MYRIAM NODS.
“I can see why you’d be surprised…”
She says this as she buzzes around me like a hard-working bee. Toss the soiled bandage into the bin attached to the trolley, spray freezing Betadine over my calf and my thigh—yow!—clean the sutures with a compress, pick up a clean bandage with a pair of tweezers, deftly unfold it without touching it and lay it over one of the scars.
“It’s pretty, though.”
“Sorry?”
“Your scars. They’re beautiful, neat, clean. No inflammation. All fine.”
“Did you notice, though? That she was pregnant?”
“Well, yeah, obviously…”
She says this kindly, but she obviously thinks I’m a senile old fool. Everyone in the hospital probably noticed that the little madam had a bun in the oven.
I persist:
“I mean she’s fourteen, for God’s sake! And it doesn’t surprise you?”
“I’ve got a daughter her age, so no, it doesn’t surprise me, it sends shivers down my spine! But, you know, there are worse things. Mostly at that age they come for terminations. The youngest last year had just turned twelve. I know that because I have a friend who works in Obs & Gynae.”
“Twelve?!”
“Yeah. Breaks your heart. The problem is that minors have to have permission from their parents to get a termination. So, between the ones who don’t realize they’re pregnant, the ones determined to keep the baby, the ones who don’t dare tell anyone, and the ones whose parents are opposed to abortion, there are bound to be some who end up like your Maëva. Pregnant, and then…”
“Are there many in her situation?”
“Not as many as you might think, thankfully. We get about a dozen a year on the ward, mostly for terminations, like I said.”
“But why don’t these girls go on the pill?”
“It’s not as easy as that… To go on the pill, you need a prescription. That means seeing a doctor. Talking about that to a doctor. Or going to a family planning clinic. Can you imagine how difficult it must be for a girl of twelve or thirteen to go into a chemist and ask for the pill in front of everyone? What if there’s a man on the till? What if you live in a village?”
“Maybe, but surely if they’re mature enough to have sex…”
Myriam meticulously packs away her bits and pieces—tweezers, compresses, antiseptic.
She looks like a little girl playing at being a nurse.
She shakes her head.
“You really think it’s a question of maturity?”
“…”
“Emotionally, intellectually, most of these girls are only twelve or thirteen, even the ones who look like supermodels. They’re little girls playing at being grown-ups, or they can’t say no to their boyfriends because they’re afraid to look stupid.”
“Why don’t they ask their boyfriends to wear a condom, then? You can buy them over the counter.”
“So how do you like making love covered in cling film?”
That was below the belt.
I protest. This is not about me.
She smiles.
“Really? You think so?”
“… well you have to admit it’s not really, I mean I’m not exactly…”
“Well, there’s your answer then, everyone else is just like you. The difference being that you’re an adult, you can accept that there are limitations. Now teenage boys on the other hand… you can talk about AIDS till you’re blue in the face, as far as they’re concerned it doesn’t feel as good wearing a condom. A lot of them refuse to wear them. And if the girl is naïve, or if she’s infatuated, she won’t insist. And the younger ones are the ones who won’t visit the school nurse to ask for the morning-after pill.”
As if to console me, she adds:
“But OK, maybe yours is a love child. I hope so for her sake. When they get pregnant at that age, it’s often the result of rape or incest.”
*
This possibility had not even occurred to me, that’s how naïve I am. And it’s not like I was born yesterday, I know a bit about life and its ineffable pleasures, I’ve travelled in parts of the world where rape is a sport, where incest is a hobby.
Myriam says:
“Listen, I’ll ask my friend if she knows anything more about the girl. Right, I’d better be off, I’ve still got rounds to do. You’re not my only patient, are you?”
That is precisely the problem, I tell her, since it means I am forced to share with others—who don’t know their good fortune—the immense pleasure I feel every time I see her.
She chuckles as she leaves. And forgets to close the door.
CAMILLE IS SULKING.
I am making a superhuman effort. No sarcasm, no irony, keep your trap shut Jean-Pierre.
“Thanks for coming.”
I can tell he is on the defensive.
“Some inspector told me to come to see you. I didn’t exactly have a choice, apparently.”
Thank you Maxime, for your unfailing tact.
“Sit down, we need to talk.”
Oops! That might have been a little brusque. Camille hardens faster than cooking oil in a fridge.
I carry on, in a more moderate tone:
“I’d like to ask you a favour.”
“I’ve already done you one. I saved your life, remember? But if you want me to do a favour for humankind, I’m happy to chuck you back in the river.”
Battleship hit.
I haul myself up using the triangle dangling over my head, I feel a tearing in my thigh and my lower back, I suppress a wince of pain.
“A job, would you be interested?”
“No.”
Silence.
I leave the worm to dangle. Camille feigns disinterest, then takes the bait.
“Well… it depends. I’ve got lectures, like I told you. What kind of job?”
“Not too taxing, not very rewarding, and pretty badly paid…”
He rolls his eyes.
I carry on, unperturbed.
“… but it’s flexible hours and comes with free accommodation.”
I can tell he’s intrigued.
I have thought about this a lot. I will soon be discharged from here and find myself confronted with a daily routine somewhat knocked out of kilter by my convalescence. Physiotherapy, the distance between me and the nearest corner shop, the sheer exhaustion of making it there and back again, the time it will take “at my age and in my condition”, as my brother would politely put it, for me to regain the full use of my legs.
“I’d like to suggest you do my shopping, two or three hours’ tidying in the apartment a week and, in exchange, in return, I can’t pay you much, I don’t have a bank manager’s pension, but you would have two rooms, a bathroom and toilet all to yourself, rent-free, and use of the kitchen, obviously.”
“Why?”
He must have swallowed a puppy this morning. He doesn’t talk, he barks.
“I’ve just told you: to do my shopping, to…”
“No, why are you doing this?”
I resist the urge to give him a slap. It might hinder negotiations.
“Because I’m indebted to you, and because it would be useful for me…”
He nervously pushes back the fringe falling into his eyes with the mixture of toughness and grace that informs all his gestures. His pale-blue eyes stare, unblinking, into mine.
He does not say a word.
I answer the question he has not asked:
“I don’t expect anything else from you, don’t kid yourself, your love for me will have to remain platonic. When it comes to sexuality, I’m very old-fashioned.”
He relaxes, almost imperceptibly.
“Listen, it’s a serious offer. I’ll be discharged from here in about three weeks, I live on my own, things will be tough, and to be honest I’m worried. If you’re not interested, it’s not a problem, I’ll contact an agency and get someone to come in a couple of hours a week, but I thought of you b
ecause I know that you’re likely to be homeless pretty soon, that’s all. If you lived at my place, it would mean I’d have someone there at night, and it would tide you over. And if I have trouble getting my trousers or my socks on in the morning, I’d be less embarrassed dealing with a guy. I just thought that maybe it could be beneficial for both of us.”
He tosses his head, flicking his hair back. He hesitates.
“When would I have to let you know?”
“Sometime in the next two weeks. I need to find someone before I move back home.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You do that.”
I open the drawer of the nightstand, take out my keys and proffer them, with a folded piece of paper.
He looks at me, puzzled.
“Why are you giving me those?”
“Go and visit the apartment, see whether it would suit you. That will save us some time. I’ve written down the address and the code for the front door. Third floor, left-hand side. As you’ll see, there are three bedrooms. If you decide to take it, you can have the one with a separate entrance onto the landing, and the little connecting room, which you could use as a study. They both overlook the courtyard. The wallpaper was vile so I stripped it, but I never got round to repainting. It’s just bare plaster, but you can put up posters. My room is on the other side of the hall, overlooking the boulevard, it has an en-suite bathroom. Here!”
He catches the keys, looking a little dazed.
“Do you usually give your keys to just anyone?”
“Why, are you just anyone?”
Battleship sunk.
THE LITTLE MADAM is a lot thinner, I’ll give her that.
There’s nothing like giving birth to lose weight.
She no longer looks like a barrel with legs. I wouldn’t say she’s stunning—she’s a fourteen-year-old-girl, I can’t bring myself to think of her as a woman, and besides, she’s not pretty—but I have to admit that there’s something different about her. A certain serenity, or a maturity, I’m not sure.
There is something different about her eyes, and that completely changes a face. Motherhood suits her, I think it’s as simple as that.
She is sitting at the little table opposite the bed, tapping on the keyboard with that familiar rapt concentration. Sometimes she gives a little chuckle, probably a joke sent by one of her friends.
She has left the brat in her room, for which relief much thanks.
I wonder whether she wanted it, the kid, whether she really understood what having a baby meant, whether she loves the father?
Maëva suddenly bursts out laughing, then quickly claps her hands over her mouth and glances at me, blushing to the roots of her hair, and says “Sorry!” in a tone that sounds sincere, then dissolves into giggles so loud that if she tried to stop them, they would come out of her ears.
I smile in spite of myself.
She is laughing more quietly, typing frantically, then stops, reads, clucks like a guinea fowl and types another message. She sways to the bass rhythm leaking from her MP3 player.
She winds a lock of hair around her finger, bites her thumbnail, I can see her lips move as she reads the reply. Her tongue toys with the piercing in her bottom lip, which does nothing for her profile. But it is fascinating to watch from an anthropological viewpoint.
I look at the time, oops, nearly time for the news…
A young mother needs limits if she is to keep to her busy schedule, surely?
I attempt a subtle ruse:
“You don’t think maybe the baby will be getting hungry?”
She glances at the clock at the bottom of the screen, shrugs and, without turning, she says.
“Yeah, you’re right, I’d better get going.”
I assume she is saying goodbye to her friends, it takes a while for her to type the words.
She comes over and sets the laptop down on the nightstand, her eyes still twinkling with laughter.
“What’s the father’s name?”
“Huh?”
“The baby’s father, do you know his name?”
From her devastated look, I wonder whether she realizes that all babies have a father by default. Has she understood the cause and effect between the cake mix and the bun in the oven?
“Of course I know,” she snaps irritably. “His name’s Lucas.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
She rolls her eyes and says in a condescending tone:
“He’s not my ‘boyfriend’, he’s just a friend. Jeez.”
“And… um… is he happy about being a dad, this friend of yours?”
She gives a smile so big I can see her molars.
“Yeah, he’s dead proud, obvs. I sent him the photos you took this morning.”
Well, that’s something.
“So… he’s fourteen too?”
She opens her eyes wide as dinner plates. I can tell she just about manages not to say, “Are you stupid, or what?”
“No way… He’s, like, twenty… well, nearly.”
I’m betting that this Lucas who is “nearly” twenty is not much more mature than she is.
Suddenly, I think I hear Camille’s voice, “You just can’t stop yourself judging other people, can you?” I put a lid on my prejudices and a tourniquet to staunch the flow of convictions. Keep on thinking like an old duffer, and you end up becoming one.
Since the little shrew has willingly submitted to my interrogation, I make the most of it to ask the question that has been on the tip of my tongue.
“Did… did you really want it, this baby? I’m mean, you’re still very young.”
“Yeah, but at least this way I’ll be able to leave home.”
“Oh? Were things really that bad at home?”
“Too right, I was never allowed to do anything. But I’m pretty hacked off being stuck in here. It’s been, like, a month. Enough already.”
“A month?”
She wedges her chewing gum into her cheek, sniffles, shrugs.
“Yeah, the doctor wanted to keep me in, on account of the baby’s head not being engaged, and its weight, that kind of thing. But it’s all fine now, it’s done, in three days I’ll be out of here.”
The prospect of some peace and quiet is thrilling. Three days.
It can’t come soon enough…
Maëva carries on, she has never been so talkative.
“We’re gonna get married, me and Lucas, that way I’ll legally be a grown-up. And then I can do whatever I like, I’ll be free, it’s awesome.”
Free, with a kid on your hands? The jury’s out on that one…
TELEPHONES IN HOSPITALS are installed according to strict scientific principles based on two key criteria: distance from bed should be just far enough to make it impossible to pick up on the first ring, and volume of the aforesaid ring should be just loud enough to cause tinnitus.
I manage to answer on the fifth attempt.
I instantly recognize the voice of my old friend Serge.
“Bloody hell, you’re a hard man to get hold of,” he roars. “Every time I phone, they tell me you’re with the physio or having more X-rays. Be careful, or you’ll end up glowing in the dark.”
“What’s up? When did you get back from holidays?”
“Couple of days ago, I haven’t been able to call until now.”
“How are things?”
“I’d love to say ‘great’, but let’s be honest: fair to middling.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“My cardiologist isn’t happy with me. He says I’ve got palpitations off the Richter scale. Claims it’s the cigarettes, though personally I blame the kouign-amann. I think I might have consumed a lethal dose.”
I know Serge, the worse things are, the more he jokes about it.
“What does he suggest you do?”
“Have myself carved up like a chicken so they can splice the tubing back together. He calls it a triple-bypass, I call it butchery.”
“When is the
op?”
“I go under the knife Monday next.”
“Oh?”
“Affirmative! Apparently, I don’t have my whole life to fart around making a decision…”
“So, you’re going to be admitted just as I’m finally getting discharged.”
“Yeah, hospital policy apparently, two old fools is one too many.”
He cracks up, I do too.
We might as well laugh, we’re still alive.
“SHE’S A REAL CASE, that girl of yours.”
Myriam chatters away as usual while she conducts her examination. I think in my case it’s just routine now, there’s no real cause for concern, but she remains conscientious. She checks my blood pressure, sticks a thermometer in my right ear and takes my temperature.
Ever since I arrived, I’ve felt like battered old jalopy in the hands of obsessive car mechanics. Oil check, tyre pressure, 67,000-km service.
Any moment now, I figure someone will pop open my bonnet.
“What do you mean, ‘a real case’?”
“From what I heard, she’s been in care for the past year.”
“Really? She told me that ‘at home’ she’s never allowed to do anything.”
“Oh, she hasn’t lived ‘at home’ for an age! One of the youth workers was chatting with one of my colleagues. They go to the same gym.”
“And?…”
“Her father’s inside, he’s been banged up for a few months for GBH, he was involved in a knife fight, someone was seriously hurt. Could you move your leg a little?… There, that’s perfect. The scars are healing well, with a bit of luck, after a while they won’t even be visible… What was I saying?”
“The girl…”
“Oh, yes. Anyway, apparently she and her mother didn’t get along at all, they fought all the time. When the father ended up in prison, the girl left home, lived on the streets for a few weeks, got herself arrested for shoplifting. She wasn’t even thirteen!”
Get Well Soon Page 11