The Night Rainbow (30 page)
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!
I don’t want to wake up.
Peony, you have to wake up. Peony, open your eyes. Come back to me, Pea.
Maman is walking in the whiteness; she is calling for me.
It would be nice to walk with Maman. Or not.
Peony, look at me. Peony, don’t leave me!
The whiteness is colouring in, I can feel my body wrapped in body. Am I somehow back in Maman’s belly? I reach out but there is no baby here, just softness. My head is aching, my mouth tastes sour. I pull back, I want the happy place again.
Peony! Peony! Peony!
It is Maman. I am laid against her by the gate to the meadow. She is curled around me, her hand pressed against my forehead. She is holding a rag against me that smells like Claude. It is hot and wet. I feel dizzy.
Stay here, stay here, Pea, she whispers. They’re coming to get us, it won’t be long.
Witches? I say. Do we have to run?
Not witches, Pea. Help. Help is coming. Hold on, baby.
We are in the sun on the road. Sitting like we are having a picnic. Maman has her arms around me. I still feel like I am being sucked back inside her. I’m thirsty. A car stops by my feet. The wheels are silver stars.
We are in a car with the windows open. I am leaning against Maman. Her dress is red with my blood. She will be cross. Everything smudges together, washing in and out like the sea. I close my eyes to make it stop.
We are away from the village, passing big buildings all blurry through the windows. Claude is driving. He has no shirt on. His face is a grey mountain and his tears are the streams.
Papa is carrying me against his hairy chest. He smells salty like Windy Hill. His big arms are around my back and under my legs and his big rough hand is holding my head. Hold on, Pea, he whispers and his breath is a warm breeze. There are voices all around, and far away. Shouting.
I love you, Papa, I say, but he does not reply.
The hospital is white and smells of mops. I am lying on a bed staring up at a square light on the ceiling, and at the hairs in the doctor’s nose. He wiggles his fingers at me and peers into my eyes, which are blurry with tears but I don’t remember crying.
Maman is by the bed, singing. She does not know the words and is making up the song as she goes along. One song spills into another and she does not stop. She grips my hand tight, leant over the bed, whispering. I’m sorry, Pea. I’m sorry, Pea. I’m sorry. Her own tears fall on to my belly.
When we got here there were lots of injections. The first one went right into the cut that Claude made with the elephant knife. It hurt much more than the knife did. After that I was sewn up like torn trousers. The nurse gave me a syringe to play with and I injected everybody, but the game wasn’t so much fun because being sewn up was tuggy and scary and made me feel sick.
I still feel quite sick.
The doctor sits me up slowly.
OK, Little Fighter, he says, you’re all set. And he turns to Maman.
It’s a lot of blood, he says. They’re like that, heads, but your daughter only has a scratch. He looks at me.
You’re lucky it was only the flat part that hit you, he says. You’ll not go running up behind people again, now will you?
No, I whisper.
The doctor looks back at Maman. She is going to have a big bruise, he says. Keep an eye on her, if she is sick or . . .
He stops because the nurse is jiggling his elbow and nodding at the floor. We all look down. Maman is standing in a sudden puddle.
Pablo is here. After Maman wet her knickers in the doctor’s room, they took her away for him to be born. I got taken to a room with a bed and a television and a lady brought my dinner on a tray. There was bread, a yoghurt, a peach, and some meat with vegetables. Claude stayed with me while I sat up in my bed and ate my dinner and watched television, and sometimes looked out of the window into the car park where people in cars came and went.
I’m sorry, Pea, he kept saying, which was quite boring really.
Does my bandage look good or stupid? I asked him. And then, Is that knife really for hunting elephants? Because I have been wondering if that was a made-up story. Claude didn’t want to talk about his knife.
After dinner, a lady in pink clothes came to fetch me and take me to Maman and Claude went home to fetch us our suitcases.
Maman is sitting up in bed. Pablo is asleep next to her in a plastic cot called a
bassinette
. He is orangy-coloured and his hair is black. He doesn’t really look like a proper baby.
I sit on the bottom of the bed and Maman holds my hand. Can I see your tummy? I ask her.
My tummy? Yes, OK, but why?
I was just wondering if the door is still there now that Pablo has come out.
The door? But Maman lifts her nightshirt and I lay my hand on her belly. Maman jumps a little as though I have tickled her. There is no door, not even any sign of one having been there. Her belly is much smaller now, and squashy. How did Pablo get out? I ask.
Pablo was in a hurry to come out, she says. He wanted to meet his sister. The doctor helped.
She pauses a while and reaches out for me, one hand around my middle and the other raking back my hair gently so she can see the bandage on my forehead.
I’m so sorry, Pea, she says again.
It wasn’t your fault, I say. It wasn’t Claude’s either really; he’s deaf you know?
Maman shakes her head sadly.
I mean I’m sorry I left you all alone.
I wasn’t on my own, Maman. I had Margot.
What did you say? Maman asks, and then Claude walks in through the open door.
Hello, Pea, he says, and hands me a baby doll, pink and round-headed and still in its box. It looks like a proper baby, and it is a girl. I get down from the bed and hug Claude around his legs. He doesn’t hug me back. Still.
She was with me, too, he says to Maman.
Well that’s quite far from a consolation, says Maman, her voice staying quiet but at the same time getting shouty.
I tried, says Claude. I knew how it might appear. I did try to speak to you. I thought maybe my keeping an eye on Peony would be the next best thing.
She’s a little girl, says Maman. It’s not normal!
Claude’s face is getting angry but his voice stays quiet too. Pablo is sleeping.
Your daughter has been running around in the meadow all summer, he says. She plays hide and seek with herself. I found her alone under a tree in the middle of a hailstorm. For God’s sake she even has to make up imaginary friends so she doesn’t get too lonely. I know that it’s not easy for you but Pivoine needs her mother.
What did you call her? Maman says, with glassy eyes.
I called her Pivoine.
Her name is Peony.
Actually, my name is Pea, I say.
I’m sorry, Pea, says Claude. Is Margot here?
No, I say. Margot is gone.
Maman has a white face and her kaleidoscope eyes are looking at me through tears.
I know I have done something very bad this time.
Claude looks at Maman, and looks at me. I hang my head and look at my shoes.
The baby that . . . you lost, he says finally.
I don’t think she was lost, I say, she was . . . but Claude is shaking his head at me. Maman is crying a flood of tears, her shoulders shaking, her face red and her nose running. Pablo is still fast asleep.
I go back over to the bed, slowly.
I’m sorry, Maman, I whisper.
Maman opens her arms. I charge at her, knocking her back against her pillows. She hugs me tight against her whole soft-bellied self.
No, she says, I’m sorry.
I climb back up and curl up on Maman’s lap as though I am a cat. Maman strokes my hair and my eyes fall closed. A cool breeze from the open window blows across my face. While I doze I can hear their whispered voices above me.
I’m a father.
I’m her mother.
I didn’t want to see you lose her.
Will you stop staring at me?
I’m reading your lips.
Oh.
I lost my hearing in the car crash.
Oh.
No one should lose a child. I should know.
You lost a child?
My whole family.
Oh. I’m sorry. Maman is quiet.
I know I’m no picture, but I mean well.
OK.
Look, we all know that Amaury’s mother wants the farm back. Even if many people think you’re a bit stuck-up, no one wants to see you kicked out. Amaury loved you. But you have to make some friends if you’re going to stay here.
Maman is quiet again. So quiet I can hear Claude breathing.
Maybe you could start with me? he says.
Maman has to stay in the hospital for a week. I am allowed to stay with her, in her room, because there is no one to look after me at home, although I think I would be OK. I have a bed in the corner and Pablo has his
bassinette
right next to me. Pablo sleeps quite a lot and when he does Maman sleeps quite a lot too and I watch her. She lies on her belly and she sighs small sighs. Her eyelids flicker.
Every day the doctors and nurses come in to look after Maman. They take her temperature with thermometers and her blood presser with a pumpy sleeve and stethoscopes and they give her medicine because she has some aches and pains. And they do other things too. Because of this I don’t have as many questions as I used to and I can tell you now that actually ladies do NOT have a door where the people go in and out. The truth is stranger than that.
Pablo was a success. He is all finished, except for his belly button and we are finishing that off together. Every day Maman cleans the place where his belly button is going to be and I pass her gauze to wrap around it. And we bathe Pablo in the big sink. We scoop water up on to his head, which is fuzzy like the skin on a peach. Maman says he looks like Papa, which is the silliest thing that she has ever said. Papa was tall and had a bristly chin and rode on tractors. Pablo is so tiny he has baths in the sink, he is a funny orange colour and his skin doesn’t fit yet. He really looks nothing like Papa at all.
People come and visit us. Mostly it is Claude, but today Mami Lafont is here. Claude has brought her. When she comes into the room her face is grumpy and her lips are tight. Her witchy hands are holding some blue flowers, which she puts down on the bed.
Hello, she says, without looking at me or Maman. Then she rushes straight over to Pablo’s
bassinette
.
Let’s have a look at this baby, then, she says.
He’s sleeping, says Maman.
Mami Lafont peers in. Pablo is lying on his back; he has his arms up by his head with his hands in fists, as though he is cheering, as though he has won a race.
Oh! says Mami Lafont. And her face cracks open like the shell peeling off a boiled egg. Hard on the top, soft underneath. Tears start to come down. She pulls a tissue out of her handbag and mops herself up.
What’s wrong, Mami Lafont, I say, don’t you like him?
But Mami Lafont cannot stop staring at Pablo.
My Amaury, she says, he looks so much like my Amaury.
Yes, says Maman softly, he does look like his papa.
Why does everyone keep saying that? I will have to ask Claude later. He is the only one who has not said it.
Then Mami Lafont looks at Maman and Maman looks back. Their faces are twitching, eyebrows, mouths, wide eyes narrow eyes, but they are saying nothing. They look like two dogs who have just met each other. Next they are either going to do the sniffing part, or else one of them is going to get bitten.
We’re staying, says Maman eventually.
I know, says Mami Lafont. Thank you. He’s beautiful. You look after that baby.
Maybe you could help, says Claude, who has been standing in the corner, watching them like TV.
If you would like? says Mami Lafont.
You’re his grandmother, says Maman.
Are you my grandmother too? I ask. Everybody turns to look at me, as though they had forgotten I was there. My mother looks fiercely at Mami Lafont, who nods slightly. She comes over and gives me a hug that starts off thin but gets warmer and tighter.
Of course I’m your grandmother, she says.
Mami Lafont turns as she is walking out of the door. Can I come back tomorrow? she says.
Of course, says Maman.
Today is the last day of summer. Tomorrow I am going to my new school. I have a new backpack with wheels, to put all my books in, and new clothes and even a new haircut, which is much prettier than the one that Josette gave me. My scar peeps out from under the fringe, bright pink and shiny as my two little red bikes. Claude has brought them to our house. One is for me to ride and one is for my schoolfriends when they come to play. Everyone says I will make lots of friends at school.
