Hidden Jewel (12 page)

"What can we do, Pearl?" she cried.
"The doctor will be here any minute, Mommy, but I think Pierre's going to have to go to the hospital. They'll have to put him on an I.V. until he returns."
"Returns?" she asked. "From where?"
"From his own sanctuary, his place of escape, a place where what's happened is not a reality."
"How long could this last?" she asked, looking at him. I was afraid to tell her what I knew. I had read of people who had gone into a catatonic state for years because of some emotional trauma. Some of them never emerged, and some, when they emerged, were dramatically different because they had regressed into childhood.
"He'll snap out of it soon, Mommy, but he needs medical attention," I replied.
"Yes, of course, you're right." She put her hand on my cheek gently and smiled. "You're my big girl. I'm going to depend on you for so much now, Pearl. It's not fair, I know. You should be able to enjoy these years and not be weighed down by so much hardship and misery. I had hoped your life would be different from mine. I had hoped . ." She paused, her lips quivering.
"I'll be all right, Mommy."
She looked at Pierre again. "The twins were so close. Even as babies when one would cry, the other would, too, and when one woke up, the other was soon to wake up as well. Jean started to walk before Pierre did, you know."
"I remember, Mommy."
"But even though he could, he still crawled because Pierre crawled. One never wanted to leave the other too far behind. Now . . ." She closed her eyes. I put my arm around her, and we cried and comforted each other for a few moments. Finally the doctor arrived, and Daddy brought him up to Pierre. We all stood back and watched him examine my brother, noting the way his pupils dilated, checking his pulse, listening to his heart and lungs.
"We should put him into the hospital, monsieur," he told Daddy. "I'd like him to be under the care of a psychiatrist too."
Daddy swallowed hard. Mommy started to sob softly.
"I'll make the arrangements," the doctor said. "If I may use the phone."
"Come down to my study," Daddy said.
"I'll get him ready," I offered quickly.
"He'll be so frightened," Mommy moaned.
I dressed Pierre in his bathrobe and slippers and put together some of the things I knew he would need, things I prayed he would soon need. Mommy went to get dressed. Soon afterward Daddy carried poor Pierre to the car again and we were off to put him in the hospital.
He looked so much smaller when he was dressed in a hospital gown and put in a hospital bed; and when they inserted the I.V. in his arm, the seriousness of what was happening to him struck both Mommy and Daddy at the center of their hearts. Daddy embraced her, and they stood together watching as the nurse and the doctor attended to him.
Because the nurses knew me, they were more concerned and sympathetic. The psychiatrist who was called in was a Dr. LeFevre. She was in her early sixties with fading light brown hair. I knew of her, but I had rarely seen her and never talked to her before. She interviewed Daddy first to learn about the circumstances and then went in to examine Pierre. After her initial examination, she spoke to Daddy, Mommy, and me in the hallway. She was a soft-spoken woman, but her demeanor was authoritative and confident.
"Your son is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder," she began. "After the experience you've described," she said to Daddy, "it's quite understandable. It's not unlike what some combat veterans experience. In the profession we sometimes refer to this as emotional anesthesia. He's turning himself off, in a sense, to keep from suffering."
"How long . . ."
"I think we'll bring him out of it soon, but I must warn you, he'll need serious therapy, maybe for some time. Something like this could leave him with severe depression and anxiety. We could find he experiences chronic headaches, has difficulty with his concentration . . . Of course, we have to wait and see. In the meantime, we'll see that he's well looked after." She turned to me. "Why do you look so familiar to me?"
"I work here," I said. "I'm a nurse's aide."
"Oh, yes. I've heard good things about you. Well,I'll examine Pierre again tomorrow. Call me in the late afternoon."
"Thank you, Doctor," Daddy said.
Mommy wanted to stay with Pierre a while longer.
Some of the friends I had made working at the hospital came over to speak to me and offer condolences when they heard what had happened. Jack Weller wasn't on duty. I was happy that I didn't have to confront him at this terribly emotional moment. Mommy just sat in a chair staring at Pierre. Finally Daddy forced her to get up to go home. We had hard days waiting for us. He knew she needed some rest.
"I'll be here with him every possible moment, Mommy," I promised. She smiled, looked back at Pierre's pathetic face, still frozen in a bland expression, and then she permitted Daddy to lead her out and to the car.
The house was too quiet that night. I slept in short cycles, waking with a start and listening, hoping for the sound of my brothers doing some mischief, hoping that all that had happened had been only a nightmare. But there was nothing but the ticking of my clock and the gong of the grandfather clock downstairs. It echoed through the hallways, telling me we were that much closer to Jean's funeral. I buried my face in my pillow to smother the tears, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jean's face, mischievous, happy, full of life and promise.
At the break of day, unable to sleep, I rose, dressed, and went downstairs to discover that Daddy had risen during the night. He had his head down on his desk and was asleep from emotional exhaustion. Beside him on his right was a recent picture of the twins, and on his left was a nearly empty bottle of bourbon. I didn't have the heart to wake him. I simply slipped out quietly and closed the door. Then I went to see about some breakfast for Mommy and the start of what I knew would be the worst week of our lives.
So many people attended Jean's funeral that the crowd of mourners spilled out of the church door and down the steps onto the sidewalk. A few of my school friends were there, but I didn't see Claude. I knew Catherine had gone on a holiday with her family and wouldn't find out about Jean until she returned. Mommy, somewhat sedated, moved in a dreamlike state, her face sculptured in a tight grimace that sometimes appeared like an angelic smile but told me of the deep pain she was feeling from her toes to her head and into the very essence of her soul. By now everyone knew how Pierre's condition compounded our tragedy. He was still hooked to an I.V., still catatonic.
After the church service, the procession wound its way to the cemetery. I recalled Jean's and Pierre's questions about the vaults--what we in New Orleans call the burial ovens--built above ground because of the water table. What had once been a place of intrigue and curiosity to Jean would now serve as his home and resting place.
Daddy and Mommy clung tightly to each other. Most of the time, Daddy was holding Mommy up, her legs moving like the legs of a marionette on a string. I remained as close to her as I could, ready to embrace her myself if she started to topple. At the gravesite, the three of us embraced. I don't think any of us actually heard the priest's words. There was just the morbid rhythm of his voice reciting the prayers. He showered the holy water on Jean's casket and finally said "Amen."
I barely had raised my eyes higher than Mommy's and Daddy's faces all day, so I wasn't aware of the blue sky. To me it was a totally overcast day with only a slight breeze.
As we turned to walk back to our limousine, I saw Sophie standing under a tree. She was grinding the tears out of her eyes with her small fist, but the sight of her gave me a boost and helped me manage the journey home.
Mommy went right to bed. Daddy sat on the sofa in the sitting room greeting people and sipping from a tumbler of bourbon. As soon as I had the opportunity, I called the hospital, hoping Pierre had begun his recovery. We so desperately needed a morsel of good news, but his condition remained unchanged.
I decided I had to go to him, that a full day without any of us at his side was unacceptable, even though it was Jean's funeral day. I whispered my intentions to Daddy, who just nodded. He was numb with grief and unaware of what was happening around him.
At the hospital I met Dr. LeFevre in the hallway. She had just been in to see Pierre. "I'm going to move Pierre to the psychiatric unit," she said. "His recovery is going to take longer than I first
anticipated. The emotional wound goes deep. I gather he and Jean were very close."
"Inseparable," I said, "and very protective of each other."
"Well, I know it's a difficult time for you and your parents, but try to give him as much time as you can. Just hearing your voice, feeling you beside him, will help reassure him and make his recovery that much more likely," she added. I didn't like the way her eyes shifted away from me.
"Do you think he will recover? I mean, will he be all right?"
"We'll see," she said in a noncommittal tone and walked off.
I put my chair as close to Pierre's bed as I could and sat holding his free hand. He stared ahead, blinking, his lips slightly open. I stroked his hand and spoke softly to him.
"You've got to try to get better, Pierre. Mommy and Daddy desperately need you to get better. I need you. Jean wouldn't want you to be like this. He would want you to help Mommy and Daddy. Please try, Pierre."
I sat there, waiting, watching. Except for the reflexive movement of his eyelids, he was like a statue made of human skin and bones. His ears and his eyes had brought him shocking, horrible information, and he had shut them down as a result, locking out any further details. Somewhere inside himself he was safe; he was playing with Jean; he could hear Jean's voice and see him. He didn't want to hear my voice, for my voice would shatter the illusion like thin china, and the shards would stab him in his heart forever and ever.
Sophie stopped in before going on duty, and I thanked her for coming to the funeral. She promised she would peek in on Pierre whenever she could and talk to him, too. I told her he would soon be moved to the psychiatric wing.
"That's all right. I'll get up there, too," she promised. We hugged, and she went to work. I remained as long as I could, talking to Pierre, pleading, soothing, cajoling him to return to us. Finally, exhausted myself, I went home.
All of the mourners had gone. The house was dead silent. Aubrey told me Daddy had retreated to his study. I found him sprawled on his leather sofa, mercifully asleep. I put a blanket over him and then went up to see Mommy.
At first I thought she was asleep too, but she turned her head slowly toward me and opened her eyes like someone who had risen from the grave. She reached out for me, and I hurried to her side and took her hand. We embraced, and then I sat beside her.
"Where's your father?" she asked.
"In his study, asleep."
"Did you go to see Pierre?"
I nodded. "The doctor wants to move him to the psychiatric ward so he can get the kind of treatment he needs," I told her.
"Then he's no better?"
"Not yet, Mommy. But he will be."
She shook her head and looked away. "Don't think your sins ever go away," she said. "You confess, you perform penance, you hope for forgiveness, but your sins are indelible. They hover like parasites, waiting for an opportunity to feed on your good fortune."
"You've got to stop doing this to yourself, Mommy."
"Listen to me, Pearl," she said tightening her grip on my hand. "You're brighter than I was at your age. You won't make the same mistakes, and you won't succumb to your weaknesses. You don't have the weaknesses I had. And that is good because you don't just hurt yourself, you hurt those you love and who love you."
"Mommy?"
"No. What could a free, innocent soul like Jean possibly have done to be so punished? This is not his doing. The weight of my sins was placed on him, and he suffered because of that, don't you see?
"Nina knew," she muttered. "Nina knew."
I sighed so deeply and loudly that she spun on me.
"A long time ago I did a bad thing, and I'm not referring to getting pregnant with you. You are too beautiful, too wonderful, to be anything but good; but after you were born, we were alone in the bayou."
"You told me this, Mommy. You don't have to explain."
"I want to explain. I need to explain. I didn't agree to marry your uncle Paul just because your father was off in Europe living the rich young man's life."
"But you thought he had become engaged and there was no hope of you two ever marrying," I reminded her.
"Yes, yes, but Paul was my half brother. True, we didn't learn that truth until we were both teenagers and after Paul had already fallen in love with me, but that didn't excuse it."
"Excuse what, Mommy? Look how we were living when you returned to the bayou. Why shouldn't you have agreed to live at Cyprus Woods? You said everyone thought I was his child anyway."
"Yes, they did, and he did little to convince them otherwise."
"Why are you telling me all this again?"
"Because I gave in to him and let him talk me into marrying him. We actually were married by a priest."
"But you told me that was just a marriage of convenience, that you and Paul were like roommates."
"Not always," she said. "There was a time when we pretended we were other people, people from the past, and . . . I sinned.
"I didn't do penance; I didn't ask forgiveness. I pretended it didn't happen, but the sin was part of my shadow and followed me from the bayou. Slowly that shadow moved over this house and this family until it claimed my poor Jean."
"Oh, Mommy, no," I said. I shook my head. It hurt me to learn this, but I couldn't believe God would punish Jean for Mommy's sin.
She closed her eyes. "I'm so tired, but I don't sleep. I see only Jean's face, see only Beau rushing from the swamp with him in his arms. And when I looked back, I saw that shadow smiling triumphantly at me."
She opened her eyes and seized my hand. "Jean is still here, still with us, still in this house. I want you to go back to Nina's house and see her sister. I want you to tell her what's happened and get her to bring the right charms here."
"Mommy, you're talking nonsense. Daddy wouldn't let us bring charms into this house anyway."
"You've got to do it, Pearl," she said, her eyes wide. "Will you promise?" she demanded. I saw she wouldn't rest until she had my word.
"Okay, Mommy. I promise."
"Good. Good," she said, releasing my hand and closing her eyes again. "Now I can sleep."