Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  My stomach clenches. “Sorry, I didn’t want to hurt you. I just feel—I . . .” I fall silent.

  “Yes? What?” He pronounces the words as though he’s carving them into my skin.

  “I miss you. I love you. I don’t want to be angry with you. It makes me unhappy too.”

  “You silly goose. Don’t be unhappy. I’m here. You don’t have to miss me.”

  I sit down next to him and he hugs me. At that instant, all thoughts stop. I’m just happy the harmony has returned, that these arms are around my body. People being angry with me, I really can’t handle that.

  5

  This one is a little older, her hair black with a blueish tinge; she probably dyes it herself with one of those shampoos from the supermarket. She has green eyes, big teeth, a jolly double chin, and remarkably thin lips. She’s wearing orthopedic sandals, definitely one of the top three footwear choices of the women who work here. When she comes in, she draws her mouth into a broad smile and says good afternoon so cheerily it’s like she’s on Prozac and hasn’t gotten the dosage right yet.

  “We’re going to have a bite to eat, eh?” she cackles. She dashes around the room, presses the knobs on my father’s bed to turn it into a kind of armchair in which he sits bolt upright. She pushes pillows behind his back and his neck. “There we go, everything’s just fine.” She ties a bib onto him, pulls the side table with wheels over to the bed, and puts the tray on it. “So, my boy, the pill in this cup is for after the meal. Don’t forget it, all right? Eat well now. Bon appétit!” And she blasts out of the room in the same way she came in.

  Dad is left looking at the plate of food in bewilderment. An intelligent, youthful man in his sixties being treated like an unruly toddler. I can hardly bear it.

  “Shall I?”

  He nods. I take off the bib, make the bed less upright, and take out one of the pillows from behind his neck. The plate contains a pile of floury potatoes, an unidentifiable slab of gray meat, and some broccoli. There’s a fruit yogurt cup on its own little plate that serves no other function; a dessert here belongs on a plate even if it’s in a plastic cup. They don’t want any chaos to spoil their orderliness. Dad makes no attempt to pick up his knife and fork.

  “Want me to go and see if I can find you something more appetizing?”

  “Don’t go to any trouble. I’m not hungry anyway.”

  I don’t want to be the girl who forces the patient like the nurses do, nor the school teacher who admonishes him to eat something to be strong for the operation. The hell he’s in is palpable to me now.

  “They’ll be on my case if I don’t eat. Would you take a few bites to make it look like I did?”

  In the last phase of this life, we have to clean our plates again. I wrestle down some broccoli and a couple of potato chunks. I cut the meat and hide it under the rest so that it looks like some has been eaten. “There we go. Want your bed back down again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  It’s only when he’s lying down again that Dad seems to relax a bit. A few people rush past in the hallway, heavy shoes pounding and sneakers squeaking as though a life is in jeopardy not far away. Probably just my imagination, I reassure myself. My imagination is always worse than any kind of reality; do I get that from my father? How many worries does he have? Does he believe the story Marie and Alexander sold him? We both look outside even though there’s not much to see from here. The silence hangs heavily between us like mist between ancient mountains.

  And then all of a sudden, out of the blue, he says, “Mona, will you hold my hand?”

  Dad lays it ready, that hand, on the white sheet, palm upward. It must have happened before, my hand in his, but it’s been so long I find it hard to picture, too infant-sized to be a lasting memory. Aside from Marie, who is prone to getting all gushy at dramatic moments, we don’t do hugs or other variations of the affection theme in our family, as though it’s a luxury we simply can’t allow ourselves. And now this hand. I look at it. Of course I have to take it, but something is stopping me. What kind of a daughter am I? I breathe in and take the hand, his right one, in my left. I sit there feeling like a monkey wearing a wig, but I persevere. I look at the door; it probably won’t be long before Marie arrives. She has written herself into the visiting schedule in abundance. She gets restless, she says, when she doesn’t see him. It must be hard, of course, two people who’ve lived together for twenty-five years, day in, day out, and then you suddenly find yourself alone in a big house. If Marie gets the chance, she even hangs around when we’re visiting. Today she had to be at home for the new bed that was being delivered. They’d ordered it months ago and already paid for it; it would last at least twenty years, Marie had said when she picked it out. I look at my hand in his hand and hope she doesn’t come in now. If she sees this—I push away the thought.

  “I’m going to live to be eighty-six,” he almost squeaks. His voice is so thin suddenly. “That seems like a good age to me.”

  Everything inside me is breaking. I say nothing because crying never seemed more inappropriate than now in this bell jar of aging, ailing, and ministering.

  Dad turns his head toward me, he wants an answer, apparently.

  “That’s a good old age.”

  He smiles. “All these tests. The operation in two days. I’m not exactly looking forward to it.”

  “I get that.”

  “I’d like to ask whether—”

  Then the door swings open, the black-haired nurse makes a beeline for the bed, and I let go of his hand.

  “Oh, but what did I say? That pill. You seem to have forgotten it. You were supposed to take it with your meal, I told you that.” She pushes another button and the bed zooms up again. She gives him a glass of water and the pill. “Down the hatch.” My father places the dull white pill on his tongue and swallows it with a small gulp. “And we haven’t eaten much, have we? You have to learn to be a big boy, otherwise you’ll never get stronger.” “A big boy.” She really said that. It’s the kind of thing you say to a kid who just pooped in his potty rather than in his pants, or learned a poem by heart, a little boy who’s eaten all of his brussels sprouts. “Maybe lie on your side now for a change?” She’s learned not to wait for an answer, so with skilled movements, my father is laid on his side, a row of pillows behind his back. “That’s better now, my boy, isn’t it?” She’s already heading for the door. It closes behind her.

  “Is it comfortable, lying like that?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “You need to pick your battles if you want to win at the game of life.” He laughs. I try to carefully roll him back into his previous position. Then Marie comes in. I’d recognize her footsteps anywhere. Maybe because when I was a child I learned to be such a good listener and observer. I wrestle with pillows and limbs; a nurse’s dexterity is to be envied. Dad lets me tug at him without complaining.

  “Hello, everyone.”

  I hear her depositing her bags and pulling a chair up to the bed.

  “I was just helping move him onto his back.” I kiss her right cheek.

  “Aren’t the nurses better at that?” She stands close to Dad. “Well, how are things here? A little better than this morning?”

  Dad nods.

  She pulls her magazines out of her bag. “Which nurse did he have this afternoon? The friendly one, that blonde?”

  “No, the dark-haired one.” I begin to gather my belongings.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with Marcus and the production designer about a new project.”

  “I thought I might have a nice drink in the cafeteria with my daughter, but well, if you’re busy, you’re busy.”

  I know I’m disappointing her now. I pick up my coat, kiss my father’s cheek, inform him that Alexander is coming tomorrow and that I’ll see him after the operation. There’s something questioning in his eyes that confuses me. I walk into the hallway and out of th
e hospital.

  I don’t breathe properly again until I’m in my car. Sadness is infectious. Then I start the engine, put in a CD, and “Asleep” by the Smiths begins to play. I open the window and my hair blows all over the place. I sing along, very quietly, even though the music’s turned all the way up.

  That evening, there’s a phone call from the hospital. It’s Dad, he wants to ask me something important. I’m to look in his old dental office, at the bottom of the drawer with the hanging files—I have to take out about ten of them—at the bottom, there’s a file. Can I take it away? If something goes wrong during the operation, he doesn’t want Marie to find it. I have to promise him. He repeats the bit about the promise even though I’d agreed immediately.

  6

  “I think you’re just being negative now.” Marcus stretches and produces an extended yawn, as though he just got out of bed. It’s already afternoon. He puts on his sunglasses even though we’re indoors.

  I wouldn’t have minded missing out on this whole project. Since Marcus became artistic director of this large theater, I’d prefer to work with the young performers who develop productions for the smaller auditorium, but I don’t dare ask him if he could work with the other dramaturge from time to time. And of course he’s still a top director, so I realize it’s an honor to be involved each time.

  Marcus has commissioned a play from a German who Louis says has written two exceptionally mediocre novels and one reasonable play. Leniency isn’t one of Louis’s main character traits. It was to be a piece for six actors. Marcus wants to launch four young talents and have a friend of his, Elise, play the lead role. She’s a real diva but also one of the most remarkable actresses of her generation. The other lead role is for Nathan, an actor with a big personality and some good roles on his résumé.

  I received the script six weeks ago and wasn’t enthusiastic. Hans, the writer, revised it slightly after we gave him our feedback, and Marcus thought the new version good enough, so I had to translate it. I did what he asked but it’s still a translation of an inferior play. I’m seriously unhappy about it and I’ve just explained that to him in depth, but he doesn’t have patience for my grievances.

  “What do you suggest, then?” Marcus doesn’t really look at me.

  “Pick a different play while it’s still possible.”

  “Mona’s feeling funny, is she?” Marcus gets up, stations himself behind me, lays his hands on my shoulders, and begins to massage my neck. If I ignore the fact that he’s the person doing it, it feels wonderful; my whole body is stiff. “I think you’re having a tough time because of your dad, so you’re being pessimistic about everything. Rehearsals start in barely two weeks, so we’ll stick with this text. And your ideas about possible revisions aren’t that bad, so make them.”

  “That’ll make it quite different from what Hans wrote.”

  “Well, he had his chance. You have my blessing.” He stops kneading and lets go. “I’m counting on you.” Then he leaves the room.

  That’s nice, I think, dumping all the responsibility on me. Rewriting a play is the most thankless task there is. If it’s bad, it’ll be my fault; if it’s good, then Hans will get the credit. I catch myself sighing; I hate when people do that.

  I gather the ninety pages of text and my book of notes. I open the window, I need oxygen—and a grand gesture, that would help. Throwing the play out the window and watching the pages be carried away on the wind, or sweeping everything from my desk with my arm, or theatrically breaking my keyboard so that it’s impossible for me to work. That’s what they do in movies and on TV: angry people throw things. There, the things don’t belong to the people whose lives they’re messing up, and they don’t have to clean up the mess afterward. In real life you rarely see someone do a thing like that, if at all. I wonder why it happens so much in fantasyland.

  I think: Stop procrastinating, girl, get on with it, time is of the essence. Just as I’ve sat down to start, Marcus comes back into the room.

  “I forgot to ask how your dad’s operation went.” He gets a chair and sits back down. Sweet of him.

  “They removed quite a lot of his bowel and there was some adhesion to the bladder wall, that’s what they call it. But all in all, it went well. He has to recuperate now and when he’s better, they’ll give him some form of light chemo.”

  “And that will buy him time?”

  “Yes. But they won’t say anything concrete about what will actually happen. The vaguer they can be, the better, eh?”

  “We had a fantastic doctor for my dad.”

  “Ours said it was impossible to make any predictions but that we should remain optimistic and not get ahead of ourselves. Literally, the same things he said before the operation, but then he’d promised we’d know more after the op, i.e., now. But we don’t.”

  “Uncertainty is a nasty thing,” Marcus says with a sigh. “Well, gal, chin up and keep the faith. I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” There’s something warm in his gaze when he says this. “And when you’ve finished the revision, you’ll bring it straight to me, OK?”

  I nod and he leaves. I must do this well, I think. I must.

  7

  It’s lying in front of me on the table: a binder, boring black like a civil servant would have, with bands around the corners that have long since lost their elasticity. Here and there a crease in the cardboard, and no label or anything. Louis couldn’t understand why I didn’t open it right away when I got home. I wasn’t even sure whether my father had intended for me to remove it from his house. Maybe he wanted me to do that only if he didn’t survive the operation. I considered telling Alexander, but given his relationship with Dad, that just seemed like pouring oil on the fire.

  He hadn’t forbidden me from looking in the binder. Admittedly, I hadn’t asked, and since then, I haven’t seen him without Marie being there too.

  I get a beer from the refrigerator.

  The mere fact that Dad has something in his possession that has to remain secret is surprising to me. I always saw him as a man who sought peace in routines, in the escape of a full waiting room and paperwork that had to be kept up to date. People who “never have time” never need to stop, never have to think about things that perhaps aren’t right. But now this same man turns out to have contraband goods. I pour the beer into a glass, take a big sip, return to the table, and open the binder. There are letters in it, handwritten on unlined paper. Not my father’s illegible scrawl but elegant handwriting with lots of long loops, probably my mother’s. They begin with “Darling.” I turn the first one over, it’s signed “your J.” Mom’s name was Agnes.

  A photo slips out and falls onto the table. A woman in her forties, reclining nonchalantly on a beige sofa; she sinks into the cushions, one knee raised, as though the photo was taken just as she was sitting down. She’s smiling effusively, her eyes squeezed into slits. She’s wearing black glasses with a heavy frame; her hair is playfully short; black pants, blue-gray sweater: simple and tasteful. A spontaneous, pleasant, warm woman, that’s what she looks like.

  I begin to read in total concentration. There are twelve lovely, original love letters from this intelligent, sweet lady, at least that’s my impression. And the image of my father she projects, he’s like a different man: a romantic with stormy emotions and a great sensitivity, and openhearted too. She responds to things he must have told her about, things that imply real conversations between the two of them. There are no dates anywhere, but she refers to a line by Tommy Cooper who had recently dropped dead during one of his shows, just like that, at the age of sixty-three. She wrote that she was a fan of Tommy Cooper, that life was short so we should dare to live it well as long as it lasted. I look up which year that was: 1984, on April 15. I was seventeen and Anne-Sophie five. I try to remember that time, but I can’t. I don’t have many clear memories of the past. Nowhere in the letters is it clear what did or didn’t happen between them, or how long they knew each other, and nowhere is there any sign of
an impending ending; the letters simply stop.

  I look at the photo of this J. I try to imagine what my father looked like at the time. His hair was a bit longer, I believe. I try to imagine them together. I don’t know what to think and yet I think all kinds of things. I take another beer from the refrigerator. I wish I still smoked.

  The phone rings. It’s Louis, he wants to take me to a party tonight. I’m not sure I feel like it, but it’s a nice gesture all the same.

  Louis never writes letters, even though writing’s his job, and he thinks love letters are ridiculous anyway. People shouldn’t use certain words too much because they lose their meaning. He thinks couples who say sweet things to each other all the time are pathetic in their melodramatic thirst for validation—that’s what he calls it.

  I need to write to Anne-Sophie, I think. If I was her, I’d be offended that we hadn’t already.

  8

  Marie’s sitting on a chair at an angle to Dad’s bed. She’s knitting something gray, black, and red. Some people find the clicking of knitting needles relaxing, but it makes me feel nervous, like clocks that tick loudly or faucets that drip. And once you’ve noticed, it becomes impossible not to hear it.

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “A sweater for Daddy, a nice warm one.”

  I go over to his bed and give him a kiss. He smells of disinfectant and something sour.

  “How are you, Dad?”

  “A little less tired than yesterday, eh, Daddy? That’s good, isn’t it? Because yesterday, well, we had quite the day. He woke up and suddenly said to me: ‘I have to take Mona to school.’ I said, ‘What are you talking about?’ I said, ‘Mona’s thirty-five, she’s had a job for years.’ At which point he dozed off again. Funny, isn’t it, Daddy, you coming out with all these foolish things.”

  Dad says nothing. He believes that resigning yourself is an art.