Sleeping Awake
Authors: Gamali Noelle
Sleeping
Awake
By
Gamali Noelle
Text
copyright © 2014 Gamali Noelle
All
Rights Reserved
To
Raecine-Ashley, without whose enthusiastic support through several drafts this
novel would not have been possible, and to Moshe, for giving me the courage to
continue writing.
Chapter 2 A
White Demon Love Song
Chapter 16 I
Would Like to Call It Beauty
Chapter 18 Ocean
Breathes Salty
THE GREATEST
I
was born and then I died. The end. My entire life’s story wrapped up in a
nutshell. To be quite honest, I died even before I was born.
I
somehow managed to wrap the umbilical cord around my neck, and Maman, not in
the know of my attempted suicide, pushed and pushed with all her might. Still,
I would not come. Maman opted for a home delivery, because Grand-mère said that
all Saint Clairs were born at home, and she’d be damned if my mother did away
with centuries worth of tradition. Like Maman in Grand-mère’s eyes, the home delivery
proved to be a failure, and Maman was rushed the hospital to undergo a
Caesarean section. My heartbeat was nonexistent.
Maman
claimed that she didn’t know what happened after the doctor took me out,
because she was under anaesthesia. When she eventually came to, I was in the
bassinet beside her, very much alive.
She
called me her miracle baby.
Outside
the Towncar’s windows, what had once been mere drizzles had turned into
shrapnel pounding against the car from every which direction. I shivered
slightly as I leaned over to adjust the heat. The sleeves of my dress shifted
in the process, and the sudden pink caught my attention. I hadn’t seen it in
months. Scar tissue had grown over the wounds of winter, protected in its
masquerade effort by a plastic hospital wristband. However, summer had arrived
with the numbness of yet another attempt to start anew.
The
pink scar looked odd against the pale of my skin. I closed my eyes as the thin
welt screamed up at me and involuntary spasms jerked me out of my peaceful
state. My third suicide attempt had proved as futile as the first.
What
a miracle I was indeed.
Un…deux…trois…quatre…cinq…six…sept…huit…neuf…dix…onze…douze…treize…
Slowly,
I counted from one to one thousand in French as I had done countless times
before.
By
the time that I arrived at one hundred, my breathing regained a semblance of
normalcy. Somewhere between three-hundred-and-fifty and a thousand, the film
stopped reeling in my mind and everything went black as my eyes closed and the
howls of the tempest rocked me to sleep.
“Ms.
Saint Clair?”
Sometime
later, I opened one lazy eye. My driver, Joseph, gazed at me through the rear
view mirror.
Sitting
up, I yawned and covered my mouth. “Yes?”
“We’re
ten minutes away,” he drawled.
“Thank
you, Joseph.”
Groggily,
I looked outside and saw that the Old Westbury streets of my adolescence had
replaced the familiarity of New Canaan.
As
we turned into the driveway and drove towards the house that I had so desperately
hoped to never see again, I opened my compact mirror and began retouching my
makeup. The play was about to begin, and I could be nothing short of perfect.
*~*
As
expected, Maman greeted me at the door with a school-girl grin and pulled me
into a bone-crushing embrace. She was so tiny, only five-foot-four, and her
apparent weight loss left her barely making the one hundred pound mark. I
didn’t know where she found the strength to lift me, a good five inches and
twenty-five pounds more than her.
I
stiffened upon contact.
“
Désolée
.”
She pulled away, a nervous smile on her face.
I
gave her an awkward smile and stood frozen in the foyer as she settled things
with Joseph. Almost immediately, something caught my eye.
A
picture of my sisters and I, each in various states of toothlessness, was blown
up and placed on the archway that gave way to the rest of the house. I was
about eight in the picture, and Cienna and Camelea were seven. We had our arms
wrapped around each other’s shoulders as we stood beside the sandcastle that we
had built together in Cannes.
“Noira,
tu vas bien?”
Maman asked.
The
picture hadn’t been there when I’d left.
“Noira?”
“I’m
fine,”
I replied.
“Okay,”
she said. She turned slightly
to look over her shoulder.
“Filles.”
My
hands clenched the strap of my shoulder bag as Camelea came around the corner.
I couldn’t bear to look at Camelea for more than a few moments. Her mouth was
permanently etched in her trademark sneer of a smile. It was as if we were all
an amusing puppet theatre, far inferior: mere commoners. I always wanted to
punch her. Perhaps then the sneer would turn into a howl or maybe a frown, something
more humanlike.
I
watched her brown eyes, hardened and dull as used marbles, gave me a slow,
appraising look. Her sneer turned into an unbelievable and snooty smile.
After
the customary kiss on each cheek and a slight tug on her ever present rosary,
she said, “I’m glad that you’ve recovered, Noire. I’ve prayed for you.”
I
did not bother to smile for her.
Cienna,
who had rounded the corner after her, floated towards me then, looking, as
usual, as if waiting to be captured on film in her flowery silk dress and
heels.
“You
look well.” Cienna kissed me delicately on each cheek. She smelled like an
enchanted forest ought to: sweet and tangy. “That colour is very becoming on
you,” she added.
I
glanced down at my black dress-turned-sack against the backdrop of her colourful,
glove-like ensemble.
“Merci.”
“De
rien.”
Her eyes flickered
in their usual pixie-like manner as she stepped forward and whispered in my
ear. “Ignore the bitch.”
Involuntarily,
my mouth hitched into the same awkward smile that I had given Maman.
Cienna
winked at me and floated away with a suitcase in hand. Camelea stared at her,
the sneer deepening, marring her already tainted features.
I
wondered if it really was true that twins, even if they were fraternal, could
sense what the other was thinking and feeling.
*~*
I
took my time walking through the airy house and ran my hands against the cool
of the walls as I briefly visited each room. As far as I could tell, besides
the pseudo-romantic picture above the foyer, nothing else had changed. I had
been gone for seven months and not so much as a scented candle had been
purchased. It was as if Maman was purposely trying to leave everything as I
remembered it; her way of saying “You weren’t forgotten.”
Turning
my back and heading towards the stairs, I sighed as I glanced at yet another
photograph. The table at the bottom of the staircase had always been there, and
so had the picture. My hands rattled their protest as I lifted the frame and
threatened to drop it. The blood disappeared from the surface of my skin as I
held on in defiance and stared at the glossy paper beneath the glass.
I
closed my eyes and tried to tug on the distant memory that lurked just beneath
my grasp. As of late, I found myself unable to remember much. Sneaky little
wisps would float around and create dull sparks that would quickly fade away
before I had a chance to comprehend what was before me. Months of staring at
beige walls, while a nurse sat quietly in a corner ready to stop you from
attempting suicide, would render anyone incapable of producing memories.
As
with all my other failed attempts at recollection, I eventually gave up. I knew
that the picture was of was my graduation based on my attire and my presence
before a “Class of 2008” banner, but beyond that, nothing.
The
girl was
supposed
to be me, but I felt no connection. The confident
smile seemed foreign and out of place upon my face. And her eyes…Her eyes told
the world to get out of the way or follow her lead. Absolutely nothing was
going to stop her from achieving the greatness that she was destined for.
No,
I decided shaking my head; the girl was most definitely not me. It was
absolutely criminal that Maman would flaunt such blatant lies before me,
especially after the ordeal that I had just been through.
I
opened the top drawer in the table and placed the picture inside. With the
faint pat of the drawer closing, air finally fed my starving lungs.
*~*
From
the top of the stairs, I could see that the light was on in my bedroom. Medusa
lounged on my bed, gently patting the space beside her with her sea urchin
hands, beckoning me into her lair. I closed my eyes.
Maman.
Maman. Maman.
“It’s
too bright,” I said.
“Comment?”
“The
room is too bright.”
“Noira.”
Medusa stood up and started towards me.
I
closed my eyes and stepped back into the darkness of the hallway where it was
cool, where it was safe. “The room is too bright.”
Maman.
Maman. Maman.
“Noira.”
Her
voice was like a soothing lullaby, pulling me gently to the warm surface.
I
opened my eyes. Maman.
“What’s
wrong?” The crow’s feet around Maman’s eyes seemed more pronounced than usual
as her eyes narrowed.
“Please
turn off the light,” I whispered.
“But
then how will you be able to see?”
“I’ll
be fine. Just please turn off the light.”
I
watched as she swallowed whatever pleading words had tried to give themselves a
pointless life. “If that’s what you wish.”
As
the room darkened, I slipped inside and went directly to my bed. I wanted
nothing more than to close my eyes and never wake up. I knew, however, that
this was not to be the case. You can only attempt suicide so many times before
realising that you are simply doomed to suffer in the land of the living. I was
resolved to exist and to wait until old age, or perhaps a car or a bus, brought
about my final end.
“Aren’t
you coming to dinner?” Maman asked.
“No.”
I did not turn to look at her as I undressed. “I’m too tired.”
I
felt as if I had molasses running through my veins.
“
Mais
Camelea a fait du ratatouille, et Cienna a fait une tarte framboise. Elles les
ont fait juste pour toi.”
I
crawled into my canopy bed and pulled the heavy curtains shut. “I’m too tired,
Maman. I’ll eat them for lunch tomorrow.”
Very
faintly, I heard her reply. “
Okay”
Any
other time, I'd beg her to crawl into bed with me and to sing me
one of her Jamaican folk songs, but not that night. I would find no warmth in
her embrace, no safety in her arms wrapped tightly around me singing, “
Come
back, Liza, come back gal…”
I
was too tired, sluggish and muggy like the air before a hurricane waiting to
make its descent.
*~*
“Christ, Noira. You look like
hell.”
Three days later, my best friend,
Bryn, waltzed through my door without bothering to knock. Having no regard for
my comfort, he pushed me out of his way and sprawled his massive six-foot-two
frame on my bed.
Had it not been for the fact that
his body was pressed against mine, I would have thought that he was an
illusion. I had not seen him in almost a year. Bryn attended Cambridge, and up
until November of the year before, I had been enrolled at NYU.
“Gorilla!” I hissed.
His familiar scent was all the
satiation that my parched body needed. Trying to be coy, I snuggled closer to
him under the guise of a rude shove. He smelled like home.
“Yes.” He waved his hands casually
in the air. “But this primate has a treat for you. Baby want some juicy?”
“You did not!” I sprang up, eager
for what I knew that he had brought with him.
“I did too,” he replied, grinning.
Like a magician, he reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a bottle of
Grey Goose.
“Be a dear, will you? Go and get us
a couple of glasses and some ice. It’ll bring your mother immense pleasure to
see you walking about in the light.”
“Did she tell you that?” I asked.
Maman had spent the past three days
hovering above my bed and asking me every few hours if I didn’t want to take a
walk with her through the garden, run to Whole Foods with her, get a pedicure
with her and Cienna, etc. Always, my reply was “
Pas maintenant, Maman.
Perhaps later.” Always, she would look as if I had snatched another piece of
her soul. Always, she would produce the most pathetic of smiles and reply, “Okay,
Coucou. Perhaps later.” Always, I would turn on my side and face the other wall
or declare that I was going to take yet another bath. Anything to avoid having
to meet her eyes.
