Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  I lie in my dark bedroom and try to just listen to the sounds. The wind outside. A door closing downstairs. “I’m not alone,” I say out loud, and then again. I don’t know if other people get this too, but sometimes it feels as though something’s biting my neck. It holds on tight and won’t let go. That sometimes is now.

  12

  Normally Marie comes to us, but today we’re going to pick her up and all go to Uncle Artie’s together. I think Daddy wants to because he’s driving the new car for the first time. He bought another Citroën DS, a sky-blue one. This time it’s even got a roof that can come off, which is really special. That makes it remind me a little less of the old one, the way it looked after what happened, with everything inside.

  Marie lives with her parents. They’re called Fernand and Therese, Marie told us. Her dad is a cardiologist, which is a doctor who treats hearts.

  Granny went to a cardiologist once because she was getting heart palpitations. I think I get heart palpitations sometimes too. When I’m lying in bed and I put my hands over my ears, I can feel my heartbeat racing away there. I don’t think this is normal. Maybe I can ask the cardiologist what the problem is.

  Marie’s parents live in a really big house. It’s white and tall and wide, with a black roof and an enormous garden full of old trees. Daddy pointed it out to us once as we drove past. We’re sitting in the open-topped car, waiting. Alexander’s wearing a hat and I’ve got a scarf around my hair because there’s a lot of wind when the car’s moving, and otherwise we’ll get sick, and Daddy can’t be having that—sick children—we have to understand that.

  Daddy rings the bell; he’s wearing a leather jacket he bought with Marie. It looks really cool. Then I see Marie come out with her parents right behind her. Daddy has never met her parents and I think he’s a bit nervous about it. After a very quick chat, Daddy and Marie come toward us. Her parents stay standing at the door.

  “Wave,” Daddy hisses as he opens the car door.

  So Alexander and I wave and smile as sweetly as we can. Marie’s parents don’t wave back.

  Alexander stands up in the car, he probably thinks they can’t see him well enough. He waves and shouts, “Hel-lo, Mommy’s parents.” They turn their backs on us and go inside. The door closes behind them with a slam. It must be a heavy door, I think. I’m still waving, I realize, which is accidental.

  “They didn’t wave back,” Alexander says in a small voice.

  “They will,” Marie said, “but first they have to get used to it.”

  “To the new car?” Alexander asks.

  “No, to the fact I’m going to be your new mommy.”

  “Oh, that.” He sits back down.

  Daddy starts up the car without saying anything and turns onto the road. What a shame it’s just a short drive to Uncle Artie’s. The sun is shining brightly, which feels lovely and warm, and the wind blows in my face. I lean my head back and look up at the sky. There are a lot of birds and not many clouds. I can’t hear the birds because the car is making too much noise. And Daddy and Marie are also shouting to each other above the racket, but I’m not listening. I don’t want to hear what they’re saying, not this time.

  I wonder what kind of people don’t wave back at children. I try waving at the couple in the car next to us and the mom raises her hand immediately. I hope we won’t have to start calling them Granny and Grandpa. It’s true I’ve never had a grandpa—Daddy’s parents died before I was born, and the grandpa that goes with Granny on Mommy’s side died when I was a toddler, of a heart attack, just like that, all of a sudden, collapsed in the bedroom while he was putting on his pajamas—but I’d rather have no grandpa than one who isn’t nice. When Granny told me about Grandpa, I wanted to know if she was shocked when he suddenly fell to the floor, but she said she’d rather not talk about it. I know there are all kinds of things adults would rather not talk about. I get that, but at the same time I don’t. I like talking more than anything else. The teacher wrote on my report, “Mona is the chatterbox of the class.” I don’t think she meant it as a compliment but still it made me laugh and Daddy too, in fact.

  13

  As we wait in front of the church, I can’t help but think that we haven’t been here since Mommy’s funeral. Mommy is lying behind the church, on the right, almost underneath the big beech tree. We never go to the grave, but I don’t mind because I don’t like seeing that she’s buried. I shouldn’t think about her, I tell myself, not today, because today we are celebrating Daddy getting married to Marie.

  Uncle Artie takes us inside and sits down with us in the front row. He looks handsome in his black suit and shiny shoes. Daddy looks all right too, as handsome as he can be. Marie makes a beautiful bride, that’s what Uncle Artie said to her. She’s wearing a yellow dress, quite short, and white shoes with really high heels. Her long legs look very brown, she’s been sunbathing in the garden a lot. The outfit is from a very expensive shop, Marie said. I never want to get married in one of those white dresses with tons of fabric when I’m older, they’re too princessy for me. But maybe I’ll never get married. Marie’s not wearing white because of Daddy already having been married once. I overheard Marie saying it was a shame, but Daddy said she had to understand it would be better to wear something fitting. “Fitting” was funny, I thought, because it’s better if your clothes fit when you’re getting married, even though I knew that wasn’t what he meant. That was when she said she’d go to the most expensive shop to buy her outfit. Marie likes the word outfit—she uses it a lot. She’s like Mommy in that way. But not in any other way, I suspect. But maybe that’s only because I don’t know her well enough yet.

  We have to sit at the front and wait; the couple will walk from the back up to the altar while classical music is playing. It won’t be “Here Comes the Bride” like in the movies, Uncle Artie said, which is too bad. Mass is really boring. I kick my legs back and forth, first to the right, then to the left, and then again. Alexander seems to find it annoying because he pushes his knee against my left leg and makes the same face Daddy does when he’s angry. I’m not allowed to come forward until just before the communion. I don’t know when that will be, but the preacher will announce it. This is annoying because it means I have to listen to what he’s saying. Just as I’m thinking this, he says, “And now their young daughter, Marie, will come forward to read a poem she wrote herself.”

  I get up and walk solemnly toward the lectern, that’s what it’s called, Uncle Artie told me, and in the meantime, I feel in my skirt pocket for the rolled-up paper with my poem on it. I feel and feel but I can’t find it. I stop, it’s a very small pocket and I’ve only got one of them, the piece of paper must be in it. I turn my head and try to look into the pocket, which doesn’t work, of course. I see all the people in the church sitting and staring at me. What should I do now? Don’t panic, don’t give up, that’s the most important thing. I go forward, take the microphone, clear my throat like grown-up people do, smile, and say, “Dear everyone, I’ve lost my poem, it seems, and I’m sorry about that. But I wish Daddy and Marie lots of luck, and let the champagne flow.” The people in the church laugh, which gives me a good feeling all the same. Or at least less of a bad feeling.

  When I’m back at my seat, Uncle Artie squeezes my shoulder. “Well resolved, sweetheart. Maybe you can read the poem at the party later. The two of us will go back to the house and pick it up. You’ve got a rough draft or something, don’t you?”

  I nod gratefully. Uncle Artie is kind. Then I realize that I said Marie and not Mommy, and I feel really bad about it. It’s the kind of thing that would really disappoint Daddy. I feel like crying but don’t—that would be really inappropriate on a day like this. Unless you cry from happiness, but only old people do that, I think.

  Alexander pokes me and whispers meanly, “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.” Mommy used to say that to me. Does it mean Alexander is thinking about her too? I don’t ask him, the pest. I look at Daddy and try
to see if he’s angry because of my goof, but Marie’s head is in the way. She looks serious, and then all of a sudden, she smiles at something the preacher says.

  Later, at the party, Uncle Artie lifts me onto the table of honor, still wearing my shoes, and asks for silence by tapping a glass of water with a knife. There are fewer people than in the church and I don’t have a microphone, which is a shame, but I speak in my loudest voice and try to articulate properly. I see everyone looking at me right up to the end. I think the people can understand me because when I finish, they all clap, which feels amazing. Even Daddy. Daddy still hasn’t said anything about my screwup, so I hope he’s forgiven me a little.

  The party still isn’t over but Uncle Olivier is taking us to Granny’s. We have to leave because it’s already late. I don’t think twelve fifteen is too late, I could stay awake until four or even five, I’m sure of that. But no one ever asks my opinion about stuff like that.

  Granny wasn’t at the party. Daddy said she was invited but chose not to come. Sometimes we go and visit her, just me and my brother, at her house. It smells funny there—I’d forgotten about that. Like the chest of old clothes at Ellen’s for dressing up, and also like soup and fried onions.

  Granny isn’t always kind, but she’s done so much for us and she must be feeling lonely and sad now. She doesn’t say so, it’s just what I think. Of course she’s still got Auntie Rose and Auntie Emma, but she must miss her daughter, and us now too since she used to see us so often. That’s why it’s good we’re going to stay with her for ten days while Daddy and Marie go on their honeymoon. I’d rather have stayed at Ellen’s, which her mom said would be OK, but then what was Alexander supposed to do? And I also would like to have stayed at Uncle Artie’s, but Daddy didn’t want to ask him because he’s not very good at looking after little kids, Daddy says, which I think is a load of crap, but oh well.

  We’ve never traveled to another country. Daddy and Marie are going to the Côte d’Azur, which is in France. And they’ve got a hotel there with a big swimming pool. Marie showed me some pictures in a brochure. It looked wonderful, like it was built for sheikhs and kings and queens. They’re going to have a glorious vacation. They’ll have a lot of sex as well because that’s what you’re supposed to do on a honeymoon. Ellen told me that. Ellen imagines that they’ll make a baby brother or sister for us, at least that’s what she heard her mom telling her dad, but I hope they won’t. Tiny babies cry at night and wake you up and then always sleep during the day so you can’t play with them. What’s more, a child is a big responsibility. I heard Granny say that once and I think that two are enough for Daddy and Marie. Plus, if Marie gets her own baby, she’ll probably only love that one, or at least love it more. And I’m worried that, if she does have a baby, it’ll be a boy and one brother is more than enough for me.

  I told Alexander he doesn’t have to worry because I don’t think a little brother or sister will come along. I told him, “They’ve already got their hands full with us.” He looked at me like I’d said we were going swimming in a pool of crocodiles, and then went on playing.

  14

  Uncle Artie takes Alexander and me to the airport to pick up Daddy and Marie. My brother is more excited about it than I am, excited about seeing airplanes close up. He goes wild in the car, I have to tell him to shut up several times. If he’s not careful, Uncle Artie will never take us anywhere again, I tell him.

  I think it’s kind of bizarre that the four of us will be going home together and then it will stay like that forever. Unless someone dies. Marie has been spending a lot of time at our house over the past months, but she’s never stayed over and sometimes we didn’t see her for an entire day. Daddy was usually at work then, but I felt more normal. It’s not just about Marie—it’s also Daddy, who always wants everything to be perfect when she’s in the house. I like things being perfect too, but Daddy likes them even more perfect. And he said to us even before the wedding that he wants us to always be good in the future, and we’re to think before we speak, before we say anything to Marie, because she has to be happy with us. I realize it would be really difficult for her if there were naughty children, especially because she’s so sensitive. That’s what Daddy said. Alexander said he didn’t know what sensitive meant, which was dumb of him, I thought. I just wondered what I can and can’t say, but Daddy looked so concerned by Alexander’s comment that I didn’t ask.

  Suddenly we spot them. Daddy’s pushing a cart with two big suitcases on it and a little one at the front. Marie is walking next to him. When they get a bit closer, Alexander shouts out, loud enough for everybody to hear, “Mommy, are you expecting now?” I want to sink through the floor. Uncle Artie just stands there laughing and ruffles Alexander’s hair like he’s done something brave. When they’ve reached us and we’ve given both of them a kiss, Daddy smiles at us. He doesn’t reply to my brother’s question, which worries me. Marie is browner than when she left and she’s got a new pair of sunglasses. I notice them at once, really big ones.

  “Nice glasses,” I say.

  “Yes, aren’t they?” she replies. “A gift from your daddy.”

  Nothing else is said. I wonder whether Marie gets money to buy the things she wants, the way I get an allowance, since she doesn’t have a job. Maybe she gets money from her parents. They’ve got a big house, so they must be rich.

  Daddy chats with Uncle Artie as they walk back to the car, and Marie takes Alexander by the hand and begins to ask him how things were at Granny’s. My brother always acts sweet to her these days, so I understand why she likes talking to him. Everyone likes him better, I think, maybe because he’s the youngest. Maybe not.

  It’s pretty quiet in the car. Uncle Artie asks the occasional question about their trip, but they don’t say much. If anyone speaks, it’s Daddy; Marie sits silently in the back. Alexander tells her stuff from time to time.

  I wake up. The clock says 1:03. I can hear voices downstairs. It would be exaggerating to call it shouting, but they are talking louder than normal. I go to the top of the stairs so I can hear better. I tiptoe down a few steps, very quietly, but if they open the door now, I’ll have nowhere to hide, so really I’ll have to go back to my room soon. I catch little bits of what they’re saying. Daddy calls Marie “creature” as in “you poor creature.” And Marie calls something the biggest anticlimax of her life. I don’t know that word, I’ll have to look it up. I say it five times so that I don’t forget it: anticlimax, anticlimax, anticlimax, anticlimax, anticlimax. Maybe they’re angry with each other because they’re tired from the trip and traveling by plane and all that sex. When Alexander’s tired, he’s horrible to me. I tiptoe back upstairs and get back into bed.

  Mommy and Daddy used to argue a lot too. Maybe it’s normal for people who are married.

  Next week, school’s starting again. Ellen and I are worried we’ll end up with Miss Beavering. She’s very strict and she’s got gigantic teeth, particularly the front two, you can always see them poking out a bit, even when her mouth’s closed. That’s why we call her “the Beaver.” I think it’s a pity that she got those teeth with a name like that, but that doesn’t make her any nicer, of course.

  I turn onto my other side. Daddy and Marie are still arguing. They get louder and louder. I try to think about something else, not about calamity, not about arguments, and not about the fifth grade, otherwise I’ll never get to sleep.

  15

  It’s a Wednesday afternoon, which means Alexander and I are at Granny’s. It was decided at the start of the new school year: every Wednesday afternoon, which is a half day, we go to Granny’s. She picks us up from school and drops us back home again at six. “Marie can have some time to herself and you can see Granny. It’s a win-win situation,” Daddy said. I thought “win-win” was the wrong thing to say because it’s sad that Granny won’t come to our house anymore and that Marie wants us out of the way. Maybe that’s one of Daddy’s talents, seeing the good in things instead of the bad. Sometimes,
anyway.

  Uncle Artie was talking about that—about the glass half-empty and the glass half-full, both of which are true, but a glass that’s half-full of Coke makes you happy because there’s a lot left, while a glass that’s half-empty can be sad because it’s almost finished. So you can decide for yourself whether to be happy or sad about things, depending how you look at it. Since then I’ve been trying to look at things in a good way, not a bad one. Sometimes it’s tricky, though.

  “I need to make covers for my schoolbooks,” I tell Granny. “I haven’t done it yet and the teacher mentioned it this morning.”

  We’ve finished eating and I help clear the table. Alexander doesn’t, he’s lazing around as usual. And Granny doesn’t say anything about it.

  “Do you have any paper to cover them with?”

  I shake my head. “Alexander doesn’t have any either.”

  “I don’t,” he cries, as he sits there breaking the rinds from the cheese into tiny pieces. “I want the paper that Jeremy’s got with race cars on it.”

  “No one at home got any for you?” Granny asks, a question which of course she already knows the answer to. I shake my head again.

  Granny looks at me like she’s just put something nasty in her mouth. “Daddy didn’t and she didn’t either?”

  Granny never calls Marie by her name. Once Alexander accidentally said, “Mommy doesn’t think so,” and Granny doubled over and went to the bathroom and stayed there for a long time. I’ve decided I can call Marie Mommy and that my real mommy’s called “my mommy” from now on, just inside my head where no one’s bothered by it. It’s a mind trick, but still.

  “Sorry,” I say to Granny. I should have kept my mouth shut about the paper.

  “No, you don’t have to be sorry.”

  I understand what she means, but Alexander doesn’t or he hasn’t been following because he asks, “Are we going to the store, Granny? Can I have the paper with racing cars? And can I have new felt pens too? Mine don’t work very well.” That boy always finds a way of making things even worse.