I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (12 page)

I
need to calm down.

No, I am calm. I need to think this through properly. Julien was right: I'm falling in love with a girl who's in a coma. It's not healthy. But when I saw her just now, her eyes so huge and open, in the grip of that horrifying seizure, I reacted purely out of a reflex for someone I care about.

Reflex… I frighten myself, especially when a whisper involuntarily escapes my lips: “Elsa… I know hardly anything about you, and yet…”

I leave my words hanging in the air. I'm not really talking to her, for once, so I don't feel any need to finish this comment out loud. But the end of the sentence looms inside my head. I realize that I must look about the same as my brother did out in the hallway. I can't believe I'm finding similarities between us, but I'm sure I have the same lost and faraway look he had when he was gazing out at the gray sky through the window at the end of the corridor.

Clara fidgets in my arms, and I look for somewhere to put her down so that she can move about on her own. The mistakes I am making as a novice godfather are growing increasingly obvious. I've been very selfish in bringing her to the hospital with me. I didn't even think to bring a blanket and toys to keep her occupied. I arranged everything so that I wouldn't need to carry around the bottle and lots of spare clothes, but I didn't think of the other things she might need. The only thing that occurs to me now is to put her on the bed beside Elsa, but I'd need a bit more space for that.

I spread my coat out in the sun and put Clara on it while I make a more comfortable space beside the inert body. I stop for a moment. Elsa looks so peaceful now, compared to how she looked a moment ago. Not a trace of the contorted face and grasping hands she had while her body was contracting.

There was one good thing about the spasm, even though I'd rather it hadn't happened: I saw her eyes for the first time. The pale blue shone out of them, even in the state she was in. I think for a minute and then remember where I've seen that color before—in the photo on the door. The blue of the ice she was walking on.

Before seeing that photo I would never have believed that ice could be so blue. As far as I was concerned ice was either white, like the frost from the freezer, or transparent, if it started to melt, or if it was in cubes in a drink. My frame of ice references are fairly restricted, in fact. The only blue ice I'd seen was the fluorescent blueberry-flavored slush that you drink, and I thought that was absolutely vile.

In that photo I can see what majesty the planet is capable of producing. It surprises me because, working in ecology, I've already done case studies on sea ice and glaciers. But I'm not a specialist in the area, so my experience is limited to the first two years I spent studying general ecology. Since then I've concentrated on wind power and other things. Elsa has brought me back to earth. Well, back to ice.

I sigh and shake my head. I came across this girl by accident ten days ago, and now my whole world seems to revolve around her. I have no desire to see that glacial blue again right now, but I do want to see it again one day. And she's not necessarily going to spend years longer in the coma, just because the doctor didn't want to answer my question. He might even have been worried about telling me that there would be another three months to wait. Three months could seem a long time to some people; not to me.

He did give me some other pretty significant information. Elsa can survive for two hours without electrical support. I had already understood from the other day that many of the contraptions she was attached to were different types of monitor, but I didn't know that it would be possible to unplug them all for a little while without causing any trouble.

Now I know that, I feel better.

I lean over her and pick up the tube of her artificial respirator. I tremble at the thought of doing something with irrevocable consequences. But I had the assurance five minutes ago that, for a certain length of time, it would have no effect. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Click. I've just pulled out the transparent respirator tube. The reassuring beep still sounds on the monitor beside her. I don't dare do anything to the machine, which is now pumping into fresh air. I'm sure the hospital staff have ways of surveying all this equipment from a distance. I lean over the bed and move aside the infusion tube, and unclip two or three others, so that I can move Elsa across the bed more easily. Finally I have my hand on the pulse monitor. It's the only thing that stands between this relative calm, and all the nurses racing in on “red alert.”

I slide my hand underneath Elsa's body. I know I'm no stronger than I was the last time I came, but today I've decided that I'll manage it, even if it gives me an elbow cramp. I summon up all my manly strength in preparation for the lift, at the same time as detaching the monitor on her finger. My other hand goes around her waist and, with a pitiable groan, I manage to move her about twenty centimeters across the bed.

In a rush of adrenaline I hastily reattach the pulse monitor to her finger and plug in all the other apparatus that I've taken out. I also rearrange the other wires that have moved. Perfect: Elsa is just the same as she was a few moments ago, but a bit farther over. The less perfect thing is the painful cramp, which has taken hold just under my shoulder blades, but it was worth it.

I turn to glance at Clara. She is lying on her back as I left her; her little eyes are beginning to close. The wool lining of my coat must be like a warm, downy mattress. I imagine myself in her place and my eyes feel a little heavier, too.

I pick up Clara and put her on the bed beside Elsa. She wriggles happily; this spot must be much cozier than a coat on the hard floor. I take off my shoes as quickly as possible and sit down on the end of the bed to survey the scene.

I know that Gaëlle and Julien sometimes sleep on their backs with Clara on her front on their chests, but I'm not sure that will work in such a tight space. I'll put myself on one side, with Clara between Elsa and me. Then there won't be any risk of her falling.

The key is not to fall asleep but, even though I feel a bit sleepier every time I see a yawn from my goddaughter, I know that I'll stay alert to keep an eye on her. I place myself on the very edge of the mattress, to leave her as much space as possible, but I don't actually think she would notice if I got a bit closer. Her unmoving hands tell me that she is fast asleep.

My gaze rests on the person lying just behind her. Her right arm is resting at a strange angle and I realize that I must have left it lying across her stomach after moving her. I pick it up very gently, as though I might wake her, and put it down by her side. Clara is next to her though and, in spite of all my efforts, I am forced to leave the inanimate arm in contact with her. She doesn't seem bothered and I curl myself around the sleeping baby to make a sort of cocoon. My knees touch Elsa's legs, and my forehead touches her shoulder.

This close, the smell of jasmine which seems always to emanate from her is stronger. Or perhaps the smell comes from the sheets? I close my eyes for a moment and it makes me want to cry. A sob escapes before I have a chance to hold it back. It feels like letting go of a ball of worry.

I am a disgrace. Shameful. I have to be lying on a hospital bed beside a woman in a coma and a sleeping baby before I can feel any real emotion. I did cry when I was with Julien last week, but that's not the same. The two people with me in this room are never going to tell anyone that I've cried, or how pathetic my whimpers are. Here I can let myself go.

So I cry and cry. I cry for my arrogance, my weakness, for my desperation. I cry about not being able to talk to my brother. I cry about my jealousy of Gaëlle and Julien, of their harmonious relationship, and their perfect family. I dream of being in their place, and instead I bring their daughter with me to this hospital, and feel self-conscious every time a woman looks at me.

Suddenly I feel cold, but I know that it's only in my mind. I'm not actually cold, but I wish someone's arms were around me. Not my mother's, not Julien's, and certainly not my brother's. No, the only arms that could reassure me today are the inert ones lying a few centimeters away from me. And I realize that I need these arms for the simple reason that I can't have them at the moment, and that if I decide I would like them to comfort me one day, I will have to fight for them. Really fight—probably for the first time in my life.

Things have always come easily to me. Passing exams, success in my studies; I've always moved relatively smoothly from one stage of my life to the next, finding a partner, living together. Even with Cindy, it was easy. And the breakup was relatively easy, too, when I really think about it, because she gave me so many reasons to hate her. The whole thing came to a quick and definitive conclusion. It's the secondary effects that have been less straightforward, and I have let myself be overwhelmed by them. I made a good start by finding a new place to live, but I haven't really made any progress since then. And then there was my brother's accident. The time has come to dig myself out of this.

The time has come to dig
her
out of this.

My sobs break off as quickly as they began. There's my decision: I'm going to fight. For myself, and for Elsa. I want her to wake up, and
I
want to wake up as well. Two objectives that run parallel to each other, two life rafts. I will play the conscious part for us both, and she will do the… well… I'm not quite sure which part she can play, but I need to believe that she will do something.

The last tears dry as I start to smile.

I feel a warmth beneath my fingers, then I lower my eyes and discover that it is Elsa's arm I am holding.

I need to calm down.

No, I am calm. I need to think this through properly. Julien was right.

I'm in love with a girl who's in a coma.

And for the moment, this seems like the most sensible thing that has ever happened to me.

T
his is too delicious. I am lying beside a rainbow and a golden snowflake. All the colors shine in front of my closed eyes, different shades, full of sparks and twinklings, which gleam brightly but still effuse a gentle quality. I think the baby has fallen asleep, her breathing is so calm and smooth. Thibault's breathing sounds as though he is still awake. My breathing sounds as though…

My breathing sounds as though Thibault hasn't connected my respirator properly.

I followed each of his movements. I couldn't quite match every click with its monitor, but I know the respirator sound well. And now I can hear a light whistling sound. The tube passes just below my ear and there's definitely a stream of oxygen escaping out into my room. There's no need to panic, if indeed panicking is something I am able to do. There should be enough air getting into my lungs for me to breathe. No need to be frightened.

Fear… I really don't want to feel that dreadful fear again, so I focus my attention on the thing I do now whenever Thibault is present.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

Suddenly something interrupts my repetition. Warmth. Softness. Contact. It's gone again, I must have imagined it.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

Softness again.

Don't be silly, Elsa, what could you possibly be feeling?

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

Warmth. Localized.

Localized? But where?

Gone.

But I didn't imagine it. I know because a purple spot appeared in front of my eyes at the moment I felt the warmth.

Felt… how can I be sure that I didn't imagine it? With all my visualization exercises, how can I tell the difference between real and imagined?

I leave my questioning, and I decide that it must have been real. After all, Maria the cleaning lady seemed to think she heard me singing the other day. Well… singing might be a slight exaggeration. I probably just exhaled more heavily than normal. But she was so convinced. And with that music going through my head, I wanted to believe that I had finally managed to emit a signal to the outside world.

That makes me want to laugh. I am like an extraterrestrial trying to make contact with the inhabitants of Earth. An extraterrestrial who, for now, is only able to communicate in colors. And again, “communicate” is a strong word. Normally communication works both ways. Whereas in this case it's only—

Sudden warmth.

Electric surge.

The beeps on the pulse monitor get faster and shorter, then they calm down after a moment. Next to me Thibault moves. I think he must be trying to look at the screen which shows the reading of my pulse. He pauses, as though he is trying to understand, or as though he is waiting for something. He must change his mind or be satisfied that things are normal, because the next sound indicates that he's stretching out again. At least halfway.

Then again, I could be wrong. But I don't see why he would be sitting up. Usually, when he is next to me, he spends some time rearranging himself, like a cat looking for a place to sit. I haven't heard any of that happening. It doesn't matter; he must be thinking, or watching Clara or something. Who cares? He is here, that's what counts. Because I've got work to do and I know that I'm more likely to succeed when Thibault is around.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

I want to turn my head and open my eyes.

Warmth and contact.

On the arm.

The beep on my left sounds four times quickly and then stabilizes again.

“What the hell is going on?”

Even if he only said that very quietly, it's clear that Thibault is worried. After all, he's the one who moved me, which could have had any kind of effect. And he did reconnect my respirator wrong, although he doesn't know that. But I don't think the accelerated beating of my heart has anything to do with the respirator at the moment.

I managed to identify that the warmth was in my arm.

I felt. I really felt. Not in my imagination this time, I'm certain. For a few moments, my brain communicated with my arm. I don't actually know which one, left or right. But I felt it.

And I want to feel it again.

I thirst for contact, like a dependence or an addiction so severe that you would need several months of rehabilitation to get over it. An insatiable thirst which could make my throat tighten, could haunt my dreams, and make me tremble all the way to my fingertips.

My wish is granted a few breaths later.

I feel something again.

Warmth, softness, contact.

In the right arm this time, I'm certain. I know that I can't move it. I don't even need to try. But I concentrate on the little sensory influxes to try and associate them with memories. After what must be quite a long time, I can distinguish two separate areas of warmth, contact, softness. One of them is still. The other one moves. At least, that's what it feels like.

This is crazy… I can't feel my legs, or my hands, or anything else, but I can isolate two very specific areas of my body which must add up to the size of a couple of postage stamps.

A sudden break in the rhythm of the beep from the monitor on my right makes me abandon these reflections. It's my turn to wonder what's going on. I don't understand anything else. I can't feel anything else. In fact, I can still feel one of the zones of contact, the immobile one. But the place where the sensation was moving is gone. I wish I had even a tiny idea what was going on.

The noises suddenly fade away. It's almost as though my brain has voluntarily muffled the noises in order to concentrate on something else. But on what?

I hear that electronic wailing beep in the distance, the sound which always panics the doctors, and I wonder why no one has burst into my room yet. But my notion of time is horribly confused; I can't tell if my pulse has been disturbed for a second or for an hour.

This is the first time that my hearing has failed me. Maybe the respirator really was necessary. Perhaps these are my last moments of consciousness. I want to grit my teeth and fight to get my senses back. Or, at least, my hearing. I really want to understand what's going on.

Everything is muddling together in my head. Colors, textures, thoughts. I can't tell if two days have passed or only a few minutes…

Gradually, I get back to normal. I hear the beep regulate itself, I hear the motor on the respirator, I hear the flow of air through the tube, I hear Thibault, sobbing.

I was aware of that sound earlier. Heavy, dark, full of a bitterness which corresponds to the gray shades that pass in front of my eyes. The color is nothing like the color of earlier. It's strange, like a mixture of sadness and joy. Incomprehensible. So I stop trying to analyze it.

I hear my body take a deep breath.

That is surprising, but perhaps after such excitement my body needs to refuel itself. I still don't understand why, though.

Why… that seems to be the only thing I can ask myself today.