I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (2 page)

L
eave me alone!”

“You're not going anywhere until you've seen him.”

“Just back off, will you. I've tried a thousand times already and nothing changes. He's a monster, he disgusts me. This all feels like some kind of fucked-up soap opera. I'm not going into that room.”

“He's your brother, for God's sake!”

“He was my brother before he ran over those two little girls, now he's just a person I don't want anywhere near me. Sometimes I wish he'd died out there with them, in the road. But I suppose he'll get what's coming to him.”

“Shit, Thibault, listen to yourself! You don't really mean that.”

I'm on a loop. I've been having the same conversation for the past month. My cousin thinks it's because I'm worried, but I'm not worried anymore. I was at first, when the hospital called, when my mother collapsed on the kitchen floor, when we broke the speed limit all the way here in my cousin's old Peugeot
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. I was worried until the moment I saw the policeman outside my brother's room. And from that moment on, I've just been angry.

“Yes, I mean every word.”

I say this slowly, as cool as a cucumber. Apparently it's not what my cousin was expecting. He stops still in the corridor. My mother has already gone into room
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. A group of nurses walk past us, unfazed. I look at my cousin; he is horrified at me.

“Just stop getting so worked up and leave me to sort this out for myself. Tell Mom whatever you like, make up an excuse. I'll see you on the way out.”

I turn around, open the door that leads to the staircase and slam it behind me. Nobody ever uses the stairs in a hospital, so I exhale, close my eyes, and let myself slide slowly down the wall to the floor.

The polished concrete is cold through my jeans, but I don't care. My feet are already frozen from the unheated car journey and my fingertips have gone blue. Time to get my gloves out again. It's still autumn, officially, but there's a winter chill in the air. I can feel the bile rising in my throat, as I do every time I set foot in this hospital. I want to throw up my brother, his accident, the alcohol he slept off in that hospital bed the day after running down the two girls. My throat tightens in spasms but nothing comes out. Even the air here makes me sick. The smell of the hospital invades my nostrils. Odd: it's not normally as strong out on the staircase. I need to get out of here.

I have opened a door and come into a room. But not the right one. I must have confused the sign on the door with one for an emergency exit. I'd better get out of here before the person in the bed wakes up. I can only see the lower part of the legs from where I'm standing. Actually I can only see the pink sheet that is covering them. It smells of hospitals in here, too, but something else catches my attention, a different smell that seems very far away from the medicine and disinfectant of these places. I close my eyes to concentrate.

Jasmine. It smells of jasmine. Very faint, but I'm certain. It's exactly like the tea my mother drinks in the mornings.

Strange that the noise from the door didn't wake this person up. I'm pretty sure they're still asleep. I'm not sure if it's a man or a woman but, judging by the fragrance, I'd say it must be a woman. I don't know any guys who use jasmine perfume.

I tiptoe forward carefully, hiding like a naughty kid behind the wall of the little bathroom. The smell of jasmine is stronger as I get closer. I put my head around the side.

A woman. No surprise there, but it was worth checking. She's fast asleep. Perfect. I'll be able to sneak out without anyone noticing.

As I creep back in the other direction I catch my reflection in the little mirror on the wall. Wild eyes, messy hair. My mother is always saying that I'd be more handsome if I sorted out my hair. When I tell her that I don't have time, she usually tells me that there would be “girls lining up outside your door, if you would just tame that wild mane.” I tell her that I have better things to do than chat up girls, and she normally stops there.

Since I split up with Cindy a year ago, I've thrown myself into my work. Six years of sharing everything with someone has a big impact on the way you live, as it turns out. It hit me pretty hard when she left and I think I've been recovering ever since. So my hairstyle is not high on the list of priorities at the moment.

I probably should have had a shave, too. I don't look that bad, but I'm sure my mother would say I could do better. To listen to me, you'd think I spent all my time with my mother. I do have my own place, a couple of rooms on the third floor of a building with no elevator. It's all right actually, and more importantly it's affordable. But my mother has been so upset this past month that I've been camping out in her living room a lot. She moved when my father left, so she doesn't have a spare room anymore. In fact I bought her the sofa bed—I must have had a premonition that it would come in handy one day. That was two months before Cindy left me.

I rub my rough cheeks vigorously, as though it will help to warm my fingers, then I tug at the collar of my sweater and pull the hem down in an attempt to give it some sort of shape. I can't believe I've been walking around like this all day at work and no one has said anything. They must know that Wednesday is visiting day. They probably saw the look in my eyes and knew to keep quiet out of courtesy, or maybe out of indifference. Or because they're hoping I'll have a nervous breakdown and get fired and then they can take my place.

There have been a few comments and funny looks at work since the day I lost it in the corridor and screamed at Cindy about sleeping with her boss. But since then she has moved to another office, and, in spite of my occasional outbursts, I'm one of the best employees they've got, so I don't think they'd want to lose me.

My gray eyes look back at me in the mirror, pale against the mop of black hair. In a gesture of cooperation with my mother, I put a hand to my head and try to pat it down, but it doesn't work. Anyway, what's the point? I've got no one to impress.

A light tapping sound turns my attention toward the window. Damn. It's raining. I don't want to go back outside now to freeze and get soaked while I wait for my mother and my cousin. I look around. This room is nice and warm. The person is still asleep and, judging by the perfectly arranged furniture, it doesn't look as though she has many visitors.

I consider the situation for a moment. If she wakes up, I can always just tell her I came in by accident—she doesn't have to know that I decided to stay anyway. And if anyone comes to visit her, I can say I'm an old friend and then quickly make myself scarce. Better find out what her name is first though.

The clipboard at the foot of the bed says: “Elsa Bilier,
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, head injury, severe trauma to the wrists and right knee. Multiple contusions, partially healed right fibula fracture…” The list continues until it reaches the most awful word of all.

“Coma.”

So there's no danger of her waking up, in fact. I put the clipboard down and take a look at this woman. Twenty-nine years old. With all the tubes and wires coming out of her in every direction, she could be a forty- or fifty-year-old, trapped in the middle of a spider's web. But on closer inspection, she does look twenty-nine. A pretty face, fine features, blonde hair, a few freckles here and there, a beauty spot by her right ear. She could be asleep; it's really only the thinness of her arms over the sheets and her hollow cheeks that give her away.

I look at the clipboard again and my breath catches.

Date of accident:
10
July.

She's been like this for nearly five months. I should put the clipboard back, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

Cause of accident: glacial mountaineering accident

It takes all sorts. I've never understood why anyone would go and risk life and limb out on a glacier, those freezing places full of hidden holes and weak spots where you might be about to die every time you take a step forward. I bet she's sorry now. Well, in a manner of speaking. I don't suppose she actually has any idea what's happened to her. That's how a coma works, isn't it? You go somewhere else and nobody knows how to bring you back.

Suddenly I have a terrible urge to swap her with my brother. Stuck in there all alone. She hasn't hurt anyone, at least I doubt it. Whereas my brother drank too much, got behind the wheel, and killed two fourteen-year-old girls. He's the one who should still be in a coma. Not her. I look at the clipboard one last time before putting it back.

Elsa. Twenty-nine. Date of birth:
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November.

Wait, it's her birthday today.

I don't know why I do it, but I take the pencil tied to the clipboard and rub out the “
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.” It makes a dirty smear but who cares.

“You're thirty today, gorgeous,” I murmur as I write in the new number, before putting the clipboard back.

I look at her again. Something about her is making me uncomfortable and, after a moment, I know what it is. Being linked up to all these machines demeans her somehow. If I disconnected it all she'd look almost like a jasmine flower, with the smell to match. To disconnect or not to disconnect, that is the question. I've never thought about it before. But right now I would love to remove all her tubes just to make her look normal.

“Look how pretty you are—you deserve a birthday kiss.”

My words surprise me, but I've already started moving aside the tubes that block the way to her cheek. Up close, the smell of jasmine is very distinct. I put my lips on her warm cheek and it gives me something like an electric shock.

It's been a year since I last gave someone a kiss, except for greeting work colleagues or friends, but that doesn't count. There's nothing especially sensual in what I've just done, but it was a stolen kiss from the cheek of an unsuspecting woman. The idea makes me smile and I stand back.

“You're lucky it's still raining, jasmine flower. I'm going to keep you company for a little while longer.”

I pull the chair over and sit down. It takes me about two minutes to fall asleep.

I
am desperate to feel something, anything, but I feel absolutely nothing.

If I believe everything I hear, though, someone has been in my room for about ten minutes. A man. A man of about thirty, I'd guess. A non-smoker as far as I can make out from his voice. But that's as much as I can say.

And I can only take his word for it when he says that he kissed me, because I didn't feel it.

What did I expect? The Sleeping Beauty Effect? Prince Charming turns up, gives me a kiss and whoosh, here I am, ta-da!

“Hi Elsa, I'm whatsisname, I have woken you up; now let us be married.”

If I believed that I'd have set myself up for a cruel disappointment, because of course nothing like that has happened. It's far less interesting; more like: “Hi, I'm a guy who wandered into your room by accident [well, I assume he did, otherwise I have no idea what he's doing here] and I'm going to take shelter until the rain has stopped and I can go back outside.” (I heard the shower start a few minutes ago.) Now he's already breathing deeply in the chair beside me.

I'm curious—curiosity isn't chemical, so I can still recognize it when it happens—I'm curious to know who is sitting in the chair beside my bed. I have no way of finding out, so I make it up. Until now, apart from doctors, nurses and the cleaning lady, the only people who ever came into this room were people I knew. I had to imagine what they might be wearing, but that was it. This one's a real challenge because I have nothing to go on aside from his voice.

And I like his voice. It makes a change, at least. It's the first new voice I've heard in six weeks so I expect, even if it had been a hoarse drone, I'd probably still have liked it. My sister's boyfriends don't speak, or they stay out in the corridor. The only thing I hear from them, eventually, is the inevitable sound of their saliva being exchanged with my sister's. But this new voice has a unique quality, a mixture of lightness and passion.

And it has enabled me to confirm today's date.

I really have been here for five months, then, and today is my birthday.

The thing that surprises me about this new information is that my sister didn't mention it when she was here. Maybe she thought it was pointless. Or maybe she just forgot. I'd like to believe that, but I can't. A thirtieth birthday isn't something you just forget, is it?

There's a stirring next to me. I hear the movement of fabric on fabric and recognize it as the sound of a sweater being removed. His breathing pauses while he pulls it over his head, then there are little irregularities in his breath while he gets his arms out of the sleeves and pulls it over his chest. I hear the sweater being put down somewhere and then the breathing is regular again.

I am on full alert. At least I like to think that I am. All of my active parts, which are comprised solely of my hearing of course, are clinging to this new thing like a life raft. So I listen, I listen, I listen. And, bit by bit, I draw a portrait of him in my head.

His breathing is peaceful. He must have fallen asleep. The tapping of the rain on the window is light and, over it, I can make out the sound of his T-shirt moving steadily up and down over the plastic of the chair. He can't be very fat, or he wouldn't breathe like that. I try to compare this with the sound of the people I know, but we hardly ever listen to people breathe. I suppose I must have listened to ex-boyfriends a few times, if I've woken up before them. But they'd probably all have thought it was stupid. I do remember one guy who breathed at triple speed in his sleep. I wanted to laugh when I heard him, but I was frightened of waking him up. That relationship didn't last long.

My romances have always been chaotic, and far less regular and less numerous than my sister's. I'd guess there have been about ten, from memory. Some short, others longer. At the moment I'm single. It's better that way because who knows how a guy would have reacted to this coma. Would he have dumped me at the start? Would he have waited? Would he have moved on without saying anything to me at all? Would he have come in and told me that it was over? That wouldn't have been too hard; he'd probably have assumed I couldn't hear him anyway. And he would have been right for the first fourteen weeks.

So, I'm single and glad about it. It's hard enough to hear my mother crying every time she visits; I have no desire to duplicate the experience with anyone else.

Even as these things go through my mind, I stay focused on my accidental visitor. His breathing is deeper. He must be fast sleep.

I concentrate all my attention on him. I don't want the time to pass. He is my only distraction, the one novelty in all this time, practically the only thing that has reminded me that I really am alive in some small way.

Because I can't honestly say that Pauline's visits, or the nurses', or my mother and her sobbing, actually cheer me up. But this is like a pebble being thrown into the water, an actual change. This would make a ripple on my surface if only I could move.

I want time to stop, but it doesn't. I've only got this little siesta that he has allowed himself in my room. As soon as he leaves, everything will be as it was before. I'll just have to see it as a birthday present. I'd like to be able to smile at this thought.

I hear voices coming down the corridor, and my whole being lights up from the inside. It's Steve, Alex, and Rebecca. They sound animated and happy. I have a sudden desire to tell them to be quiet, so they don't wake my visitor. But as usual I can't do anything, and actually I'm a little curious to see how my intruder is going to explain his presence.

The catch on the door squeaks and then the footsteps and voices all stop at once.

“Someone's already here!” exclaims Rebecca.

“Do you know him?” whispers Alex from behind her.

I suppose Rebecca shakes her head. I hear them come in, circling the chair, and I imagine them bending over my visitor to examine him.

“He's asleep—shall we just leave him and see if he wakes up?”

“No, let's get him out,” says Steve.

“Well, he's not bothering anyone,” says Rebecca, hesitant, “and if he's a friend of Elsa's, he can celebrate with us, can't he?”

“Well…”

I can hear Steve's reluctance. I know he used to have a soft spot for me. Girls who are interested in climbing up glaciers don't grow on trees, even when you live near the Alps. Rebecca stopped three years ago, when she started getting too frightened. Perhaps I should have listened to her when she tried to persuade me to do the same. But no, I'm “too passionate.” I could tell that Steve had fallen for me quite soon after we met, but I was with someone at the time, so I made it clear that I was only looking for a climbing buddy. My other friends were too tall, I needed someone my height. Steve is perfectly proportioned. We made a killer team.

As soon as he understood that I wasn't interested in him romantically, he cast himself in the role of big brother. It's nice to feel as though someone's looking out for you, when you're the eldest child. And since Alex and Rebecca have been together, Steve's protectiveness has gone into overdrive.

And that's exactly what he's doing now. Being the brother who won't let anyone near his little sister.

“Come on, Steve,” Alex starts. “What do you think is going to happen in the hospital? He must just be a friend of Elsa's who's fallen asleep, that's all. Let's not make a big thing of it. The question is whether we wake him up, or start the party without him.”

“Looks like he's made the decision for us,” says Rebecca.

I hear my visitor wake up. I visualize his eyes opening, adjusting to their environment, and I want to laugh when I hear him gasp on discovering that there are three people watching him.

“Who are you?” Steve doesn't waste any time. I bet he's squared up to him, his face about ten centimeters away from the face of the stranger, eyes squinting, trying to recreate Superman's laser-beam stare. I count to five before my imposter replies, his voice still melodious.

“A friend.”

“Right…”

“Yes, right, I'm a friend.”

Confirmation that he must be at least thirty, or he wouldn't be this assured with Steve.

“I don't believe you.”

“Steve,” interrupts Alex, “stop it.”

“I don't know him,” retorts Steve. “It's already like going through airport security just to get onto this ward. I want to know who he is and what he thinks he's doing here!”

“That's exactly why he can't be doing anything wrong here, if he's already managed to get in!”

“Right…”

My stranger straightens up and puts his sweater back on. “Do you know how to say anything other than ‘Right…'?”

Whoa. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into. I'd like to warn him, but it's too late. It sounds as though Steve has grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out of the chair.

“Who do you think you are?”

“Steve, stop it!” cries Rebecca.

“Fucking hell, who does this guy think he is?” Steve says again.

“Let go of him!” says Alex. “And you,” he turns to my visitor, “should apologize—if not, we won't stick up for you a second time.” Alex, the perfect gentleman. I can see why Rebecca fell in love with him.

“I'm sorry,” says my visitor flatly. “Will you let me go now?”

I can hear Steve's grumblings as he lets the stranger go. And then he sits beside me on the bed. The starched sheets rustle near my ear.

“Sorry, Elsa,” he murmurs, stroking my hair. “That's it, I promise. Just a little excitement for your birthday.”

I hear his voice waver for a second or two. He blames himself for not having checked my knot, or for not having been strong enough to stop me falling with the avalanche.

From what I understand, it was Steve who got me out from under the snow. The doctor said it had been a miracle that he found me at all. But I know that it was the connection between us. A big brother always looks out for you.

Today, though, I have to admit that he's taking it a bit far.

“So! Elsa, we've brought you a cake, with thirty candles that you almost certainly wouldn't want to blow out, but I would force you to anyway. And we've got you a little present.” The sound of Rebecca's voice cheers me up. She empties out the contents of a plastic bag and I'm sure it's Alex who helps her to arrange the candles.

As they do this, my visitor gets up.

“You're sure that you're a friend of Elsa's?” Steve starts again where he left off. If I ever get out of this coma, I'm going to be having words with him about this.

“Yes.”

“So what's her name then?”

“Elsa. You've said it at least three times.”

“Her surname.”

“Bilier. And she's thirty today.”

“Rebecca's just given you that information.”

“Is this an interrogation or something?”

“Yes, you could say that.” Steve, the over-protector. “What does she study?”

Two seconds pass before my stranger answers.

“She doesn't study. She works.”

“In what?”

Two seconds again.

“The mountains.”

I'm impressed. He's bluffing, but he does it well. Maybe we do know each other after all.

“And what does she do, exactly, in the mountains?”

I lose all hope that my stranger will guess this one. I've got an unusual job.

Ten long seconds pass. Alex and Rebecca are lighting the candles and I can hear them murmuring to each other. The stranger takes a few steps across the room and then stops. He must have turned back to Steve.

“OK,” he begins. “You're right. I don't know Elsa. Everything I've just said, I guessed from what's written in her notes at the bottom of the bed. I'm just a visitor who came into the wrong room. It was quiet, I sat down for a minute. I wasn't bothering anyone. Now I'll leave.”

Oddly, Steve says nothing. It's Rebecca who speaks first.

“Don't you want to stay for the candles?”

My stranger must be surprised. Rebecca is like that, adorable and sometimes a bit naïve. But luckily her Prince Charming is always by her side.

“Stay for a bit,” says Alex.

“I don't want to get in your way,” replies the stranger.

“You said it yourself, you haven't bothered anyone. That'll make us four at the party, Elsa would love it.”

He must be hesitating. “OK.”

The stranger comes over again and moves the chair. I have the impression that he tries to help Alex with something in a bag, while Rebecca picks up the clipboard at the bottom of my bed.

“It doesn't look as though there's been much progress,” she says to the others. “There's nothing new on here at all. Oh, yes. Someone has changed her age. Impressive that they pay attention to things like that.”