I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (10 page)

A
ll this snow. I've been crawling along behind a snowplow three cars ahead for ages and Julien told me to be there at six, which is in ten minutes. If it goes on like this I'll arrive at midnight and fail the weekend test before it's even started. And from the looks of the white blanket layering itself across the road, things aren't going to speed up any time soon.

I resign myself to defeat when my cell phone rings. It's Julien. I grit my teeth and answer, gabbling my excuses before he has a chance to say a word.

“Jules, I'm so sorry, I'm never going to get there by six. I left work on time, and I had everything ready in the car so that I wouldn't have to go back to mine first, but…”

He is laughing on the other end of the line.

“Wait, where are you?” I ask.

“Stuck in my car, same as you!”

“What? You've already left? Is Clara at home alone? No. Of course not,” I correct myself immediately. “Have you taken her with you after all?”

“Thibault, what are you talking about? We're sticking to the original plan, nothing's changed! It's just that with all this snow I had a few extra things to get before we left, so I'm stuck in traffic like you. Damn snowplow!”

“Are you stuck behind a snowplow as well?”

“I'm two cars behind you, Einstein!”

I turn around and see Julien through the windshield of the car between us and wave at him. He flashes his headlights back at me. The driver of the car between us looks confused, but then realizes that the waving and flashing isn't meant for him.

“I'm saved then!” I say, turning back to the road.

“I'd say so, yes. In any case, Gaëlle is so excited about this weekend away, she's not going to let a little fifteen-minute delay put her off.”

“But what about the road?”

“I've called the
gîte
where we're staying and they say it's not snowing there yet; apparently it's forecast to start in the middle of the night.”

“Oh that's good. Still, you'd better be careful, it could be slippery getting up there.”

“Since when have you been so interested in the snow?”

I know what he is trying to suggest, so I think about this for a few moments before saying: “My best friend and his wife are setting out in weather like this, while I'm left holding the baby. What would happen to her if anything happened to you two?”

“So nice of you to be concerned,” he says, before turning serious. “You do know that being her godparent could involve that sort of thing though, don't you, if anything were ever to happen to us? When you come to the ceremony in the church next week, you're committing to always being there for our little angel, you know!”

“Yes, I'm trying not to think about that,” I joke, halfheartedly. “Anyway, it's not actually written anywhere that it's me who's responsible for Clara in that type of situation, is it?”

“Did Gaëlle not talk to you about this?”

Julien's tone makes me uncomfortable.

“What, what are you saying?”

“Nothing, don't worry, I'm just kidding!”

“Right.” My heart is beating really fast. I realize that I am actually frightened. Work responsibilities: no problem. Professional engagements: fine. But personal life: since Cindy, the whole thing is still in pieces. I have no idea where to start.

“Thibault, are you still there?”

“I'm still here, yep.” I must have gone quiet for a second for Julien to ask me that. “I just don't like using the phone while I'm driving,” I say, by way of an excuse.

“Oh, you mean the two meters an hour you're moving at the moment—do you think they're going to pull you over for that? Honestly, if you see a policeman doing anything but trying to get the traffic moving, bring him to me!”

“Even so, is there anything else we urgently need to talk about right this moment?”

“You haven't seen Cindy again recently, have you?”

This question takes me by surprise. In fact I'm probably making a face a bit like a toad who's just swallowed his tongue. “How did you know that?” I splutter.

“Because I saw her today, and because suddenly you sound even shakier than you did before when I mention your godfathering responsibilities.”

He knows me so well.

“How did that go then?” he continues.

I think for a moment. How
did
it go?

“Bad,” I begin. “Terrible. She was different, kind of slutty, pathetic.”

“Wait, Thibault—what are you talking about exactly?”

“She paid a late-night visit to my apartment. A very badly judged surprise!” I can hear my own anger. Even a week later, I still haven't quite got my head around the encounter.

“Tell me more.”

“Well, she was clearly bored at home by herself and wanted some company.

Is that enough information for you?”

“She did that? I'd never have believed it.”

“There are lots of things we wouldn't believe other people would do.”

“And what did
you
do?”

“I kicked her out, what do you think?”

For a split second I'm really cross with Julien for thinking I could succumb to Cindy's charms again, but then my anger evaporates. The state I'm in at the moment, it could easily have happened.

“Sorry, Thibault,” he says.

“No problem.”

“Yes, there is a problem. I was ready to believe that something might have happened, with the way you've been feeling recently, but I ought to know better.”

“Well you realized that, that's what counts. And, to be honest, she could have got what she wanted if I hadn't come to my senses in time.”

We go quiet again. Two friends thinking their own thoughts, in silence, on the phone together. I doubt that girls could ever imagine how things work inside our heads. Men are so often accused of being empty vessels, or having one-track minds, but my mind is in a constant state of chaos, going down several tracks all the time. It must be the same for Julien. We each sit there, not saying anything, but hanging onto our phones like a pair of idiots. Girls might be partly right about us, I think—not about being shallow, they're wrong there—my problem is that although I can identify this chaos inside my head, I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.

We're saved by the snowplow thirty seconds later.

“Julien?” I say, as though nothing has happened. The snowplow parks on the sidewalk. “It looks as though things are moving up ahead.”

“OK. See you in a minute! Don't worry about leaving me a space to park, just go up and tell Gaëlle I'll wait for her downstairs.”

At only ten past six, I finally get out of my car. Julien stops beside me with his hazard lights on. I wave and run into his building. The heating in my car has started working again, but you couldn't exactly call it roasting. I take the stairs two at a time to warm myself up, and make another mental note, huffing and puffing, to start jogging in the mornings.

Gaëlle opens the door in a very different outfit from the one she was wearing on Wednesday. I quickly explain the situation and she motions toward two enormous bags in the hallway. I put one on my back and pick up the other one, heading for the elevator. Downstairs, Julien gets out of the car. The trunk is already open. I give him the bags and remember what I had forgotten to ask him.

“Where do you keep your stroller?”

“You mean Clara's?”

“Yes, Jules, Clara's—who else's stroller do you think I'd be talking about?”

“Sorry,” he laughs, “still can't believe we're having conversations about strollers these days. It's folded up behind the dresser in her room. Are you thinking of taking her out in it? I don't think I've ever seen you take her out in anything but the baby carrier…”

“That's because I've never done it on my own before; you're always there and you always insist on strapping her into that thing.”

“Don't you find it easier?”

“Yes, I do, but I've had an idea that might involve the stroller.”

“Hmm mysterious! Anyway, you know where it is, I trust you. Don't fight too much with it to get it unfolded, if you're gentle it should just pop out by itself.”

“I think you said the same thing about the straps on the baby carrier, and it took me ages to figure out how to get them in the right place.”

“At least I haven't tried to get you to knot yourself into Gaëlle's pink scarf carrier; that would have had you running straight for the thing with the straps.”

I smile, imagining him tangled with a pink scarf around his torso. Even Julien, baby expert, has experienced some of the less dignified challenges of parenthood.

“Right, I think Gaëlle's bag was small and, you know your wife, she'll probably want to carry it down herself. Have a great weekend, and enjoy the escape from town on my behalf as well.”

“You ought to get out for a change, too, it would probably do you good,” says Julien, closing the trunk.

“Yeah, but who with?” I sigh.

Julien just smiles at me before he gets into the car. I give him a last wave as I go back into the building.

“Is there anything you want me to explain again?” asks Gaëlle when I get back up.

“No, it's fine. Get out of that door! Prince Charming is waiting down there with his trusty steed,” I say, kissing her on the cheek.

Gaëlle grabs me and gives me a big hug in return; she's always been affectionate like that.

“Thank you, Thibault,” she says into my ear. “You don't know how happy it makes me that you're doing this for us.”

“Don't worry. It's a pleasure.”

“I hope you have a family of your own one day.”

My response is already on the tip of my tongue. The “who with” that I used a few moments ago downstairs. But what comes out of my mouth is something completely different.

“Yes, I hope so, too.”

Gaëlle doubles back and looks at me with stupefaction and amusement. I know how she feels. That's the first time I've ever admitted to it. Everyone can tell when they see me with Clara, but I've never admitted to wanting a baby out loud.

“I'm touched that you let me in on that secret,” she says, with a smile.

I go with her to the door and wish her a good weekend.

With all the comings and goings I haven't even had time to say hello to Clara yet. She is ensconced in her bed-playpen contraption, bobbing gently up and down. I bend over and lift her up in my arms. Wonderful little person, not a care in the world. I could learn so much from her.

I go over to the window, letting her play with my fingers. There's no way to tell whether Julien and Gaëlle have already set off, because their windows look out onto the other side of the building.

The snow continues to fall and the orange of the streetlights gives the town a strange, glowing charm. It's not even six thirty yet but, from here, you could believe that everyone was already asleep. I surprise myself with my own thoughts and Julien's question comes back into my head. Since when has the snow had this effect on me?

I do have an answer, but the thought of it frightens me, so I leave it for another time and go back to the sofa.

M
y mother and father are in my room and they're not alone. The consultant is here with them, that poisonous man who's trying to finish me off. I feel so angry just knowing he's near me, I could almost jump up just to wipe the self-satisfaction off his smug face.

Ever since he came in, it's been very obvious that he is here to talk about “minus X,” and to set the date once and for all. I know that he's already raised the idea with my parents, but I assume it was in a less drastic way than this. And even “drastic” seems like a gentle way of putting it. If there were a single term that encompassed “crass,” “flippant,” and “totally insensitive” all in one, I think it would perfectly describe his approach.

“You understand, madam, that there really is no further hope.”

And that stupid, obsequious language! You might as well call her “ma'am” and be done with it. If you're going to decree my imminent demise, you could at least have the courtesy to do it with a little authenticity. Anyone would think you were a character in one of those old westerns, except that you're wearing a white coat!

Well, that's how I imagine him, anyway, this high and mighty doctor who gives me the creeps, with his coat unbuttoned, one hand resting casually on his hip, the other elbow leaning against the wall. I bet he wears jeans instead of proper trousers. Probably a scruffy old T-shirt, too. Anyway, this is all my invention, but he could easily look like that. There's such an infuriating nonchalance in his voice, as though he knows it all, as though he's better than everyone else. I can't understand why my father hasn't reacted to him yet.

My mother reacted just a moment ago. She is weeping now, almost in silence. I can make out her sobs more easily when she speaks, because the ends of her words get cut off.

It's strange, though. After all, she was the one who was talking about disconnecting me the other day. Given her tearful reaction now, it almost seems as though my parents' roles have reversed.

“Re-really no h-hope?” Her voice completely breaks off at the end of her question. I hope my father has had the sense to put his arms around her, or even just to hold her hand. She's in utter distress, and that doesn't happen very often. She must be panicking as well. I offer up a silent prayer that my father is behaving in a caring, husbandly way with her. I seriously doubt that my prayer has the slightest effect, but I need to know that he has at least done something.

“Anna, calm yourself, so that we can try and understand all this.”

That's reasonable advice, I suppose, Dad in all his sympathetic glory, but it's not exactly what I had hoped he would say to her.

“Would you mind waiting a minute, Doctor, while my wife pulls herself together?”

The grunt from the doctor must mean yes. As I was saying… a real cowboy. But where has my house officer gone? He would certainly have handled this with more tact! Although, knowing him, if he saw my mother sobbing like this, they might have been wiping away a lot more tears than hers this afternoon.

The doctor leaves the room. My second prayer is to trigger some event that will result in his breaking a leg while he's outside. But, even though I try this prayer five times, nothing happens, and when he comes back I don't hear the sound of crutches clicking against the floor.

“Have you had time to think?”

Oh, sure! Five minutes will certainly have been plenty of time to think this little matter over. Idiot.

I know that, rather than being annoyed, I should be putting all my energy into ordering my brain to activate and showing them that I'm back in the game, but I can't help it; all my concentration goes into emotion. It's only with Thibault that I feel any possibility of transforming these emotions into actions. Right now I'm just a useless hurricane of anger.

I wonder for a second, though… isn't anger a physiological chemical reaction? Which would mean that I'm making progress? But I studied geology, not medicine, so I can't really speculate. Instead I wait for my parents to reply.

“No.”

My father's voice is firm and the message is clear, even if I would have preferred him to punch the consultant's lights out. Perhaps it is my survival instinct to feel so much aggression toward this doctor. After all, my future, my life, is in the hands of this man, and whatever case he makes for me. If he manages to persuade everyone I've gone, they'll unplug me and…

But I can't think about what comes after that. For now, I'm still here. I can hear. And today I'm alive and I want to stay that way.

“OK,” says the doctor, “I understand your hesitation, but do bear in mind that the longer you wait to make your decision, the more intensely you will suffer when the time comes.”

It sounds like an automated response, like one of those programmed telephone messages. “You have reached the voice mail of Doctor so-and-so, please unplug your daughter after the beep.”

“Do you have children, Doctor?”

My father's question intrigues me. I have a feeling my fist-in-the-face may be about to materialize in the form of a cutting remark, which could have more or less the same effect.

“Yes, two.”

Liar.

There is something remarkable about having hearing as your only means of perception. It means that everything associated with sound takes on its own particular flavor. Over the past seven weeks, I've noticed myself naturally associating what people say with colors and textures. My sister's voice, brimming with lust and hormones as she recounts stories of her love life, is sickly red velvet. My mother is a sort of purple leather, trying to seem shiny and robust, but cracking and weakened all over, like a well-used handbag. This consultant is as cold and unrefined as a steel construction girder.

In the midst of all this, thankfully, a rainbow has broken out across the sky over the past ten days. Thibault has arrived with all his emotion and newness. I haven't managed to pick out any single color from him yet. He's just shimmering and fascinating. So I've stopped at rainbow; it seems fitting. Whatever he is, he sounds better than all the rest, who mix together with their bad news to make something that looks unpalatable and ugly.

To return to the matter at hand though, this doctor is a liar. At the very least, I know that what he has just said is a lie. He does not have two children. I doubt he even has one. As far as I can tell from having listened to him, this guy might just about have a wife, but that's all. His last response was just as superficial as all the other things he's said, and just as contrived to mislead his audience.

Or, perhaps he knew what was coming next and wanted to avoid the inevitable response: “Oh, you don't have children? Then you can't possibly imagine what it's like to have to make this decision!”

I surprise myself. This is the first reasonable thought I've had about my beloved consultant. In any case, I can't get my head around the idea that a person would become a doctor, presumably with the intention of saving lives, and then be totally indifferent, verging on enthusiastic, at the thought of terminating someone's life. How do you find a middle ground between the emotional attachment of my house officer, and the total detachment of this consultant?

Maybe it's through years of experience. It must be. I can't see how else it could happen. He must have had to make this sort of decision lots of times before. But, in spite of that, I don't get the impression that he's really given it any consideration, or tried to find another way. I know that can't be the case, but that is how it seems. At least to me, with nothing to do but listen.

My father, who has no idea that the doctor is lying to him, doesn't persevere with the verbal slap that he seemed about to deliver, and instead he continues to comfort my mother in stern whispers.

“Sir,” begins the doctor, who seems to have grasped that he won't be getting anything else out of my mother for the moment, “here are the papers. I know that you haven't made your decision yet, but sometimes having the text in front of you helps. I'm not asking you to fill them out this evening. Just to read them. Or even just to leave them on a table so that you can go on thinking. In any case, please do not hesitate to call me, whatever the time. My contact details are at the bottom. Contact me any time, I mean it. If I'm busy, I may not be able to answer. But this number is reserved for this type of situation, and I do all I can to be on hand for the families of patients.”

This time, I'm not sure what to think. I think I am learning something about neutrality. The way the doctor is speaking sounds professional. Even though I would prefer that it were the junior doctor who was taking care of all this. At least I've heard him say “I love you” to someone. That shows he has a beating heart. I'm not saying the consultant doesn't have a heart, but rather that he has encased it in the stark gray metal that I associate with his voice.

My father takes the papers and the consultant says good-bye to my parents. I hear vague murmurs from them, but then only my mother's sobs. My father must be stroking her hair. She calms down after a while, and comes over to my bed. Maybe she takes my hand, maybe she just looks at me. I don't hear much else. I am falling asleep.