Need something? I thought. Where do I begin?
“Thanks, Richard. I’m fine,” I told him. He nodded, and I kept walking a little faster to get away from him.
A part of me wanted to stay to talk to him, to revive the potential romance, to have friends again, and to participate in school activities the way a girl my age should. Instead, I felt I was living in a strange state of mind, half awake, half dazed. Too often now, I would drift away in the middle of my classes or even when I was walking in the hallways. Everything I did became more robotic. It was truly as if I was losing all feeling, my emotions drying up like flowers pressed between the pages of a book. Touch them too hard, and they would crumble to dust and be gone.
Maybe I was disappearing with Mama. Watching her now, I felt I was seeing someone in a boat pulling away from shore. I had dreams in which Roxy and I were waving good-bye to her and watching her grow smaller and smaller as she headed toward the horizon. Did my fellow students see me the same way? Was I shrinking and shrinking until I would be out of their sight? It was surely uncomfortable for them to see me and uncomfortable for them to talk to me. How many young people my age did they know who had lost both parents? I didn’t blame them for wanting me to disappear. I didn’t blame anyone for anything anymore. There seemed no point to it.
Eventually, Mama became so weak that she couldn’t get out of bed. Finally, one day, Mrs. Ascott recommended that she be returned to the hospital, especially since I was the only one there after she left each day. I didn’t want that. I wanted to forget about school and just be with her, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. She agreed with Mrs. Ascott, and arrangements were made for her return.
“Just for a while,” Mama said, but I knew she wouldn’t be coming back, and she knew I knew. For now, it was easier for both of us to pretend.
I called Roxy to tell her.
“Have you spoken with Uncle Alain recently?” she asked.
“Two days ago. He said he was about to make reservations for next week.”
“Might be better if he came this week,” she said.
I couldn’t speak for a moment. My throat tightened so firmly that I could feel the blood rush to my face. “I don’t want her to go to the hospital. I can take care of her here,” I finally said.
“Let her go, M.”
She said it without a hint of any emotion. Was that because she was older and more independent, or was it because she didn’t love Mama as much as I did? It made me angry but also strangely jealous. How lucky she was if it was true that she wouldn’t cry ever over anyone. I once read a poem that said, “You can’t love anyone without pain, the pain of jealousy and the pain of loss. It will always be under your skin and in your heart waiting to pounce.”
“You mean let her go like you did?” I said sharply.
“Hating me won’t help,” she replied. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“She’ll be in the hospital tomorrow.”
“That’s what I meant,” Roxy said. “We’d better start thinking about you. You should call Aunt Lucy.”
“I’ll never go to live with Aunt Lucy and Uncle Orman. You went out in the street. I will, too,” I said, and hung up on her.
After I gathered my thoughts, I called Uncle Alain. It was late in France, but I thought I should call him anyway. He was silent for a moment after I described Mama and what the nurse wanted us to do now, and then he said he would be here the day after tomorrow and would keep his return ticket open.
I couldn’t help myself. I finally began to cry, and cry hard. I felt terrible that I was doing it on the phone with someone who was too far away to reach out and embrace me. He tried with his words. He spoke softly, lovingly, in French and then in English. I listened, choked back my tears, and thanked him. Afterward, I went to tell Mama that he was coming. She surprised me by saying she wished he wouldn’t.
“I wish he would remember me only as I was,” she said. She wanted to say more, but her pain medicine kicked in, and she fell asleep.
I sat up most of the night, in the living room looking at albums. I saw the blank places from which Papa in his rage years ago had ripped out pictures of Roxy. Some of those pictures Mama had rescued, but there were many I imagined he had torn up or burned. For Mama’s sake, I went into the carton of pictures and things she had shown us and began putting some back in the albums. I would bring the albums to the hospital, I thought. It would give us both something to do. I was sure she would want to see them again.
Mrs. Ascott was at the house earlier the next day. The ambulance was not far behind. I felt helpless watching her get Mama ready. Every time Mama saw me watching, she smiled.
“You should just go to school, Emmie,” she said.
“No. I’m going with you.”
“Your mother’s right. They won’t take you, too, in the ambulance,” Mrs. Ascott told me.
It put me in a rage, and I stormed out and marched up the street, walking with my arms folded, my head down. It didn’t take me much longer than it took the ambulance to get to the hospital. They hadn’t even placed Mama in a room yet when I arrived, but they wouldn’t let me see her until they had. Finally, I went up. She was already hooked up to an IV bag and in and out of consciousness. I sat watching her, the rage I had felt earlier still thumping at my heart.
“How dare you die on me?” I whispered. “Papa is gone; you can’t go, too. How dare you leave me?”
I sat sulking like a little girl and didn’t even realize that Roxy was in the doorway.
“You should have gone to school,” she said.
I turned away from her, and she entered. “Is that what you would have done?”
“This could go on for a while, M. You can’t sit here day and night.”
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” I said. I glared at her.
She sighed and looked at Mama. She was wearing a new winter coat now. It was red with a white fur collar. She had a white fur hat with splashes of red in it to match her coat, and she had another pair of knee-high polished leather boots. She wore dark blue slacks and a blue sweater beneath the coat. She took off her designer sunglasses and pressed her thumb and forefinger into her temples. All I could think of was that she didn’t look anything at all like a daughter grieving over her mother’s terminal illness.
“How many different outfits do you have?” I demanded.
She looked at me and laughed.
“What? Why are you laughing at me? My question is silly? You wear something expensive and new every day.”
“One of my clients is high up at one of the more exclusive department stores,” she said. “I get gifts in addition to spending my money on clothes. I like clothes. I’m not apologizing for—”
“For anything, I know. Why are you here, Roxy? Why did you come back now?”
“What do you mean? You came to me, didn’t you? You sent me letters and that charm bracelet.”
“Yes, I did,” I said. I looked at Mama. “I thought it would help her.”
“Maybe it has. I told you not to become bitter, M. It won’t change anything.”
“This isn’t right,” I said. Tears burned under my eyelids.
She nodded and looked at Mama again. “Maybe she can’t live without him. I’ve been told we’re all living with one terrible disease or another dormant inside us, just waiting for our immune systems to weaken. Grief does that, grief and great loss.”
“Then you’ll live forever,” I said.
She looked at me, shook her head, and walked out.
I didn’t speak to her again until Uncle Alain arrived and insisted on seeing her. He was taller than Mama, very slim, with hair a shade darker and eyes that seemed to go from blue to green depending on his moods. Green was for the more serious ones. Mama and he shared some of the same facial features, their noses, high cheekbones, and perfect lips. I remembered that Uncle Alain was always dapper, elegant, and fastidious about his appearance. Everything always matched perfectly, with clear, correct c
reases in his pants and no wrinkles in his shirts. He loved shoes, especially soft Italian leather, and always wore a subtle cologne, not too sweet but always interesting, like the discovery of a new flower.
He called me when he landed. I waited for him at the house, but I didn’t call Roxy.
“How grown up you are,” was his first comment when I opened the door. “Petite Emmie.” He hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. Then he looked past me. “Roxy isn’t here?”
“No, she doesn’t live here, Uncle Alain.”
He nodded and closed the door. I took him to our guest bedroom.
“Are you tired?” I asked.
“No. I had a good flight. I’ll shower and dress, and we’ll go over to the hospital. Then I was hoping I could take you both to dinner.”
“Both?”
“You and Roxy,” he said.
“Oh. I’ll see if she’s available,” I said, trying to disguise my bitterness.
I left him to get himself ready and called Roxy. She answered on the second ring.
“What?” she asked in a clipped voice. I knew what she was expecting.
“Uncle Alain is here. We’re going to the hospital soon, and he was hoping that afterward he could take you and me to dinner. Are you free for dinner tonight, or do you have a client?”
“I’ll be at the hospital, M. And yes, I’m free,” she said.
She hung up to show me she wasn’t going to tolerate any more negativity from me. I was out of my class when it came to competing with her, anyway, I thought. She was the expert. Anger and hate were infrequent companions of mine. The battles they brought along with them were battles I was not used to waging. She was a veteran of those wars.
I made some coffee for Uncle Alain and some toast with cheese so he could have something before we left.
“You’ve been here by yourself whenever your mother is in the hospital?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s no problem, Uncle Alain.”
“Tell me about Roxy. When did she come back? Where is she living? What is she doing?”
Roxy would always be more interesting than I was, I thought. Why should it come as any surprise? I was still more interested in Evan than I would ever be in Richard. I had wondered if that meant evil was always a strong part of us and if life was a constant battle to keep it subdued. I was wondering about it even more now. Who wasn’t more excited about breaking rules in school, disobeying their parents, and experiencing the most forbidden things?
“She came back because I sent a letter to her about Papa’s death. I thought that might bring her around to see Mama, but for a long time, she didn’t respond. She was as angry at Mama as she was at Papa, because Mama didn’t stop him from throwing her out.”
“I know. Your mama has always regretted that.”
“Finally, Roxy broke down and came to the hospital when Mama was in surgery.”
He sipped his coffee and nodded. “She has your father’s headstrong ways. Your mother always thought that was why they didn’t get along. They were too alike. So where is she living?”
I described the hotel. He knew she had the name Fleur du Coeur.
“This is what she still does?”
“Oui. She makes a lot of money, has beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry. She gets taken in private jets to warm places.”
“You sound jealous. I’m sure you have a boyfriend, no?” he asked, smiling.
“No. I did for ten minutes,” I said, and he laughed. We both looked at the clock. “Should we go?”
“Yes.”
I put everything away.
He looked about the house and told me I was doing a good job of keeping it nice. “My sister must be pleased with such a mature, responsible young lady for a daughter.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded. Can’t cry now, I thought. I wanted Uncle Alain to concentrate on Mama and give her all of his affection and attention, not me, and certainly not Roxy.
We left, and when we arrived at the hospital, Roxy was waiting for us. I looked at Uncle Alain when he saw her, and I was immediately jealous of his reaction. I was sure that Roxy looked more beautiful than ever to him. They hugged and kissed, and he told her how pretty she was.
“But you always were,” he added.
“You look very well, Uncle Alain. Still living in the Saint-Germain area of Paris?”
“Where else?”
“And Maurice? Where is he working now?”
“He’s at Pierre Gauguin, a very upscale restaurant.”
“Still throwing chopping blocks at the sushi chefs?”
Uncle Alain laughed. “You know how he thinks of his kitchen. It’s a work of art, and he will not tolerate mistakes. He’s no different at home, although he doesn’t throw anything at me.”
I looked at Roxy. How did she know so much about Uncle Alain and his partner? Had they kept in touch secretly all these years?
“He would have come along with me, but he’s under some pressure. New owners.”
“Too bad. We would have gotten a good meal.”
Uncle Alain laughed again. “That you would,” he said.
“Mama is upstairs,” I muttered, as if I had to remind them why we were there. They both glanced at me.
“Oui. Allons,” Uncle Alain said, and we headed for the elevators.
Before we entered Mama’s room, Uncle Alain took both our hands. He lowered his head, perhaps in prayer, and we walked in. I could see in his face that he wasn’t prepared for what he was seeing, even though he was well aware of Mama’s condition. I had been living with it for a while, so her gradual loss of weight and her gaunt look were surely much more of a shock for him. It occurred to me that the last time he had seen her, she was vibrant and alive.
She was awake and smiled at him. He didn’t speak. He took her hand and kissed it and then sat beside her and spoke in French. Both Roxy and I stood back and watched until he turned to us, telling her still in French that she had two very beautiful daughters. We drew closer, but we didn’t interrupt his telling her all about their family in France. The nurse appeared to check her IV bag. She had the look of someone just going through the motions. Uncle Alain asked her about Mama’s doctor, and she told him he was on the floor.
Soon afterward, Mama fell asleep, and we left.
“That’s her doctor,” Roxy said, nodding at Dr. Hoffman, who stood by the nurses’ station.
Uncle Alain approached him, and they talked. Roxy and I stayed back. Neither of us wanted to hear what the doctor had to say.
When Uncle Alain returned to us, he looked pale, but he forced a smile.
“Take me to an expensive restaurant,” he told Roxy. I was sure she knew the best.
I didn’t think I would have any appetite, but Uncle Alain was an amazing shot in the arm for both of us. He was funny and interesting. Like an expert pilot, he navigated through the minefields that would bring on any sorrow or displeasure. He didn’t ask Roxy any questions that would make her defensive, and he didn’t dwell on Mama’s condition. For a moment or two, I wondered if the doctor had given him some reason to be hopeful, but he laid that idea to rest when we all left the restaurant and Roxy hailed a taxi for herself.
“This won’t go on much longer,” he told her. She nodded. I could see the way they were looking at each other and then at me.
“One of us has to call Aunt Lucy and Uncle Orman,” she said.
“You do it,” I told her. Aunt Lucy had given her their telephone number.
Roxy nodded and left. We hailed our own cab and headed home. I could see that Uncle Alain was pretty exhausted, both physically and emotionally, so I told him just to go to sleep and not worry about keeping me company. I said I had homework to do.
“That’s good,” he said. “Bon nuit, ma chère.”
“Bon nuit.”
As I watched him walk off, his shoulders slumped, his head down, I remarked to myself how effective grief was when it came to making you look older. Maybe that was because minutes
and hours, days and weeks, suddenly became so important that you wished they would last forever. He was up ahead of me the following morning. He said it was the jet lag, but he had a nice breakfast prepared for both of us.
“You might as well go to school today,” he said. “I’m here now, so I’ll be at the hospital waiting for you when you are done.”
“Is Roxy meeting you there?”
“I’ll call her.”
“Don’t be surprised if she’s busy. She’s very popular doing what she does,” I said.
He heard the disapproval and anger in my voice but held his soft smile. “It’s never good or right to judge each other, but especially not now,” he told me.
Maybe he was right, but it felt like a reprimand. He should at least have pretended to agree with me. I didn’t care how nice Roxy was being to Mama now and how beautiful, elegant, and refined she was. She had broken Mama’s heart for years. Uncle Alain should at least acknowledge that, at least to me, I thought, and I left for school carrying rage along with my books. For now, it was comforting to be angry.
It kept me from being sad and feeling sorry for myself. I supposed I was being more like Papa. I needed him, needed his firmness, his unemotional military demeanor, and his intolerance of anyone or anything that would break ranks.
I pitied anyone who crossed my path that day, and entered the school as if I were stepping onto a field of battle.
I would take no prisoners.
19
No one, including my teachers, dared to ask anything that might upset me. They even avoided asking me questions about the subject or homework. I supposed that was because of the look on my face, but I became paranoid about it, and when I looked around, I began to wonder if everyone knew even more about my mother than I did. Maybe because of my desperate need to cling to some hope, I was blind to the inevitable. I wouldn’t listen, and I wouldn’t see what others could. I would never accept it.
When I walked toward a group of my classmates, they parted like the Red Sea to let me pass, no one speaking. Of course, I had my gaze on the floor and didn’t pause. Perhaps I was imagining everything, but when I grazed against people or bumped into them, they jumped back as if I had touched them with a Taser. Finally, Chastity came to speak to me at lunch. I was just sitting, staring at nothing and barely eating. I didn’t even realize she was standing there.