Hotelles (40 page)

“Start with three hundred,” Sophia countered. “We have time.”

Rebecca shot me a look suggesting it wasn't for her to say. She reiterated her point out loud, directing her words at me, as though Sophia weren't even in the room:

“I think it's up to
them
to tell you . . .”

The ambivalence of her reply was not lost on me: she wasn't saying she didn't know the answer, but that she thought it better if others told me. Them. She could have said: “It's up to David to tell you.” But she had chosen to include both brothers. They were always connected.

My phone vibrated from within my bag. It wouldn't stop and interrupted my interrogation at a critical moment  . . .

“Yes? Hello?” I answered coldly.

The number was blocked. But I had trouble believing that such an early-morning and persistent call could be a wrong number or a telemarketer.

“Annabelle?”

That voice. I recognized that voice. Especially the timbre. And despite its detachment from a physical person, I recognized the dramatic tone. It was grave, a voice of finality.

“Yes . . . It's me.”

“It's Ludovic Poulain. I'm sorry to call you so early. I'm not disturbing you, am I?”

Tell me you dialed the wrong number, Dr. Poulain. Fill me in on the side effects of Mom's new prescriptions. Tell me whatever, anything but the real reason for your call
—which, though it remained unsaid, was already like poison in my ear.

Unfeeling, I heard his words. My hand shook as I searched for something in my bag, I didn't know what. A photograph fell from my purse to the floor, the image turned facedown against the parquet.

Rebecca leaned over to pick it up. Without thinking, she turned it over. She saw herself, young, on the beach in Dinard, in Louie's arms. He was no longer in her life, and yet he was still present in every gesture, every word, every choice. She couldn't get rid of him. He was her cancer.

35

M
om? Mom, can you hear me?”

No answer, of course. Not even a bat of the eye to show she understood. Just an inert mass in a white bed. Hospitals have a way of making our loved ones unrecognizable. We think we know their appearance by heart. Huge mistake. They're no longer your child, your friend, your dad, your mom, but a heap of flesh, sheets, and blinking machines. Don't call them Maude, Lola, or Henry. Call
that thing
a patient now. Indistinct. Almost anonymous.

Under the tubes and breathing mask, my mom looked tiny. Like a baby, one of those preemies whose lives hang on a thread, on pulsing and pumping machines. The organism sustained through artifice, life or something like it.

 

LAURE CHAPPUIS WAS THE ONE
who had sounded the alarm. The insufferable Madame Chappuis had a useful role after all, despite her endless complaints and churlish character: she was a guardian angel. A crabby angel, but one capable of watching over my mother in case of emergency. She had just proven it. In the middle of the night, she had noticed thick smoke coming from her neighbor's air duct. Apparently, she had nothing better to do at that hour than keep an eye on the surrounding houses. She must have run out of trashy magazines and telenovelas. Or perhaps she had seen the “good doctor” come by the house earlier that night. Perhaps she had been really worried about her friend.

After Dr. Poulain's visit, Maude had felt hungry and decided to reheat the gratin dauphinois she had made the evening before. Anyone else would have popped a portion in the microwave, but she had put the whole thing in the oven, at maximum heat.

But the sedative the doctor had administered was starting to take effect. Mom fell asleep, leaving the gratin in the oven. Two hours later, the house was filled with gray smoke that threatened to asphyxiate Maude. Firefighters arrived just in time to give her some oxygen and rush her off to Max Fourestier, Nanterre's public hospital, where she went for chemotherapy treatments every three weeks.

When I finally managed to tell them what had happened, Sophia did not hesitate:

“Okay, let's go. I'm taking you,” she declared, already at the door.

“No, don't worry about it, I can work it out. And besides, you have to get the car back to Peggy . . .”

“Don't be ridiculous. I told her I'd return it today—I didn't say when. Let's go!”

Rebecca remained seated in her chair, holding the photograph, incapable of movement. She offered a burdened smile as a good-bye. Nothing went her way, not even the big revelation scene.
Her
scene.

 

TRAFFIC WAS HEAVIER THAN WHEN
we'd first gotten into Paris, and it took us almost an hour to reach Avenue de la République, a long, charmless artery lined with low-rise buildings and decrepit houses. The high wall flanking the street is more reminiscent of a prison than a place of health. However, once you get past the front desk, Nanterre's hospital has a kind of majesty.

We walked through a courtyard and under an arch, behind which was posted an impressive list of services. At the very bottom, highlighted by little red squares, two items made me freeze:
emergency
room
–
mortuary
. I scanned through the list again, until I found
oncology
, not more uplifting, really.

The smiling and attentive personnel led us to her room. Apparently, she had first been taken to the emergency room, but they had transferred her in the early morning, after the doctor had decided she no longer needed urgent care.

Sophia left me at my mother's bedside, where I ended up dozing off in my plastic chair, lulled by the regular beep of the monitors, knocked out by the ambient heat.

“Elle . . . Elle, are you okay?”

Before I could identify his voice, I recognized him from the feel of his warm hand firmly pressed into my shoulder. I didn't jump. He'd torn me from a dream, and as soon as I opened my eyes, I knew he wasn't part of it. He belonged to the ignoble reality of the hospital: dilapidated, sinister, morbid.

I wasn't really thinking about the words as they came out of my mouth, sending David away with a brutality that surprised even me, a kind of sedated fury, injected with my own pain:

“Get out.” I pushed him with both hands as hard as I could. He barely moved.

“Darling . . .”

“I said get out. You don't belong here.”

“At least tell me what's happening!”

“What's happening is you're leaving. You hear me?”

“For God's sake, Elle! You disappeared for two days! And now I find you here . . .”

“Scram, I said!”

“Okay, okay . . .”

He gave in and backed into the hallway, his face awash in disbelief and worry.

“I'll be in the hall,” he said.

Who had told him? Rebecca, it had to be her, since I had asked Sophia for absolute discretion.

During the following hour and a half, I moved heaven and earth to meet the doctor overseeing my mom. He was a fop with salt-and-pepper hair and a precocious tan, considering how early it was in the season. By some miracle, he finally appeared around eleven.

“You wanted to see me, Mademoiselle?”

“Annabelle Lorand.” I extended an anxious hand. “I'm her daughter.”

I pointed to my mother, not daring to look at her directly.

“I'm Professor Laurent Banday. I'm in charge of this unit.”

I heard “Band-aid” and wondered if he was telling a bad joke. But the face in front of me was calm, almost cold, and betrayed no trace of break room banter. I realized my subconscious needed to lighten the situation and could really use some med-student humor. Meanwhile, the lucid and reasonable part of me just wanted the facts.

“The incident last night . . . Did it worsen her condition?”

“No. But it did underscore your mother's extremely weak state.”

“Weak . . . how weak?”

“She can't stay home by herself,” he said frankly. “She needs constant care.”

“You know she's supposed to leave for treatment in the United States in four days?”

If he hadn't known, he didn't show it. And Lord knows how much doctors pride themselves on masking ignorance.

“Yes, I'm aware. But I'm sorry to say that will no longer be possible. For now, we're waiting for the results of some tests I ordered last night when she was first admitted.”

The hospital's George Clooney was a real professional, then, more of a Dr. Ross than a kid playing Operation. How long had he been working here, I wondered.

“But that trip is her last hope!” I cried. “You can't take it away from her just . . .”

To preserve your reputation
?
To justify your salary
? I didn't know what vitriol I wanted to throw in his face.

He must have been accustomed to the loved ones of patients, drunk with uncertainty and despair, attacking him. He didn't seem to hold it against me, seeing more than blind suffering in my expression. I wouldn't ignore his advice. His voice grew calmer, smoother:

“Mademoiselle Lorand . . . your mother does not have long.”

“I know that! That's exactly why—”

“You don't understand,” he explained, squeezing my shoulder. “I'm not talking weeks but days.”

How was that possible? Not long before, the same team of doctors had given her months!

“It seems we were overly optimistic in our last predictions,” he admitted in a sincere tone. I was speechless. “The tests we ran last night should confirm our fears: the cancer has metastasized into her vital organs. Even if we were capable of replacing her heart, lungs, and liver, it wouldn't help. All that can be done now is to keep her comfortable, to the best of our abilities.”

Clinical. Succinct. Emotionless. Such was his delivery. I, who had wanted him to give it to me straight, had been granted my wish.

“You know,” he went on, justifying himself, “I was the first one here to advocate for the alternative therapy my American colleagues are doing. If you treat the patient early on, the rates of remission are fairly spectacular. But . . .”

“But we should have done it sooner? Is that what you're telling me?”

“To be honest, in your mother's case, I don't think that would have changed much. By the time we detected her cancer, it was already too late. The chances the procedure would be a success were already slim. The cancer was already widespread.”

Mom, who was vigilant about everything but herself. Mom and her “Oh, it's nothing” when I told her she ought to get her pain checked out. Mom, who, when I was still a kid, fell down the stairs and broke her arm and didn't see the doctor for more than a week, her arm bruised and puffy in a makeshift sling.

Mom, who always had something more important to do than take care of herself.

“At most, we would have gained a few weeks, maybe months . . .”

He may have found the thought reassuring, but I was plagued with doubt, which would probably never go away, even when Maude Lorand was buried under her pink marble slab in some cemetery.

I ignored his hypotheticals and focused my energy on the trip's potential to save her:

“For now, I'd prefer we stick to the plan. If she can be transported, that is.”

“She can . . . ,” he admitted. “Well, if she comes out of the coma in time.”

“Of course,” I agreed, my voice calm and full of hope.

“Still, for now, it would be best if you could be here as much as possible.”

I raised a round, childish, empty face and stared as though some part of me hoped a smile from him could put an end to this nightmare.

“I'm getting married the day after tomorrow,” I said at last.

He was speechless for a moment, having run out of ready-made phrases, and then:

“Get married. It's probably the best thing you can do right now. For you and for her.”

If he had been a few years older, he would have been an ideal father, the kind I'd always dreamed could give me away. I brushed the ridiculous thought aside.

“Do you think she'll wake up? I mean, before . . .”

I couldn't bring myself to say the word, or even any of its synonyms, no matter how euphemistic. Instead I opted for the following, more optimistic way of putting things:

“ . . . before our departure?”

“Yes, of course. She still has a lot of lucid moments before her.”

I appreciated his phrasing but couldn't help wondering: Lucid moments, but in the midst of what? Comas? Delirium? Was happiness any more than this: lucid moments of laughter, pleasure, and joy amid darkness?

“Don't worry,” he tried to comfort me. “She'll see you again. You'll be able to speak with her.”

I could have lain down like a rag doll next to Mom and waited with her until one of us left. Or turned to liquid straightaway and puddled onto the gray linoleum, which was scuffed by time and nurses' shoes.

The doctor seized my arm—this time, I realized, to keep me upright.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, trying to show some humanity.

“Yes . . . yes, thanks. I think I just need some air.”

And as I left the room, he said:

“Don't forget to leave your cell number with the nurses on duty. They'll try to reach you if something happens, no matter the hour.”

I did not, however, follow his advice and instead headed straight outside. Feeling the sun on my skin, I remembered that it would be summer in five days. I wouldn't be taking advantage of the good weather this year. There would be no golden suntan for me, certainly not like the one Professor Banday was sporting.

I had only taken a few steps around the courtyard when David suddenly appeared. It was like a bad joke. The fact that he had been waiting for me all this time was perhaps the most incongruous aspect of his presence here.

“Don't you have a meeting or something?” I barked.

He widened his eyes, disarmed. “No . . .”

“Oh, right, I'm an idiot: all your ratings are rigged anyway!”

I don't know why I said that. It was useless provocation.
Culture Mix
, my stillborn ghost show was the least of my worries. The rage I had felt after Fred's phone call seemed trivial now. Ridiculous, even.

I trotted around and around the disjointed cobblestones, twisting my ankles more than once, when suddenly his hand gripped my wrist, stopping me short.

“Will you let me explain?”

I considered him for a moment but did not recognize the man I'd found so enchanting in this suited puppet bursting with ambition, power, and pride. Even his voice seemed to have changed, suddenly stripped of its evocative qualities: more gruff now than smooth.

“Go ahead . . . ,” I challenged, though I didn't expect anything from him.

He, the almighty, the superb, surprised me by his ability to play humble. His eyes, which usually looked straight into mine, wandered aimlessly over the uneven ground. He wasn't letting me go so easily.

“When I saw you in that dress on my monitor . . . your hair done up . . .”

“What? So, now you're an expert in costumes? I thought you were more interested in what was underneath.”

My remark was like a slap in the face, but he didn't seem to have unpacked the allusion.

“When Dad was still managing the company, I asked him to do some screen tests with Aurora.”

“In that dress, is that it?”

“No, but one like it, yes.”

If he was telling the truth, I could only imagine how much of a shock it had been to see me on his screen.

I let him continue.

“I think I just . . . I couldn't stand seeing you done up like her.”

I could tell by his sunken eyes that the pain was real.

“Is that why you told Guillaume not to run the show?”