I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (6 page)

“Interesting,” she murmurs. “I didn't know you liked being on the bottom.”

“There are lots of things you didn't know about me,” I reply coldly.

I see in her eyes that she is surprised by my tone but I force myself to continue, before desire carries me away again.

“What are you doing here, Cindy?”

She freezes. Her
Book
clearly doesn't have a response for that.

“No,” I continue, “I don't actually need a reply. I've got enough of an idea and, honestly, I'm not that interested anyway.”

I get up, leaving her lying on the sofa. The look on her face has changed completely. She is looking at me like I'm something the cat dragged in. I don't blame her; I would probably look the same.

“Get out,” I say.

She doesn't utter a word, but begins to gather her stuff. I watch her putting on her shoes, re-buttoning her shirt right to the top (when had she undone it?). I hand over her coat and open the door before she has even put it on.

“You've changed,” she says to me as she steps over the threshold.

“If you had ever bothered to get to know me in the first place, you could have saved yourself the trouble of coming.”

“I would still at least have tried—”

I close the door without saying anything else.

I forgot about “Just Be Polite” a few minutes ago.

On the table is her half-finished glass of wine and my juice, untouched. I pick up the glass, go into the kitchen and pour it down the sink, along with the rest of the bottle. I put the whole lot into my recycling bin; I don't want to see that glass again.

When I go back into the living room, I don't even dare look at the sofa. I go and get a blanket from my bedroom and throw it over the top. Better already. I pick up the remote control and switch on the TV, sipping my drink without really paying attention to what the newscaster is saying.

That was mortifying.

No wonder I'm not looking for anyone else.

I
t's Monday. I won't have any visitors today. The days without visits have come to seem interminable, especially since Thibault entered my semblance of a life. With any luck though, he might come and visit his brother, or rather take his mother to visit his brother. But, on a weekday, perhaps he won't have the time.

I listen to the care assistant going through her routine. This time she doesn't forget a thing. It seems to go on for too long, in fact! You'd think she was preparing me for a ceremony or something. She's really paying attention to my lips, as though she's trying to make up for forgetting them before.

She finishes without speaking to me, as always, and then leaves the room. A few minutes later, the door opens noisily and a chorus of voices and clattering footsteps enters my room. I am taken aback by the volume. Why so many people?

I catch a few medical terms in the midst of all the kerfuffle, but when there is so much going on at once, it's difficult to follow. I've developed quite a talent (in a manner of speaking) for identifying the head doctor among his group of juniors. It must be this doctor, the consultant, who has just clapped his hands, because the noise subsides and gradually everyone falls silent.

As far as I can tell from their breathing, I am surrounded by about five junior doctors, or “house officers” as they like to call each other. I have become a teaching aid! The consultant, standing at the foot of my bed, picks up the clipboard, which has my “system updates,” as I like to call them, written on it. It's been a while since anyone wrote anything on there.

“Right everyone, the case of room fifty-two,” the doctor begins. “Multiple traumas, including to the head. Deep coma for almost five months. I'll leave you to read the details.”

Great, I'm a number now, as well as a “case”…

The clipboard is passed from hand to hand, not staying with any one person for longer than a couple of seconds. There must be a rule among doctors about never keeping a single page in front of their eyes for too long. Maybe they get bored of reading these clipboards again and again, or maybe they just prefer to judge for themselves. Or perhaps it is part of their training to assess all the essentials of any medical situation within five seconds. Yes, that must be it, they are just practicing what they've been trained to do. All the same, I'd love it if there were one doctor who invested more than five seconds in the case of room
52
. They might discover that I can hear everything they are saying.

“Here's a copy of the brain imaging. All the common features, of course. I've included details of her state on arrival in July, and also the one from two months ago. I await your comments.”

This time, it takes a little longer than five seconds. I hear them whispering but I don't catch any of the details. It's far too technical for me anyway, but I can sense that they are most concerned with impressing the consultant. They seem to be conducting quite an in-depth evaluation.

“So,” begins the consultant. “What do we think?”

One of the juniors on my right speaks first.

“Her imaging has improved from July to November?”

“More or less, but I would have liked some more details. You need to justify why it is you think that. In fact, you can all leave your thoughts written up on my desk tomorrow morning. Get to work on it tonight.”

I hear some murmurs of protestation, but they die down quickly.

“What else?” the doctor goes on.

“Sir?” says another trainee.

“Yes, Fabrice.”

“Can we speak sincerely?”

“We can
only
speak with sincerity here. Even if it's not always the truth.”

“Can we also avoid dressing up the situation?” asks this junior named Fabrice.

“Between ourselves, yes,” replies the doctor. “In the presence of relatives, it's not always advisable. Adapt your speech to the people in front of you. But please go on, we're listening.”

“Uh… well she's completely fucked, isn't she?”

I hear some sniggers, but the laughter is quickly curtailed.

“You really aren't dressing it up, are you, Fabrice?” says the doctor. “But you're quite right. According to all the information that's in front of you, the reports of the different doctors who have examined her, and the absence of any marked improvement over the past three months, this patient just scrapes a two percent probability of recovery.”

“Only two percent?” asks the first junior.

“Assuming, hypothetically, that she does wake up, we can't be sure how far the trauma to the head will have affected her mental and physical functions. Looking at the affected areas of the brain, we can predict that there may be complications with language and with fine motor skills on the right side. There is also likely to be pronounced sensory and neurological deficit, and we know that her respiratory function, which has already been tested, is…”

I try desperately to move my attention away from what the doctor is saying and think about something else. I don't want to hear another word. Hearing seems to be the only thing left that I
can
still do, and for the first time, I wish I couldn't.

I scroll through any other thoughts I might be able to bring to mind. The only one that calms me down is Thibault. I hardly know anything about him, so I don't have a very detailed picture. But I let my mind wander and invent for a moment until the doctor's voice brings me back to what they are saying.

“… so, two percent.”

“That's almost zero, really, isn't it?” says a trainee I haven't heard speak before.

“Almost, yes. But we are scientists and we don't deal in
almost
.”

“So, it means that…” the trainee starts.

“… it's zero,” finishes the doctor.

A medical cart falls over in the corridor with an almighty crash, as if to reflect my state of mind. The house officers are scribbling notes. The doctor must be pleased with himself. He can move on to something else now the case study of room
52
is finished. But apparently it's not
quite
finished…

“What's the next stage?” he asks.

“Let the family know?” suggests the first junior.

“Exactly. I broached the matter with them a few days ago, so that they could start thinking about it.”

“What did they say? If it's OK to ask…”

“They said that they would think about it. The mother was resigned, the father was against, which is often the case. It's very unusual for relatives to agree. It's almost a natural state of contradiction. We don't talk lightly of ending the life support of a person who is in a coma.”

I don't like the way the doctor is speaking about my parents, but I have to admit that he's right.

“Isn't that what we've just been doing?” asks the first junior doctor suddenly.

My ears prick up. This comment must have surprised even the consultant, because he doesn't reply straight away.

“Can you explain yourself, Loris?” he says, in a voice which is trying to be neutral, but which comes out as abrupt.

“The terms that we have just been using, the ‘scientific' approximations that we've been making about the probability of her recovery. You say that we never speak lightly of ending the life support of a patient in a coma, but I think I just heard Fabrice say she was
completely fucked
and I'm pretty sure I also heard the conversion of a two percent chance to zero. If that's not speaking lightly then I don't think we're talking the same language.”

If I could move, I would kiss this lovely house officer. But I think I might have to step in and physically defend him first, because, given the tone of the consultant, Loris is going to be working night shifts for some time.

“Are you questioning the diagnostic abilities of your classmates and future colleagues?”

“I'm not questioning anything, sir,” returns Loris. “I just find it strange to be so crude about someone who, as far as we can see, is still breathing here in front of us.”

“Loris,” begins the consultant, as though trying to collect himself, “if you can't bear the idea that we might have to disconnect someone, you have no place in this department.”

“It has nothing to do with being able to bear it or not, sir. It has to do with facts. You say two percent. For me, that means two percent. It's not zero. As long as we haven't reached zero, I believe that there is still hope.”

“You're not here to hope, Loris.”

“What am I here for then?” replies the junior doctor, now purposefully insolent.

“To conclude that this case is closed. Resolved. Finished. It is going to be impossible to reestablish the vital chain of this patient. As your colleague said, she is fucked. And it matters very little to me if that term doesn't suit your delicate sensibilities.”

I think poor Loris might be on night shifts for the rest of his time in this training post.

My room falls silent. I imagine Loris holding the gaze of his teacher for a moment, and then lowering his eyes. I imagine all the other house officers feigning an urgent need to write something down. At least the session is over, and at least I wasn't able to see the expressions on their faces during the discussion—it could be devastating to witness this sort of situation when it concerns you. In any case, my only hope is to go on believing that they've got it wrong.

“Right then, Loris, since you seem to be so attached to this patient, you can write down the conclusions of our visit yourself.”

I hear my “system updates” being passed over to my right. A few pencil scratchings later, and the clipboard is handed back to the doctor.

“Hmm… Well summarized, Loris. If you weren't so obstinate, I would almost certainly have you on my team when you qualify. You have, nevertheless, left out one detail.”

“What?”

The junior doctor doesn't seem as talkative now, and I can understand why. This consultant is really beginning to make my ears hurt.

“On the first page, you can add it underneath.”

“What has he left out?” asks another junior, as Loris begins to write.

“Can you answer your colleague?”

I can visualize perfectly the clenched fists and set jaw of poor Loris who has done nothing but stick up for me since he came into the room. But I have no idea what is being added to the first page of my file.

“I left out the official declaration of our intention to disconnect the life support of this patient. I'm just writing that we are now awaiting family agreement before we set the date.”

I
feel good today. Even if I did have to get up early. I helped my colleague sort out a wind power situation and I earned a pineapple juice in recompense. It was a rewarding start to the day, but I think I've had a good feeling about today ever since I woke up.

When, halfway through the morning, I realize why this is, I almost want to laugh out loud.

It's Monday and I'm meant to take my mother to the hospital this evening. It's the first time that I have ever considered this ordeal with a smile.

“Thibault? What is that dazed, idiotic expression on your face?”

My reflections are brought to an abrupt close when I see the colleague I helped out this morning standing, quizzical, in front of me. He is looking at me with his head tilted to one side, as though he is trying to read something on my chin. I, too, am quite curious to see what response I'll come up with.

“What are you talking about?” I say.

Disappointing.

“That smile, there,” he answers, pointing to the corner of my mouth. “You've got a sort of smiley twitch.”

“You're smiling, too!” I defend myself.

“That's because I'm amazed,” he laughs. “Why this weird happy face? It's not like you at all, Thibault…”

“Mind your own business.”

“Oh, I see. Translation: it's a girl.”

“I said, mind your own business!”

“Translation: yes, it's definitely a girl! Hey, everyone, Thibault's got a new—”

He doesn't continue because I grab him by the shoulder and put my other hand over his mouth. My attempt is pathetic and he laughs noisily through my fingers. He understands, though, that I don't want him to spread it any further and quietens down.

“It's a lot more complicated than that,” I say, taking my useless hand away.

“OK,” he replies, still smiling. “You let us know when you understand it better!” He walks away with a wink and I plunge back into my thoughts.

It really is a lot more complicated than that. I'm sitting here rejoicing at the thought of going to intensive care to visit a girl I don't know who's in a profound coma.

Throughout the day my mind wanders from work to various other things, which always bring me back to Elsa. Sometimes they also bring me back to my brother. When five o'clock comes, I'm ready to race out the door.

I go via my mother's to pick her up. She seems better. I park in the hospital parking lot and we get out of the car together. Presumably I still have my idiotic smile.

“What's happened to you, Thibault? You seem happy today.”

“Nothing special.”

Unlike my colleague, she is immediately satisfied with this response. I agree to take the elevator with her, rather than the stairs, and we come out into the fifth-floor corridor together.

“Do you want to come in?” my mother attempts.

“No.”

“What are you going to do while you're waiting?”

“Just sleep. Maybe talk.”

“Who do you talk to?” she asks, surprised.

“To the wall,” I reply in a whisper.

We stop just in front of room
55
. I watch my mother slip into the room. I glance briefly at my brother's bed. The covers are strewn with all sorts of things—paper, magazines, remote controls. Judging by the noise coming from the room, I assume that the television is on. I hesitate for half a second, and then let the door swing shut.

I'm not ready yet. I turn and go back toward room
52
, half opening the door and poking my head around it. Perfect, there's no one there. I close it carefully behind me, as though worried I'll wake the person in the bed. It's funny, I still can't quite work out how I'm meant to behave around her.

I've only taken three steps in when I know that something has changed. I sense a difference, and not a reassuring one. Half of the room is far too clean, and yet there are footprints all over the floor. The jasmine is masked by lots of other smells and, when I go over to the bed, I can see little bits of pencil eraser on the sheets.

People have been in here today. It's strange. It could be Elsa's family, but that would be surprising. Perhaps friends is more likely. That would explain all the footprints. On the other hand I don't know what they would have been drawing, and then rubbing out. But I leave all this aside and concentrate on Elsa. Or rather I concentrate on “Elsa and me.”

Since this morning, I've felt almost euphoric at the thought of coming into this hospital room. It's not normal.

I keep repeating that over and over. It's not normal. It's not normal. There's nothing normal about getting excited over visiting someone who doesn't move, doesn't feel, doesn't think, and doesn't speak, and who, above all, I do not actually know.

For the nth time since I first stumbled into this room, I wonder what I am doing here. And for the nth time I don't have the answer. It doesn't matter, I think to myself,
sometimes it's OK to be ignorant
. That's what my boss always says, but then he always ends with,
as long as we take steps to banish our ignorance as soon as we notice it's there
. Well, I'm long past that stage now. Perhaps I should be setting myself some kind of time limit, though—something which forces me to figure out what I'm doing here and what I think it's going to achieve.

I go to a chair that is positioned at an angle to the bed. It's in its usual position, so presumably everyone must have stayed standing when they came in earlier. I don't go near the clipboard. From what I learned on my first visit, the doctors don't give much away on those pieces of paper. And from what I can make out in front of me, the wires, tubing, and other apparatus that keep Elsa with us here on earth have neither increased nor diminished in number since I last saw them.

It's as though nothing has changed at all since I was last here.

Perhaps that's why I like it.

And all at once it seems so obvious that I sigh out loud. Of course, that's why I come here! Nothing changes in this room. Elsa is always here, passive, immobile. She always breathes with the same rhythm. Things are always left in the same place—well, what few things there are. Only the main chair navigates a few centimeters this way or that, but otherwise it's like a bubble in which time has stopped.

It's a bubble to which I have temporary access. How long will I stay in this bubble? How long will Elsa stay in this bubble?

I sit down. Great, I've just found the answer to one question and replaced it with two others! It looks as though my mind is always going to go around in circles whenever I'm in here.

I start thinking: It's Monday, maybe I'll give myself one more week. I can have until next Monday to consider what to do about these visits—surely that should be enough. It's not as though I have a hundred and one choices. Either I keep coming, or I stop coming. And as far as Elsa's concerned, either she stays asleep, or she wakes up. There's no way I can find a solution to Elsa's predicament, of course, but I can find a solution to mine. Today, though, I decide on a reprieve. I'll stop asking myself questions.

I've already taken off my shoes and my jacket, which makes me look like some sort of astronaut. I put away my gloves, my scarf, my papers, the car keys, the keys to my mother's house and to mine. I have almost the entire contents of my apartment with me, in fact. Not that there's much there. I didn't keep anything that I'd shared with Cindy, so that meant getting rid of most of my things, both useless and useful. My mother says that I should make the new place more my own, but she also says a lot of other things that I ignore, so I haven't done anything about it yet.

I install myself in the chair. At least I try to, groaning to myself when I realize that I have forgotten to bring a cushion with me to make the rigid plastic a bit more comfortable. I consider my jacket, but it won't help much as a cushion. I look around as though I might find a solution somewhere else in the room. I can't see anything. I check the little shower room in case there's something in there—but there isn't, not so much as a towel or even a comb or a toothbrush to serve as my cushion. I come back into the bedroom and see my only possibility. And then I realize that I've been incredibly rude ever since my entrance.

“Shit! Uh… sorry, Elsa. Hello. I was in another world—I was thinking. Yes, it does happen from time to time… There's too much going round and round in my head at the moment to give you a brief summary of my thoughts, so I'll leave it at that for now. Let's be honest, though, it's not as if you're going to talk it all through with me anyway.”

I look around once more. I don't really like the solution I've found, but it's better than nothing, and who will ever know? The only person who could actually be bothered by it probably won't even realize.

I go over to the bed and run my hands over the wires. When my fingers hover over the pillow, my muscles stiffen involuntarily. I can't. First, because an inanimate body is very heavy. Even though Elsa can't weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds, she would still be a significant weight to lift. And second, because I don't want to make her feel uncomfortable, even though she probably wouldn't feel a thing. It would be as though I were taking advantage. I wouldn't be comfortable with that either.

I stay still for several seconds, and then I take my hands away and put the wires, tubing and other things carefully back in place. Elsa hasn't moved a muscle; though I'm not sure what I was expecting from her.

“Do you remember when I said the chair was uncomfortable?” I say, returning to the object in question. “Well, I was thinking about borrowing one of your pillows, but you look pretty well settled there, so it wouldn't have been very gentlemanly of me. Never mind for now! I'll just sit it out on this hard chair that's like a plank of wood, all rigid and unmoving, while you stay comfortable under your nice soft covers. And before you protest, I mean it: You don't need to worry about me, Elsa. But thanks anyway.”

After ten minutes, I am more than certain that this chair is an instrument of torture, conceived to keep visitors from staying too long. The doctors and nurses don't like it when there are too many people in the rooms. With this type of furniture they can rest assured that no one will ever linger. I wriggle around on the plastic, seriously thinking of leaving. I could just go and freeze in the car while I wait for my mother.

But I don't want to leave.

The Book
comes open in my head and then takes me to page
13
, which says: “There Is Only One Option Available to You.”

Yes, I know what that is, but it's not exactly the best idea I've had. In fact it's downright inappropriate, and if anyone came into the room I wouldn't be able to get away with my “I'm just a friend” line.

I sigh for the fortieth time since I arrived, and get up again. I feel like a child who is about to own up to doing something naughty. Except in this case, I'm preemptively owning up before it actually happens.

“So, Elsa. I'm afraid this chair really isn't working for me after all. Either I can go… or you can make a bit of room for me on there.”

I've already started making my way around the bed to install myself by the window. It looks as though there's a bit more space on that side, but it's only an illusion because actually she's positioned right in the center, so that the mattress fits snugly around the indent made by her body. I move toward that side, so that I'll have a little protection if anyone comes into the room. With a bit of luck no one will be able to see me at all once I'm lying down. With a lot of luck, no one will even come past.

I slide my hands underneath Elsa, careful to pick up the blanket as well. I can't bring myself to put my hands directly on the gown covering her frail body. I try to lift her and move her over a little bit, without disturbing the wires or anything else. I fail.

Letting out my forty-first sigh since coming into the room, I pick up the clipboard at the foot of the bed. She weighed a hundred and twenty pounds when she arrived at the hospital. In her state she could easily have lost ten, if not more. Good grief, I'm not even capable of lifting a hundred pounds. I'm going to have to do some exercise.

I forget the idea of moving Elsa and content myself with shifting all the wires to the other side. I lie down silently beside her, ramrod straight in the thirty centimeters of mattress available to me, but oddly enough I relax immediately.

The mattress is strange. It doesn't feel anything like my bed at home, but I suppose if a person's got to lie, or halfsit on this thing for weeks on end, there must be a material adapted specifically to suit their requirements.

Reassured, I position myself again, with my back to Elsa. In spite of her inactivity, her warm body has the effect of a cover.