I hear bags being torn open, tapping on a plate, a kind of puffing, chomping, coughing. I try to breathe as quietly as I can, but I’m also really curious. I slide quietly from the toilet and look through the keyhole. I see the side of Marie’s face, her shoulders, part of her upper body and part of her arms, part of the table, the wall with the yellow wallpaper, the coffeepot behind her on the windowsill. She picks up a can of whipped cream, shakes it, holds it diagonally, and squirts into her mouth. Oh, I should try that sometime. Then she picks up a jar of chocolate spread, puts a spoon into it, and then puts the spoon in her mouth. She licks the spoon and dips it into the jar again. Then she tears open a bag of nuts and throws a handful down her throat. She chews as though she’s trying to break a speed record.
Marie calls herself someone with a small appetite, and it’s true when she’s sitting at the table with us. She never eats everything on her plate, while we always have to. Maybe that’s why she’s so hungry, because all of the hunger from all the times she didn’t finish her plate has gotten stuck in her body. She grabs the whipped cream again and sprays and sprays and sprays. Her forehead shines a bit. Soon the whole can will be empty, no doubt about it. Then she eats another spoonful of chocolate spread. After that, the chocolate sprinkles. She opens the little valve on the box and pours it down her throat; some bits fall on the table and on the floor. I wonder what would happen if Daddy found her like this.
I hope it won’t take much longer, because I’m getting cold. I sit back down on the seat, as quietly as I can. I think about what I’d eat if I was allowed to have anything I like: chips, fries with four different kinds of sauce, mussels, cherry tart, chocolate mice with praline filling, ice cream—just straight from the tub with a spoon—but I’d stop just before getting a tummy ache.
Suddenly I hear the chair creak—she’s getting up. I tense all my muscles, as though it will make me invisible. She won’t need to go to the bathroom, will she? Then the door opens. Marie screams, I scream. I drop the big glass and it breaks on the floor. She looks at me. A blob of cream is stuck to her nose and there’s chocolate on her top lip. She’s still chewing something, her mouth moves quickly. She stands frozen to the spot, she breathes noisily, shaking a little. I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say. It all seems to take a very long time. And then, suddenly, she strikes out at me and the back of her right hand connects with my face. Bam. The left side of my head hits the wall. I feel her ring with the green stones graze my cheek. Pain. I touch my face, it’s wet under my eye, I look at my fingers, blood. I hold my hand over it and look at her.
“Sorry,” I say in my quietest voice.
I stand there, wondering whether to sweep up the glass or not. Marie’s eyes are bigger than usual, at least they look it. “Upstairs, you.”
I lie in bed, not daring to move. If I turn my head I’ll get blood on my pillow, and blood is hard to get out. I think about the hand I saw coming toward me, the ring on her finger. My cheek throbs a little, as though something wants to get out. And I’ve got a bump on my head, a little one, which I can feel with my hand. No one has ever hit me before, not even my mommy. I think about Daddy. He would be furious with me if he heard about this. Will Marie tell him? And would she say what she was doing in the kitchen in the middle of the night?
My head starts pounding now, too, with all the thoughts that are in it. Sleep, I think, sleep now. I’ve got school tomorrow. I look at the clock: 2:21.
19
The ice is thick enough, they said on the radio. We’ve driven all the way here, to another country. The Netherlands shares a border with Belgium, where we live, and there’s a lake here that Marie used to visit with her parents, that’s what she told us. It was her idea to go ice-skating, I’m sure of that because Daddy doesn’t really like outings. We never went on a single one with my mommy. We’ve been to the seaside a few times with Uncle Artie because Uncle Olivier had rented an apartment there, but then we stayed the night, which means it’s not an outing anymore, more like a vacation. The bathtub in that apartment, the same one every year, was lilac colored, I can still remember that. And the toaster looked black on the top, as though flames had come out of it. I never ate toast there.
Alexander has gone on a long way ahead of us. Typical of my brother, he can never control himself and just go slow. I walk next to Daddy and Marie. My boots almost get stuck in the snow with every step I take, it’s that deep. I love the sound of walking in the snow, and Daddy does too. He calls it scrunching. That’s a funny word.
Someone’s parked a car next to the lake and there’s music coming out of it, which makes everything even nicer. Daddy spreads some empty garbage bags on the ground and then the bag with everything we need on top of them: thermos flasks with coffee and hot chocolate, and Marie has made scrambled eggs for the sandwiches, real party food. We sit down on the plastic bags and put on our skates. Daddy has to help Alexander. I’m sure he could have done it himself, but his lordship likes to have servants. I’ve never skated before. I’m a bit scared. What if I fall and it really hurts? I’ve put on two pairs of tights under my trousers, just to make sure. Marie promised to teach me because she’s good at it.
“Look!” Alexander shouts to us, as Marie pulls him forward. She’s skating backward, which is quite impressive. Daddy’s skating next to me, he says I can skate really well already, but I’ve fallen down at least eight times, so he’s only saying that to make me feel better. I watch Alexander and Marie. She lets go of him and Alexander skates on. So much pride on his little face. He stays on his feet and doesn’t even wobble much. He understands how it works: long movements, low to the ground, like there are sponges stuck to your feet and you’re trying to polish the ice, Marie said. I don’t manage to do it very well. My brother learns it much faster. While I’m thinking this, I fall down again.
More people have arrived. I’m doing better now. Still not as good as Alexander, but I can stay upright for a reasonable amount of time. Daddy and Marie have gone to the car to warm up, they said. I’m starting to feel really cold now too. I ask my brother whether he’ll come to the car with me for a while, but he’s skating with a boy he met here and they want to keep playing.
I take off my skates, which is a pain with all the little hooks. Alexander’s boots and mine are still next to each other on the garbage bag. I pull mine on and go to the open space where the car’s parked. It’s like climbing a mountain, that’s what it feels like as I sink into the snow with each step. I imagine I’m climbing a very dangerous mountain trail, right to the top, and if I don’t make it, people will die. Don’t slow down, keep going, keep looking around because there may be enemies about. I’m almost there. My nose is so cold it might fall off, but it will all have been worth it when I reach the top. And then I see it: the top, the car, with Marie and Daddy in it. They’re talking. Marie is moving her hands the way she does. The closer I get, the more it looks like arguing. What should I do? I’m cold, but they won’t like it if I join them, I’m sure. It’s started to snow again. I try to catch the snowflakes on my tongue. I have to run around in circles to do so, so hopefully it will warm me up. After the eleventh flake, I start to get bored. I blow on my hands and stop moving for a moment, then I go over to the car anyway and pull open the rear door.
“Hello,” I say in an especially sweet voice. “I’m really freezing.” Silence in the car. “I’m not very good at it, but skating’s wonderful.”
“Yes,” Daddy replies.
“Good idea, Mommy.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” Marie stares ahead.
They don’t say anything else, not to each other and not to me. It’s as quiet here as it is in class when the teacher is really angry at us. I look outside through the window. Even the sky is white today. A flock of birds flies high up. I think about what I can tell Daddy and Marie or ask, but I can’t think of anything. It feels like someone has laid a heavy rock on my chest. I hope I warm up again soon so I can go back outside.
2
0
The guests are going to come in a minute. There are streamers in the living room and in the kitchen, three balloons are dangling from a string on the front door, and Alexander made a big drawing for me. He’s written MONA 11 in big letters and, underneath it, 1-24-1978. He drew a soccer ball on it, even though I don’t like soccer, and I think people know what date it is today, but it’s the thought that counts.
This morning we went to the bakery to get three big cakes, and we picked out snacks from the deli. Uncle Artie is coming, Uncle Olivier and his family, Marie’s parents, her friend Monique, and the neighbors on the right too, but they’re only bringing their youngest son, the others are too big, and I was allowed to invite Ellen, otherwise it would only be boys, which isn’t nice for me. It’s sad that Granny can’t be here today, I think. Also because she usually brings a big present. But hopefully she’ll still give me one when I see her next Wednesday. Birthdays are the most wonderful thing there is, along with petting small animals and lying in the grass when the sun’s shining. You get lots of presents on your birthday and everyone acts nice and looks at you.
At three thirty, it’s time for the cake. Marie has put eleven candles on the strawberry one. Everyone sings “Happy Birthday” and then I’m allowed to blow out the candles. I can make a wish if I blow them all out in one go. I take a deep breath. Two stay lit. I get the first plate with a big chunk of chocolate cookie cake on it. Uncle Artie asks what’s the best thing about being eleven. I think for a long time and then I say, “Being one year closer to being a grown-up.”
“And why do you want to be a grown-up?” the neighbor asks. “Being a child is the loveliest thing there is.”
I have to remember that, I think, so that I never say anything that dumb to my own children, or anyone else’s.
“And what was your best present?” Uncle Olivier asks.
It’s a trick question, I know, because you can disappoint people. “They were all good,” I lie, because the set of ink stamps I got from the neighbor is totally uncool and babyish, but of course you can’t say a thing like that. Ellen has picked apple and raisin cake; she takes really big bites, her cheeks get fat as she chews, like a marmot.
“And we’ve got an announcement too, don’t we, Daddy?” Marie says. Daddy stands behind her like they’re about to pose for a photo. Everyone looks at them. “I’m having a baby. I’m not three months along yet, but we couldn’t keep it quiet any longer. The due date’s August 15.” She giggles as she says it.
Everyone gets up to kiss and congratulate them. I look at Alexander, who’s enthusiastically eating a piece of strawberry cake like nothing is happening.
“Well, kids, you must be happy too,” Daddy says once everyone sits back down.
“I want a brother,” says Alexander. “If it’s a sister, can we give her to somebody else?”
Everyone laughs.
“Very happy,” I say through the laughter.
“Let’s drink to that, right, bro?” Uncle Artie looks at Daddy.
“Good idea, I’ll get the champagne.”
I eat my cake. Everyone is talking to each other, happy and excited. No one looks at me, not even Ellen. She’s sitting next to me but having a conversation with the boy from next door. It turns out they know each other. All I can think is that I don’t want a little sister or a little brother. Ellen predicted that this would happen, but I didn’t want to believe her. I’ve got my hands full with Alexander, and now one of those crying babies with stinky diapers? Little kids are cute but not for long in your own home.
Ellen has finished her cake. “Want to go upstairs?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say and follow her to my bedroom.
“So? Are you happy?” She lies down on her belly on my bed, puts her hands under her chin, and gives me a questioning look.
“I don’t know.”
“I’d like to have a little sister, but Mommy and Daddy have said there’s no chance of them having another child.”
“Yes, but you’re an only child, so that makes sense. I’ve already got Alexander.”
“That’s true.” Ellen looks worried and a frown line appears above her nose.
“Maybe it won’t be nice, another child.” I say it quietly, as though they might hear me.
“Why not?”
“Marie will be that kid’s real mommy. Don’t you think moms always prefer their own kids?”
“I do think that.” Ellen holds her head at an angle, the ways she always does when she’s thinking about something.
“And on top of that, babies can’t do anything wrong yet and everyone thinks they’re cute. So Daddy will prefer the new baby too, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure, but it is possible.” Ellen sits up and puts her arm around my shoulder, like she’s a mother or something. “Your daddy loves you, though. Just because he works so much, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
I don’t understand why Ellen’s talking about work. “What do you mean, he works so much?”
“Nothing. My mom told my dad she felt sorry for you, because you saw so little of Vincent. I once told her that I never see him when I play here, and even when I stayed the night, he was still working when we went to bed. So I thought that maybe because of that you weren’t sure your dad loves you, but I’m certain he does because all dads love their kids.”
I didn’t say that I was worried Daddy didn’t love me, so now I feel even more concerned. It’s true that he works a lot, but what else can he do? He has all those patients who need him.
“Want to play with one of your new presents?” Ellen suggests.
“Yes, all right,” I say.
Ellen picks something. I can hear the people downstairs laughing and chatting. Through my window I can see the boys playing outside. It’s freezing but that doesn’t seem to bother them. It’s my party and everyone’s enjoying themselves. And I’m trying not to think about things, which isn’t working, as usual.
21
Alexander’s going home with Jeremy after school because it’s Friday and he’s staying over there. I walk home alone, slowly. The crows caw and the ice-cream truck plays its tune somewhere in the distance. I’ve got a stomachache. I often have a stomachache these days, I don’t know why. I think about things I can talk about. If I can’t think of anything, Marie thinks I don’t want to talk to her. Sometimes I just make up something nice that is supposed to have happened because my day is too boring to talk about. I don’t consider that lying because they’re stories about things that could have happened. I like to write stories too. I write them down in the big exercise book Uncle Artie gave me. He says I should do lots of writing because I’m good at it. I don’t know if that’s true, maybe he’s only saying that to be kind. Uncle Artie likes to be kind.
I open the front door with my key and hang up my coat in the hall and put my shoes with their toes facing the wall because that’s neat and tidy. I prick up my ears, hear nothing, and cautiously open the living room door.
“Hello, Mommy.”
I give her a kiss on the cheek. She smells like coffee and cigarettes. She smokes more than she used to since she has to lie flat on her back for the baby. That’s what she calls it: lying flat on her back, which is strange because lying down is flat, of course. It’s really bad luck for her that she has to do that, but if she doesn’t stick to bed rest, the baby might be born too early. And then it could be dead or handicapped. Marie is only allowed to get up to go pee and to shower but not for anything else. Daddy ordered a special bed like the ones they have in the hospital and it’s in the living room. And Marcella comes every day now until three o’clock. After that she has to get back to her children, but soon after that we get home.
I hope Marie’s feeling all right today. It’s really tiring for her, of course. How would you feel if all you could do was lie in bed? I can see from her face it hasn’t been that bad today.
“Can I get you anything?”
“I’m really craving some her
ring. Could you go to the fishmonger’s for me, maybe?” I nod. The fishmonger’s is a long way away, but it’s a sunny day so I don’t mind. “Take some money from my purse, OK?”
As I’m putting my coat back on, Marie calls me all of a sudden, really loudly. I think something’s wrong and rush to her.
“Quick, here, he’s kicking.”
She puts my hand on her belly and I can feel movement. So strange that such a small human can already do that. I’ve never felt anything like it.
I smile at Marie. “He?”
“I think it’s a boy, but we’re going to let it be a surprise.”
Marie moves my hand across her belly and I can feel my little brother or sister going crazy in there. Maybe it will be fun after all, I think, once it’s really here.
“Thank you for showing me.”
“Of course.” I see Marie’s gums. “You’re going to be a good big sister.”
“Yes, for sure,” I say, and I mean it too. I’m not going to disappoint Marie and Daddy.
Marie asks me to buy some smoked mackerel, too, while I’m at it. Excited, I go outside, my face lifted toward the sun.
22
To be honest, I prefer small houses. Like Ellen and her parents’. Their kitchen is so small, you can only stand and cook in it, and they don’t have a dining room, and their living room is packed with the sofa and the coffee table and the TV and the table and chairs and some cupboards. But everyone’s always together here. That’s how it feels. Ellen’s parents ask lots of questions and they talk about their own lives a lot, like it’s always Christmas or something. But a fun Christmas, like in the movies, I mean. I’m allowed to stay over tonight, and then we’re going to the movies to watch Grease, which is a film with John Travolta. Two kids in my class have already seen it, and they both said it was fantastic, so I can’t wait.
Mona in Three Acts Page 8