The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (20 page)

     Natalie was to spend another night at the clinic; we had agreed that I would drop in to see her after my last ward round. Her hair was once again coiled into a chignon, emphasising the clear, clean oval of her face. She wore the same dark lipstick she had worn once before, and a green dress made of Chinese silk. She looked at me warily, as though slightly embarassed, and smiled nervously. She seemed to have dressed up for me, but although I was aware of it, at least on some level, I was too distracted to feel flattered, or to feel any of the usual attraction. In fact, I felt deeply unsettled. Unsettled by what she hadn’t told me, and even by the things she had. Disturbed by the memory of Pierre Drax’s face, which seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in my head. And angry: angry with Natalie about things that weren’t really her fault, like Sophie confiding in Danielle Vaudin – the direct consequence of which had been to make my interest in her a painfully public matter. I knew I was being unreasonable but I couldn’t help it. Much of this must have been visible the moment she saw me, because I hide my emotions badly. She gestured to me to sit in the chair, then settled herself on the bed and began talking at speed. Her tone was apologetic.

     —I’m sorry, Pascal. I should have told you more, I know. It’s just – well. It was a very difficult time.

     —So who is Louis’ real father? The question shot out from me, freighted with a blunt anger that took us both by suprise. She turned her head away and twisted her necklace. False nails again. Glass beads, green like the dress. Why had she dressed up for me? For some reason, I found this both puzzling and irritating, like a crossword clue you can’t solve.

     —He was an ex-boyfriend, she said. Her voice seemed to shake. —I told you his name before. Jean-Luc. After we split up I didn’t want anything to do with him but he kept–

     She stopped and twisted fully away so that her whole back was to me. Such a small frame, she had, so vulnerable. What was I doing? There was no foundation to my anger, no reason why she should tell me painful things about her past. I felt myself soften.

     —It might help to tell me.

     —It won’t. You have to trust me.

     —But if other people know–

     —Other people don’t know, she said sharply. —And there’s a reason for that.

     —But as his doctor, I began feebly. —As your friend, I hope  ...

     —Look, do I really have to spell it out for you? she blurted, turning to face me. Her eyes looked scorched with pain.

     —Yes, I said simply. —Maybe you do. She took a breath, and her face reddened.

     —I was raped, OK? Are you happy now? she whispered hoarsely, then collapsed, head bent, her shoulders shaking helplessly. What an insensitive fool I was, not to have figured it out on my own, not to have spotted that her fragility could bring out the worst in a man, as well as the best.

     —I’m so sorry, I said, reaching across and squeezing her hand.

     —Now you know why I don’t want to talk about it. Afterwards, it didn’t occur to me that I might be pregnant, she said in a flat voice. Her head was still lowered. —Or maybe it did, and I couldn’t face the idea, and ignored the signs. By the time I realised, it was too late for an abortion.

     —You never reported it?

     —There’d have been no point. There never is, not if it’s someone you know, someone you once thought you loved. I just wanted to get on with my life. So I went to live in Lyon. I had Louis there. All alone. My mother was in Guadeloupe and my sister didn’t want to know.

     —It was very brave of you to keep Louis, I ventured gently. —Given what ... I trailed off, unable to find the right words. Her shoulders shifted and I heard her exhale, as though exhausted.

     —Who told you about that?

     —Detective Charvillefort.

     —She had no right to.

     It was obvious that recalling all this was agonising for her. She was almost doubled up in front of me, her hair hanging over her face. I saw goose-pimples appear on her thin bare arms. The bruise was now a sick yellowish-blue, and the sight of it made me shudder with self-disgust.

     —So what happened? I whispered.

     She sat up slowly and looked me in the face, brushing her hair away from her eyes, which were now red and streaked with make-up. She looked terrible. I felt a huge flood of pity. Or was it love? I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter.

     —I was all ready to hand him over, when he was just three weeks old. But then the couple who were going to take him – She stopped for a moment, unable to continue. Gently, I reached out and stroked her hair. Thin hair, brittle and fine as mesh. —I changed my mind about it, OK? That’s all. Look, this isn’t something I can really bear to–

     Tentatively, I leaned over and embraced her. She didn’t push me off. She had lost weight; I could feel it. She was no more than a skeleton.

     —You didn’t like them?

     —No, it wasn’t that. They were very happy, she whispered. —They were a happy couple, or that’s how they seemed. Happy with each other. Happy to be getting my baby. Her voice caught. —Happy happy happy, she said. —They had everything I wanted.

     I held her tighter.

     —I hadn’t really looked at Louis before, she said. —Not in that way. But that’s when I started to – I mean as my son. Something that was mine. Someone I could be nice to. Someone I could learn to love in spite of the way I got him. I could be as happy as that woman was to have a baby. And perhaps I’d meet a man who could be happy to be Louis’ father. I realised I didn’t have to think about how Louis came to be born. I thought, I’ll be like them. I’ll just love him anyway. And that’s what I did. I decided to keep him.

     —So when you met Pierre  ...

     —I told him everything. And he treated Louis just like his own son – at first. He’d always wanted children.

     —None from his first marriage?

     She stiffened.

     —I suppose it was Charvillefort who told you about Catherine?

     —Yes.

     —What did she say?

     —Nothing. Just that Pierre had been married before.

     —Nothing else?

     —No. Why?

     —Oh, it just feels like my whole life’s at the mercy of ... predators. She looked up then, and her eyes met mine steadily. There was a patch of silence.

     —Including me? I asked slowly. —Is that what you’re saying? Surely you don’t think I would ever–

     —I saw the way you looked at me, she said. —When I arrived with Louis. You saw how – broken – I was.

     I felt slapped. Was there a tiny splinter of truth in what she’d said? Had I really been a predator? —I’m sorry that’s what you think, I mustered, flushing painfully. —Because that’s the last thing I meant to be, and it’s the last thing I feel I am.

     She closed her eyes.

     —It’s OK. I may be doing you an injustice. If I am, I apologise. I’ve ... had a hard time with men, that’s all.

     Of course she had.

     Then suddenly she was smiling, giving me that brisk, false smile I had come to know, the smile that tried to put a brave face on her misery, but failed. My heart hurt for her. There was a short silence as I felt for my next question, unsure of how far I could press her.

     —So ... I mean, when did things start to go wrong? With Pierre and Louis?

     —Quite early on. Louis kept having all these illnesses and accidents, he was a difficult baby, and a difficult toddler – he’s always been – well, he’s been difficult. It meant I couldn’t go out to work. Then Pierre started to wonder if Louis’ behavioural problems were genetic. He started to resent Louis, and the more he resented him, the more he tried to cover it up by doing boy things together with him. Anyone who saw them together thought he was a wonderful father. And in some ways he was. But under the surface it was a lot more volatile. Then I thought – well, I thought I should get pregnant as soon as possible. Make a baby of our own, to put things right. But we couldn’t.

     She seemed so sad, and so lost, so needy. I could not resist reaching for her then. And kissing her. I simply could not. And doing so, I sensed that I was giving myself to this woman in a new way, a way I had never known before – for who had ever needed me as she did? I wanted – I was desperate – to make up for all the bad things that men, myself included, had done to her. All the injustices she had borne so bravely. I wanted to make her world a happy one, I wanted to see her smile, and I knew that if I tried hard enough, if I loved her enough, then I could save her. She must have felt it too, because she allowed me to embrace her and she seemed, in her way, to embrace me back. We lay on the bed, kissing and clinging to one another. I ran my hands through her hair and buried my face in its thin gold mesh. Over and over again, I kissed her arm where I had bruised it, and vowed to myself that this woman would never be bruised again, by me or any other man. Ever. I would make her happiness my mission.

     When we made love it was slow, gentle and intense. She cried, but they were tears of release. I felt like crying too. I didn’t know what I was feeling. But it overpowered me. I had to leave. I was confused, I said. The speed things were happening–

     She smiled. It was OK. She was confused too. Go.

     I still hadn’t told her that I loved her. Still had barely dared to admit it to myself. But I would. And perhaps one day she might blossom enough to love me back.

After I left her I stayed on at the clinic with Louis, holding his hand and musing over the day’s events. I must have fallen asleep at one point because when I woke, the shift had changed.

     —You were sleepwalking again, said the nurse. —I just left you to it.

     —Where did I go?

     She smiled. —It was quite strange. I mean, a bit disconcerting. You were sitting in your chair next to Louis. Then you stood up and came over here to the desk. I was down the other end. I thought you were awake at first, but there was something strange about the way you were walking. And Jacqueline said you did it recently, and warned us that you might again.

     —What did I do? Did I just sit there?

     —For a while. And then you got the prescription pad and wrote out a prescription. Then you crumpled it up and threw it in the waste-paper basket. And then you got up again and walked back to your chair and stayed asleep again till just now.

     —I need to see it.

     —Of course. She stopped, looking at me with a quizzical smile. —I was a bit curious, so I read it. I hope you don’t mind. You wrote complete nonsense, Dr Dannachet. You’ll laugh when you read it.

     She fished a piece of paper out of the waste-paper basket and flattened it out before me. One look was enough. I tried to muster a laugh but it wouldn’t come.

     —Don’t tell anyone about this, I murmured. —OK?

     I tried to sound calm but I was beginning to sweat uncontrollably. Because although the handwriting wasn’t mine, the giant, lopsided lettering was sickeningly familiar.

   
Insulin. Chloroform. Arsenic. Sarin gas. Lupin seeds
.

     And I’d filled in the patient’s name: Madame Natalie Drax.

She says I’m too young to remember it, I was only eight weeks old. But it looked like Cot Death. I couldn’t breathe. Lungs are like two bags made of meat. Breathe air in and the bags get bigger, breathe out and they’re smaller. I always slept in her bed, from the time I was born. Babies love to sleep with their mothers and it was just her and me in the big bed.

   
Papa wasn’t there yet. I never told you that before, did I? But you know now. Maybe you even guessed. Sometimes I think you guessed all sorts of things, Lou-Lou. Before Papa came along it was just you and me. You won’t remember, because you were too young, you were just a baby. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to upset you. But I can tell you now, can’t I? I can tell you lots of things now.

   
Anyway, that night I nearly lost you. I nearly lost you so many times, but that was the first time
.

     Poor Maman. Her heart must’ve been in her mouth.

     She says she woke up, she doesn’t know why. It was the middle of the night and everything felt wrong and then she realised I was struggling to breathe because the noises I was making weren’t baby noises, they were struggling noises.

   
I turned on the light and I screamed because I knew I might have rolled on to you in my sleep and squashed you, it might be my fault, I might not be fit to be a mother, just like my sister said. That’s the first thing I thought. Your face was blue, your lungs weren’t getting enough air. I rang the ambulance right away, and they came and took over. You nearly died in the ambulance. They had to put you on a respirator to get your lungs working again. They took you away and I just sat in the day room, and cried. I cried so much that after a while there were no more tears left, I was completely empty. And then I phoned a man I met when you were really young, just a tiny baby, and he came and comforted me and spent the whole night with me in the day room, waiting to see if you would die. We sat together and he held my hand all night.