I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (5 page)

I'm cold.

No. What am I saying? I can't be cold. I'm just
imagining
that I'm cold.

Maybe I fell asleep for a moment. I don't really know, because I can still hear the same thing: the wind and Thibault's steady breathing. I'd like him to wake up and make fun of me again.

A few moments later my wish is granted. I hear him stirring. An exasperated noise.

“Argh… this is about as comfortable as a kick in the face.”

He must be rubbing his eyes and stretching as he takes his feet off the bed.

“Next time I'm bringing a cushion, Elsa!”

He's going to come back. If only I could scream aloud with joy.

“And next time, I won't open the window. You might not have noticed, but it's absolutely freezing in here now! I might have to put one of my layers back on just to go over and close it.”

The window slides shut. The wind stops making the leaves dance.

“My mother will be wondering where I've gone. And I told her to call me when she was ready. What an idiot!”

I hear him looking for his phone and then he must turn it back on. A message alert noise.

“Yep, she's waiting for me. She's only been there ten minutes, though. Phew! Well, I'd better go.”

He puts his shoes back on, his jacket, his gloves. I've put gloves on my hands so many times that I recognize the sound without even having to try. Thibault comes closer. I know what's coming next and I rejoice in anticipation.

“Come here and let me give you a kiss. In a manner of speaking.”

Like the first day, he moves my life support tubes out of the way. This kiss is a bit longer than the last one and, as far as I can make out, just about in the middle of my cheek. He's the only one who dares move all those tubes.

“Your cheeks are cold. Perhaps I shouldn't have opened the window. And look… those aren't lips you've got there! They're like bits of scrunched-up old newspaper. Is that what they pay them for, these nurses?”

He moves away and I hear the cupboard doors open and close.

“My brother's in there with lips like a Botoxed Hollywood actress and they leave you here like this! They've forgotten you because you're so quiet. That's not right. Anyone could need to kiss these lips.”

A crisp silence follows, as though someone has cut through the sound with a pair of scissors. But I can still hear the hustle and bustle outside in the corridor. I wonder why Thibault broke off so suddenly. Perhaps he found the pot of lip balm.

“We'll have to use mine.”

No, he didn't find it. And, strangely, his voice has changed. It sounds less chirpy, lower. Almost as though he's embarrassed.

“Here you go. That's better. I've never put lip balm on anyone before. I've never put lipstick on anyone either, my exes I mean, so it's extra strange to be doing this. But it's necessary. And if you don't like me doing it, you can't complain anyway.

He puts the lid on with a little click.

“I'd better go. See you next time? Pff… you never answer. Maybe that's your way of telling me to leave you alone. That's not a bad idea actually. That way I won't have to go and explain to my best friend when he asks, that I've been to see you again for absolutely no reason.”

He stops. I hear a sigh. I'll take that as good-bye. I imagine him smiling. If possible, with sincerity rather than sadness. The footsteps move away, the door handle squeaks, the door closes.

Let it be next week already.

W
here were you?”

“Just around.”

“Oh.”

My mother lowers her head and looks at her shoes. She must know every detail of them by heart by now, the amount of time she spends staring at them.

“What were you doing?” she continues after a moment.

“I was asleep.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yes.”

I don't want to lie, but I know this interrogation could go on for a little while, so I need to weigh each word and make sure I don't find myself having to reveal the whole bizarre truth.

“So you've found a place to sleep?” she says, surprised.

“A place, yes. Somewhere quiet.”

Awkward, but I still haven't lied. I even added a little extra detail, hoping that she would stop there, and she does.

She asks questions, my mother, but she also gives up easily. Perhaps with my brother's situation she's just reached a general state of resignation. I have no idea how she feels, in fact, apart from the deep sadness that emanates from her every gesture and glance. I feel ashamed. She's in distress beside me and I haven't been doing anything to help, except sleeping on her sofa a few times a week. She hasn't been doing anything to help me either, but I think it would be selfish to expect her to worry about me at a time like this. So I make an effort.

“How are you doing, Mom?”

My question surprises her, to the extent that she stops walking, even though we're now only a few paces from the car.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“It's about time I asked, isn't it? So, how are you?”

“Not good.”

“I guessed that. Come on—details, Mom.”

She looks at me as though there might be a catch. As though I'm eight years old and she knows that there's mischief behind the angelic grin.

“Well. Your brother might be an amateur murderer, but he's still also my son.”

This feels like a cold shower. Her tone is completely neutral. All this time I've been thinking that she was weak and didn't know how to handle her emotions. I think I have misjudged her. I forget that my mother is probably the strongest person I know; she just cries a little too easily.

“How do you reconcile the two?” I ask her.

“I love him, in exactly the same way that I love you.”

“Is that enough to forgive him?”

“It's not up to me to forgive him for anything…”

I know the next part by heart because I've already heard it a hundred times.

“… because it's not for you to judge,” I finish for her.

She nods her head.

“Neither you nor I owe anyone any judgment here. Your brother has already judged himself. And even though I spent your whole childhood telling you not to judge yourselves or anyone else, I have to admit that in this case I don't think it's a bad thing that he has all this time to reflect. I'm here for him if he needs me. I just wonder if I could have been more rigorous about educating him; perhaps I could have prevented him from getting behind that wheel a month ago.”

“Whatever education you gave us has worked on me.”

“But not on him,” she sighs.

“Don't blame yourself.”

“I don't blame myself. I'm sorry that the lives of two young girls have been stolen. I'm so sorry,” she swallows, “but your brother is an adult. He is wrestling with his own conscience.”

She starts walking again and stops at the passenger door. I go over and unlock it. She stands there while I go around to the driver's side, her head over the roof.

“Why do you cry so much?” I ask, without looking at her.

“Because my son's life is ruined.”

“That's his fault!” I say immediately.

“Sure, but he's still not OK, and it's my job as his mother to be there for him.”

“So you'll go on visiting him like this until his trial, and then you'll carry on visiting him when he's in prison?”

I feel the anger rising in me again, my tone becoming more and more aggressive.

“Yes,” she murmurs.

She opens the door and gets into the car. I'm still outside, my hand on the handle. I take a deep breath to calm myself down and get into the car as well.

“You'll understand when you have children,” she tells me when I'm sitting down.

“Well for now, I don't.”

“For now…” she repeats.

The conversation stops there. I'm on edge. But there is one good thing: for the first time in weeks my mother isn't crying. I think our conversation has shaken her. It has shaken me.

I drop her at her apartment fifteen minutes later, explaining that I'm going to spend a few nights at my place. She accepts this without showing any emotion. I feel as though I've driven home an empty shell. I think I almost preferred it when she was weeping at me.

I arrive back at mine, frozen to the bone. My car heater is erratic at the best of times, but today it's been on strike. I stand under an almost boiling shower to get myself back to room temperature and come out pink all over. In the mirror, my hair still looks a mess, but I know it would be a waste of time trying to tame it.

I pick up the razor and attack my three-day mini-beard. I wouldn't normally do this on a Saturday. I'd wait until Monday morning before work, but I'm in the mood for a shave.

It keeps my hands occupied while my mind whizzes all over the place. And as soon as I've finished shaving I set to cleaning my apartment.

I think again about what my mother said.
You'll understand when you have children of your own
. Amid all these uncertainties, that's the only thing I'm sure about at the moment. I do want children one day. Little Clara has convinced me beyond all doubt of that.

When I stayed at Julien's the other night, and fell asleep with her in my arms, it was Gaëlle who eventually came in to wake us up at about eight the next morning. She even took a photo—I've got it on my phone. I'll treasure it and show it to Clara when she's older, her crazy, doting godfather holding her in his arms when she was only a few months old.

I'm vacuuming, so I don't hear the doorbell ring straightaway. It's only when I turn off the blaring noise, like the sound of a plane's engine, that I notice that someone is persistently ringing the doorbell. I pull on a T-shirt and just avoid tripping over the power cord of the vacuum cleaner, still trailing across the hallway.

“Hi… Cindy?”

My ex is standing in front of me when I open the door. Her blonde hair is still impeccable, exactly as it always was, her hourglass figure is even more voluptuously contoured than in my memory. I'm speechless, my mouth is half open, my hand unmoving on the latch.

“Hello, Thibault,” she replies. “Can I come in?”

I stutter like an imbecile and in the end, I just move out of the way, motioning toward the living room. Cindy walks past me in the doorway and kisses me on the cheek. I close the door, still dumbfounded. When I turn round, she is taking off her coat and high-heeled shoes. I recognize the black stockings and the skirt she is wearing. The blouse is new; it suits her.

She sees me looking and smiles. I come back to my senses and go and put on some trousers.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Getting dressed,” I call from my bedroom.

“You were already dressed,” she says.

“Not for visitors.”

“It's only me. I've seen you naked, I think I can manage a pair of shorts.”

I know she's right, but I still prefer to be wearing trousers. I find a pair of baggy jeans on the chair and hurriedly pull them on. When I come back into the living room, Cindy is sitting on the sofa rubbing her feet.

“Those heels were killing me!” she groans.

“I've never understood why women wear those.”

“Because it gives a better line, Thibault. Don't you think?”

“I…”

“You used to like it, when I…”

She doesn't finish her sentence. She doesn't need to. We both know what she's trying to say. My good upbringing saves me, propelling me into the kitchen.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“I'd love a glass of wine, if you've got any.”

“I might, at the back of a cupboard, but I'm not making any promises.”

“Ah yes, I remember, Mister Fruit Juice,” she says, laughing.

I rummage in the cupboards and eventually find a bottle. In fact I think it dates back to the breakup, when my brother came over and tried to cheer me up with an impromptu party. I come back with two full glasses. One of wine, the other of pineapple juice.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

“Same as usual.”

“Ah.”

I wonder if she even remembers what I used to drink. We were together for a long time, but she always seemed to stay pretty casual, nonchalant even, about her feelings for me. I didn't mind at the time but thinking about it now, there was something insincere about it. I thought I knew the minutest detail of every part of her, but she wasn't interested in anything much about me, beyond the essentials.

“So… Why are you here?” I ask, when I've given her the wine.

“You don't waste any time!” she exclaims, taking a sip.

“Well you have to admit, this is a bit unexpected.”

“You're right. But I've just come to catch up.”

The Book
in my head immediately flips open. If Cindy wants to come over and catch up, go to page
15
. I get to page
15
and it says: “Warning!”

“Oh,” I say, flatly. “Well, as can you see, nothing's changed.”

Or almost nothing, I say to myself. I have no intention of telling her anything about the past few days—or weeks.

“How's Julien?” she asks. “Has Gaëlle had the baby?”

“Yes, she's wonderful.”

“Gaëlle or the baby?”

“Both.”

She takes another sip of wine and puts her glass down. My phone is on the table beside me.

“Here, I've got a picture, if you'd like to see her,” I say, picking it up.

I was expecting to pass her the phone, but Cindy comes over and sits next to me. I scroll through the photos until I get to the one of Clara and me asleep. She looks at it for a long time without saying anything, and then she looks at me.

“Very sweet. How long ago was that?”

“Only a few days.”

“You stayed the night there?”

I lower my head. I get the feeling she also has her own version of
The
Book in Which I Am the Hero
open in her head. Mine is resting open at page
80
: “Just Be Polite.”

“And you?” I say, to avoid an uncomfortable silence. “What's new?”

“Oh, you know, work, different department, but I like it.”

“Which area are you in now?”

“Southwest.”

“Oh, quite a way from here!”

“Yes, but I still come back and forth quite a lot. Like this weekend. To see family and friends.”

“Am I one of the friends?”

I've just made a little departure from page
80
, veering toward: “Wind Her Up a Bit.” But she doesn't seem bothered by my question.

“Of course!” she exclaims.

“Hmm…”

“Why? Am I not
your
friend?”

That sounds like the million-dollar question. Page
77
: “Be Sincere.”

“I don't think it's quite accurate to say that we're friends, no, given our history and the way it ended.”

“Are you still upset with me?”

Honestly, I don't know how I feel, but I'm not in the mood to start diving into explanations.

“No, it's fine.”

“So why can't you consider me a friend?”

She fixes me with her big eyes. Her makeup makes them stand out, wider than ever. I can smell her perfume. It's still the same one, if I remember right, and I ought to recognize the fragrance I lived with for years. I shuffle to get farther away from her. When did she move so close?

“So, Thibault, tell me, why?”

Her voice is a whisper. I can feel her breathing and behind the perfume I can smell her skin. Memories confuse themselves in my head and I want to drive them away. But at the same time…

“I… I don't know. It's tricky?”

Ridiculous response, but it's all I can come up with.

Cindy stares at me intently and I remember in a flash all the other times she has looked at me that way. I see the same memories in her head, too. Her
Book
gives her a quicker solution than mine does me. The next moment she is kissing me, and I am responding almost without thought.

Almost. Part of me is desperate for the contact. Another part of me is sickened by it.

I feel Cindy take my hand and put it around her waist while she lets her own hand wander up and down my back. She draws me toward her and I stretch myself out along the sofa.