maman would not have wanted it any other way.

  *~*

  On Wednesday, against protests from Sara and Grandpa, Maman insisted that she eat with us. Philippe wheeled her into the dining room with her night nurse following closely behind. After the days of separation, we were finally together again. Grand-mère sat to Philippe’s right, and Maman sat up as straight as she possibly could to his left.

  “You look lovely, Trischa,” Grand-mère commented.

  Cienna had done Maman’s makeup for her, making sure to cover all visible signs of her battle wounds. I had selected a green long-sleeved dress that had magically complimented her thin figure. She looked exquisite.

  “Merci, Michèle,” Maman replied. Amélie brought in the first course.

  “Philippe,” Grand-mère said. “Have you postponed your business dinner tomorrow evening so that we may go to the ballet?”

  “Oui, Maman,” he replied.

  “Lovely.”

  The rest of the conversation went smoothly into the main course. Maman coughed slightly before she took a bite of her dish. Grandpa looked as if he was about to stand, but she recovered after a sip of water. As much as I loved my grandfather, he was being a right ass when it came to us seeing Maman. If she so much as looked like she was about to cough or if she breathed in a manner that he didn’t like, he and Sara ushered us out of the room. Thank goodness for Philippe. Had it not been for his insistence, we might not have even been allowed in Maman’s room at all.

  “I’ve decided what I’d like to do regarding university,” I announced.

  Grandpa looked towards me, distracted for a few seconds.

  “Really?” Maman asked. She looked radiant as she gazed fondly at me. “What?”

  “I’d like to go to Beaux Arts,” I replied.

  “That’s lovely,” Grand-mère proclaimed. “I went to art school when I was your age.”

  “I think that art school is a wonderful idea,” Philippe said thoughtfully. “One should always follow one’s passion.”

  Cienna winked at me. Just as peace began to find a home within me, the coughing commenced. Amélie, who had been refilling everyone’s wine, dropped the bottle when she saw what Maman was coughing up; blood. Clotted blood.

  "Trischa!" Grand-mère screamed. I had never heard my grandmother scream before.

  Camelea and Philippe stood and joined Grandpa at Maman’s side. I couldn't let go of my fork; I was frozen from the neck down. The only things that moved on my body were my eyes as I took in everything that was going on around me.

  Maman fainted. Grandpa and Camelea caught her before she hit the ground. Philippe reached into his pocket and began dialling a number as Sara rushed forward with a syringe. I closed my eyes as she drove it into Maman's skin. I could hear Cienna’s banshee wails. By the time that I reopened my eyes, Camelea was staring into the distance as she sat in the spot where Maman once was. Maman, Philippe, Grandpa and Sara were gone. It made no sense to move; I knew that Maman’s door would be closed.

  *~*

  “Come along girls,” Grand-mère stood.

  She ordered for the dishes to be cleared and for tea to be brought into the parlor. Obediently, we dragged our way into the room, like the defeated soldiers that we were, and dropped onto the chaise.

  “We cannot allow ourselves to fall apart,” Grand-mère said once we were seated. “Your mother needs you to be strong.”

  The fear in her eyes betrayed her strong comportment. Minutes later, the tea was brought in. Grand-mère opened a bottle of Brandy and put a rather generous serving in each of our cups.

  “For your nerves,” she said.

  Like robots, the cups went from our laps to our lips and down our unwilling throats. Eventually, the Brandy concoction stopped my trembling hands. I decided that the extenuating circumstances allowed for me slipping up on my alcohol-free diet. By the time that Philippe arrived, Cienna’s bawling had been reduced to mere hiccups.

  “How is she, Philippe?” Grand-mère asked.

  “She’s asleep.” Philippe nodded his thanks as Grand-mère served him Brandy-laced tea. His hands shook as well.

  “We managed to revive and stabilise her by the time that the doctor arrived,” he continued.

  “That’s good.” Grand-mère sipped her tea.

  “No.” Philippe put down his teacup. “It’s not good. Her temperature is so high that the heat is rising from her body. All of this happened in the space of half hour. Her breaths are coming out in spasms.”

  “Well put her on a respiratory machine!” Grand-mère slammed her cup down onto the sofa. The brown liquid stained Maman’s powder blue selection.

  Philippe would not meet Grand-mère’s gaze; his hands shook violently as he struggled to get the cup to his lips.

  “She’s DNR,” I replied.

  “So you mean that she just wants to...to die?” Grand-mère asked.

  Philippe’s face mirrored his inward pain. “She's already been through enough, Maman. There's only so much that she can tolerate and no more.”

  “It’ll be all over soon enough,” Camelea murmured. “Then she’ll b
e at peace.”

  *~*

  Later, after Grand-mère left, we went and visited Maman. She looked as if we could break her by breathing too hard. The makeup had been wiped off and the blue and purple gashes were once again visible all over her face, all over her body. Her wig was nowhere in sight; her head was bald. And she was so skinny…bones really. How could I not have noticed the cancer sooner? Behind me, I heard a sharp intake of breath. Someone grabbed my hand. Camelea.

  “She used to be beautiful,” she moaned, leaning against me.

  “She used to be healthy,” Cienna came and stood beside us. She no longer looked like the baby of the family. Forced maturity had worn her features slightly, and it was hard to see her as the same person who had been prancing down a runway and giggling for photographers at the beginning of the summer.

  “She used to be our Maman.” I sighed.

  The woman on the bed, she was no longer Maman. She was still our mother, but she was only a shell of what she used to be. Slowly, everything about her that we once loved had been sieved away, and there was nothing left to hold on to.

  In the corner, Grandpa Bill shivered and shook in his silent grief. Just looking at her caused him to erupt into tremors. I didn’t have the strength to go over and comfort him.

  “I can’t stand to see her like this,” Camelea said.

  “Neither can I,” I agreed.

  I remembered the days when she used to crawl into bed with me after I had a bad dream. When I got my first period and was doubled over in cramps, she was there. No matter how many times I had tried to quit the world, Maman was always there when I awoke, waiting to cheer me on and give me strength to want to live and face the day. For the good and the bad, she was there. Who would be there for the rest?

  “Girls,” Philippe said. Father Delmas stood beside him. He was there to give Maman her Last Rites.

  Silently, we stepped aside.