The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (5 page)

     All I knew at that point was that back in April, Louis Drax had technically died as a result of a fall, but that somehow he’d returned from the dead – or at least from a shocking mis diagnosis. Either way, it was so bizarre that it bordered on the grotesque. A medically unusual case, then, with a dismal prognosis in the wake of his fit, according to the notes I’d just read. One to store in one’s mental scrapbook perhaps, not much more to me. But I was a different man then. I knew nothing.

     And so the man who knew nothing introduced himself to Madame Drax and told her that his job was to do everything he could for her son. And that it was a pleasure to meet her. The first contact is important. I needed this woman’s trust if I was to help Louis.

     She told me it was a great relief to be here. She had a Parisian accent, and a small catch in her voice. The smile she gave me in return was no more than a twitch. She was wearing a fragrance that I didn’t recognise. The hand she gave me to shake felt almost boneless, as though her skeleton had dissolved. What this woman must have suffered didn’t bear thinking about. Post-traumatic stress can take many forms. She bore the look of stunned dignity one so often sees on the faces of agonised relatives.

     —The pleasure’s all mine, Madame. Louis is most welcome here. As you see, this is an open ward. Nine beds are filled at present  ....

     As I spoke, I watched her. I am used to studying faces. There is always the potential for both beauty and ugliness, depending on the emotional currents that swarm beneath. Beneath the mask Madame Drax presented to the world, I imagined the loneliness of unresolved and unresolvable grief – and yes, the shame, too, for pain is alienating – that so many parents suffer in such circumstances.

     —He was in a stable coma for nearly three months, she tells me, as we look at the boy’s sleeping face, framed by white pillow, white linen, a pure white gown. Tucked beneath his armpit is a toy – a moose, its fur matted with ancient spit. —Then a week ago, he unexpectedly ... that’s why we–

     She stops: it seems there is no ‘we’ any more. No ring on her finger, but a lighter band of skin where it once was.

     —That’s why Louis and I came here. To you. Dr Meunier recommended you highly.

     Our eyes meet. Hers are a pale greenish hazel, the colour of a Provenµal hillside after winter rain. Clear and young. It pains me that she seems to be facing this alone, and I feel an urgent need to know why.

     —And your husband, is he ...?

     She looks at me in panic and alarm, and a nervous tic suddenly ratchets away at the corner of her mouth. —You mean you haven’t heard about Pierre? About how Louis came to be in a coma? she asks, flustered. —Didn’t they  ...

     —I’ve read the medical notes, Madame, of course. Rest assured.

     My voice is calm, but I feel a little unsettled. Have I missed something?

     —But how it happened, the full story ... you’re
not aware?
The police haven’t ...?

     —I believe there was a call from a detective this morning, I said quickly, suddenly remembering something Noelle had mentioned. But I could sense something – was it anger? – boiling up in her. —A fall, I gather? Into a ravine?

     But I have triggered an excruciating memory: her face tightens again, and more tears well up. She fumbles in her handbag for a tissue and turns away.

     —Forgive me, Madame. I am assuming she will elaborate at this point, but she does not. Instead she smudges at her eyes with the tissue, then all of a sudden blinks, pulls herself together, and changes gear, telling me that she has rented a cottage in the village, on rue de l’Angelus, and wants to start participating in Louis’ treatment. What can she do? Can she spend as much time as she wants with him? The cleaning-woman, Fatima, begins to mop the floor by our feet; we shift a little. I explain that she needs to take it easy, and let her son settle. She, too, must settle. All too often, patients’ relatives neglect themselves – which doesn’t help anyone. She needs to feel as well and happy as she can.

     —Is there any activity you particularly enjoy? Something you took pleasure in before the accident?

     —I have lots of photographs of Louis. I’ve been meaning to sort them into albums for years.

     —Perfect. And you can show them around. You’ll make friends here quickly, among the other relatives.

     She looks uneasy. —I haven’t really spoken to many people since–

     The image of Louis’ calamitous accident hangs in the air between us.

     —Time to start then, wouldn’t you say?

     —Yes, I suppose so. It’s been very isolating, the whole thing.

     —You have family? Friends?

     —My mother lives in Guadeloupe. She’s been meaning to come over, but my stepfather’s very ill with Parkinson’s.

     —And there’s no one else?

     —Not really. I have a sister, but we don’t see each other. We fell out a long time ago. There is a short silence as we both ponder this. I would like to ask the reason for the estrangement, and for her husband’s absence, but don’t want to appear tactless.

     —Dr Meunier said you had a radical approach. I was glad to hear that, Dr Dannachet. Her mouth twitches again: a small muscle spasm. —Because I think Louis’ condition needs radicalism.

     I return her smile, with what I hope is humility, and give a small, self-deprecating shrug. Might a woman like Madame Drax be impressed by what she has heard of me? Swiftly, I slap the thought down, but not too soon to feel shame at my own ridiculousness. The trouble with being married to someone like Sophie is that you get daily, affectionate reminders of your own absurdity, and imagine her amused laughter in your head.

     —He gives a little flicker of life sometimes, she continues, stroking her son’s hair softly. I can see how her love for him is anxious, immensely protective. —His eyelid twitches, or he sighs, or grunts. Once he moved his hand, like he was trying to clutch at something. Things like that, they give you hope, and then ... All this paraphernalia. She indicates the gastrostomy and catheter tubes emerging from beneath the sheet, attached to silicone bags. She stops, bites her lip. Swallows. She knows he may never emerge.

     That this could be where she has brought her son to die.

     —I know. Gently, I place my hand on her arm, the way doctors are permitted to. —It’s unfortunately all too easy to mistake small movements for a form of consciousness. But believe me, they’re not voluntary or purposeful, I am afraid they are just tics, evidence of sporadic, uncontrolled motor function.

     As I speak, I stroke the boy’s brow and then, gently lift the eyelid: his iris is a dark-brown empty pool against the conjunctiva’s pellucid white, motionless in the socket. Not a flicker.

     She has heard it all before, of course. Like most of the relatives, she will have spent time reading up on her son’s condition, talking to doctors in the field, downloading the latest medical literature from the Internet and devouring personal tales of bereavement, despair, false hopes, and miraculous recoveries. But we must go through the motions. She needs to unwrap the small package of words she has come with, and enact the rituals of need. In return I will give her what rituals I have, such as they are. No machine can bring these people back. It’s nature that struggles.

     —See the nurse over there with the flowers? I point to a matronly figure who has entered with a huge armful of pink peonies. —That’s Jacqueline Duval, the ward sister. Our secret medicine. She’s been with us twenty years.

     Jacqueline spots us and waves, signalling that she will join us when she has arranged the flowers by Isabelle’s bed. She does it swiftly and with style, while keeping up a non-stop flow of talk directed at Isabelle. Just watching her makes me smile. She’s better with relatives than I am. That is, she knows how to get through to them, how to say the right thing at the right time, hold back when tact is called for. Many have cried on her shoulder and if the need arose and I could shake off my hierarchic inhibitions, I’d do so myself.

     —I’ve read about your Awareness Accretion theory, says Madame Drax as Jacqueline stands back to admire the peonies. —And Memory Triggers and Lucid Dream States and ... well, Dr Meunier told me that you believe in things that other doctors don’t.

     There. She has revealed the truth at the heart of her ritual. And soon, in meagre return, I shall disappoint her by disclosing the bald, depressing truth of mine. But first Jacqueline joins us, shaking Madame Drax by the hand and bending to stroke Louis on the cheek.

     —Welcome,
mon petit
. I’m going to spoil you rotten.

     Madame Drax looks faintly aghast at the intimacy, and seems about to say something, then checks herself. But within days, Jacqueline will have won her round. I indicate that we should all move out of earshot, and gesture Madame Drax down the ward towards the French windows. I lower my voice.

     —Back in a minute,
mon chéri
! says Jacqueline, patting Louis’ arm. —I’m sure you’re going to settle in well,
petit monsieur
. And remember, your wish is my command!

     The three of us walk down the ward. —What I was about to tell you, in reference to what you have heard of my work, Madame, is that my success rate is not as good as people think, I murmur. —It’s a delicate field. So many factors are at play, not all of them physical. So please Madame, don’t raise your expectations too high.

     We step through the French windows and out to the paved patio that gives on to the garden. As I try to ignore the bluster of that maddeningly hot wind, I am struck again by the vertiginous beauty of this slice of tamed land, its foliage now buffeted by the air’s tumult in a tumble of silver and magenta, mauve and white. But Madame Drax does not respond to the garden or the talent of Monsieur Girardeau who we can see in the distance, pulling hanks of dripping algae out of the ornamental pond. Her eyes are derelict. She is not ready to step outside her pain. How can I explain that her own suffering will not help her son, and that it is not an act of abandonment to free herself from it for a fraction of a moment to watch a ladybird or smell a summer rose? What can I do to make that poor tense face soften into a smile? Absurd thoughts. Picturing Sophie’s silent sneer, I clear my throat, step back a little from the wind’s hot pull, rearrange the thoughts in my head.

     —Jacqueline, I was just telling Madame Drax that the recovery rate for someone in Louis’ condition is far from high.

     Jacqueline nods, shielding her eyes from the sun. I can see that like me, she has not quite got the measure of Madame Drax yet. —But we keep positive, she says. —For everyone’s sake, including our own. Optimism is a great restorative. We do our best to manufacture it here.

     Later she will tell Madame Drax about her son Paul. Not to depress her, but to ease in the thought that death is sometimes the only way out of this place. Jacqueline came into nursing because of Paul. Twenty-five years ago, when Paul was eighteen, he had a catastrophic motorbike accident. He was in a coma for eight months and then he died. She has been in the same position as all the relatives who come here, fraught, and in a state of suspended mourning. Of the two of us, her human expertise is the greater. But Madame Drax does not seem to be interested in acknowledging Jacqueline’s presence. I am the expert, in her eyes.

     —But Dr Dannachet, your methods! (Her voice changes pitch; I had not guessed she would be quite this volatile.) —Your
revolutionary methods!

     Jacqueline and I exchange a glance. Madame Drax has read some of those magazine articles about Lavinia Gradin and my other successes, of course (‘Pascal Dannachet: Champion of the Living Dead’). But suddenly, I seem to be negating them. Madame Drax looks hurt, betrayed. I have let her down. Yes: fragile. Extremely so.

     —My methods aren’t really so revolutionary, I say soothingly. —They’re practised quite widely. But yes, they seem to have an effect. In some cases. Much of it’s to do with faith. Attitude. Psychology. But I really do urge you not to get excited. Don’t anticipate too much. I will do what I can; we all will. But the largest part in your son’s recovery will be played by his family. By you.

     —You need to realise that, Madame Drax, says Jacqueline softly. —Blood ties and emotional bonds can go far beyond anything we can do. He needs to feel your love and your presence. Be there for him, and he’ll feel it. He’ll know it.

     But when Jacqueline touches her arm to reassure her, Madame Drax winces in response, pulling slightly away from the contact as though it might bruise her. This tiny dance of pain shows a struggle going on. You see it often. Too much sympathy and you dissolve. Finally she forces her features back into dignity, and says,

     —Of course. That’s what I heard. That’s how I want it.

     Of course she does. Her son is her only child. She has lost everything. She seems very alone. No wonder her face is such a taut, blank mask.

     —Tell me, Madame, I say, smiling. —Tell me what sort of boy your son was.

     —
Is
, she says. —I think you mean
is
. Not
was
.

     Again, Jacqueline and I look at one another – but my ward sister’s solid, benign presence reassures me that my tactlessness will be smoothed over. Within a week, Jacqueline will have taken this broken-hearted woman fully under her wing, educated her in the ways of the clinic, and made her a part of the extended family of coma relatives. I have seen her do it time and time again, even with the most traumatised parents.