A Good Life, page 18
I’m exhausted.
My breasts are sore.
I’m crying all the time.
I worry when he spits up, when he doesn’t spit up, when his poo’s hard, when he doesn’t poo, when he cries, when he doesn’t cry, when he sleeps a lot, when he doesn’t sleep.
I search everywhere for the serenity I’d conjured up in my mind.
I’m nothing but a mass of anxiety and despair.
I hear him crying.
Alex has returned to work.
Agathe pops her head around the door:
“Take it easy, I’ll see to him.”
I didn’t want to tell her I was in a bad way, but Alex didn’t know how to help me anymore. She cut short her vacation in Spain to come to me.
Even with her, I can’t manage to pretend.
For the first time it’s not me taking care of her.
The day after she got here, she dragged me off to the doctor. He spoke of postnatal depression, prescribed some medication.
I came away staggered.
I shouldn’t be depressed.
I’ve just had a baby, I should be happy.
TODAY
AUGUST 12
EMMA
9:34 A.M.
“First dibs!” Agathe cries as we arrive back at Mima’s.
She charges up the stairs to take a shower. It’s usually me that wins, but for the last day, I can give her the victory.
While waiting for my turn, and to find out what surprise she’s got for me, I settle in the armchair. Sunlight bursts through the window and spills over my thighs. Only the tick-tock of the clock disturbs the silence. That sound terrified my sister when she was little. Papi would muffle it with fabric and foam.
Agathe’s phone rings. A second time. A third time. I get up to catch it, it might be urgent. On the screen, “MOM” in capital letters. I don’t allow myself time to think, I answer it.
“Hi Mom.”
“Hi Agathe, you don’t sound good, your voice is odd.”
“It’s Emma.”
“What’s she gone and done now?”
“No, it’s Emma speaking to you. Not Agathe.”
A brief silence.
“Oh, sweetie! It’s been so long! How are you? Agathe told me you were together, and I’ll admit I wanted to come, but she threatened never to speak to me again if I did. I’ve already lost one daughter, don’t want to lose a second!”
She laughs loudly. Her awkwardness is catching.
“I’m well. And you?”
“Oh, me, it comes and goes. Can’t complain. Two more years till I retire, and I’m starting to get osteoarthritis. But your sister must have told you that . . . Well, no, silly of me, I’m sure you don’t talk about me.”
“Shall I tell Agathe to call you back? She’s having a shower.”
“Yes, please. You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can I really not come and see you? I’m four hours away, I can be there this evening.”
“No, Mom, I’m really sorry. I’d rather not.”
“Why did you answer the phone, if you don’t want to speak to me?”
“Because I want to tell you something.”
“Oh?”
I don’t feel like it anymore. I regret answering, should have stuck with my initial decision never to speak to her again. But I’m here now, so I’ll get on with it.
“You hurt me, Mom. You finished us off.”
“Right, I’ll . . . ”
“Please listen to me. I have a mark from your belt buckle on my thigh, it will never go away. But it’s inside that I’m most scarred. I have no confidence in myself, I never think I’m as good as others, making a phone call is an ordeal, I’m wary even of the people I love the most, especially of those I love the most. I get insomnia, can’t handle anyone coming up behind me, don’t like being surprised, saying ‘I love you’ is an effort, I can’t sleep in the dark, I’m convinced I’m a bad mother, I can’t bear the smell of patchouli anymore, I jump when a door slams, I hate my reflection, because it resembles yours.”
At the other end, I can hear her shortness of breath.
Agathe comes into the sitting room, her hair wet. She understands immediately and takes my hand in hers. I put the phone on speaker, so she can hear.
“Is this some kind of revenge?” Mom whispers.
“Please, Mom, I’m nearly done. I’m not telling you to do harm to you, but to do good to myself.”
“I don’t have to listen to all this spiteful stuff! You want to make me suffer? I know very well that I hurt you. That I hurt both of you. It’s easy to rewrite history, to point to me as the nasty one, but it was never that simple, sweetie. There was this great emptiness inside me. I tried to get better. You saw how I tried. Emma, you did see, didn’t you? You also reproached me for leaving, to get treatment, but I had no choice. And anyhow, you weren’t that easy yourself. I felt the judgment in your eyes, even if you said nothing. Life outside isn’t rosy, I wanted you to understand that, your sister, too, I wanted to help you, teach you to toughen up. And look how you turned out, hey? You see, I didn’t get everything wrong.”
Agathe squeezes my hand.
“Right, Mom, I just wanted to tell you that I forgive you. I’m not angry anymore. I even manage to find excuses for you.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Mom?”
I look at the screen, she’s hung up.
Agathe hugs me:
“Well done. I’m proud of you. I just can’t do it myself. Perhaps because I have fewer memories, thanks to you. I know she’ll never change, but I can’t seem to draw a line under her.” She stands up. “Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you. Fucking hell, girl, you use live ammunition!”
YESTERDAY
AUGUST 2013
AGATHE—28 YEARS OLD
I’ve just realized that I haven’t stuck my nose out the door for a week now. Since I quit my job, I’m not obliged to go out anymore, so I stay indoors, in the cool. Mima tried to make me change my mind, convinced that I was making a stupid mistake, that the job was made for me. Which is what I thought, too, at first. But my enthusiasm just evaporated. I’d been going reluctantly, sometimes not even waking up in the morning. I’ll find something else.
I ought to wash myself, though. The other day, David commented that I hadn’t used the shower, so I turn it on a little every day, pour some gel into the tray, and lightly dampen the towel. My hair’s dirty, but I feel tired just thinking about washing it, untangling it, leaving the conditioner in, rinsing it.
He’s starting to annoy me, anyhow. I was happy for him to move in with me, but if it’s to keep me under surveillance, it’s not going to work. The other day he came home at midday, wanted to eat with me. Bad luck: I was sleeping. He was pissed off, shocked that I could get up so late. If that’s life as a couple, I prefer my vibrator.
Lucas insists I come surfing; I don’t feel like it. Mima insists I come to eat; I don’t feel like it. I just want to be left in peace. I close the shutters and, between naps, I watch TV. Anything, so long as it’s not about war, insecurity, unemployment, poverty, pollution, politics, harassment, embezzlement, illnesses, deaths, accidents, violence. Everything depresses me, everything scares me, I can’t see colors anymore.
What’s the point of all this?
Life’s so futile.
Emma bombards me with messages, I can’t be bothered to reply. Doing the slightest thing demands too much effort.
My hours are empty, same as my existence. I just want to sleep.
Take a sleeping pill. And just sleep.
YESTERDAY
NOVEMBER 2013
EMMA—33 YEARS OLD
You wouldn’t like to go and live in the Basque Country, would you?”
Alex stares, wide-eyed:
“You’d like to go there?”
“I really would, yes.”
“Because you can see yourself living there, or for your sister?”
“She’s not doing well. For several months now, she’s been going under, I feel powerless here.”
“I understand, but our jobs are here, the little one’s crèche, our friends. And anyhow, we’re barely two hours from Anglet!”
“Two hours, that’s pretty long to go and see her every day.”
He sighs.
“I understand, sweetie, I really do. And you know I adore your sister. But you can’t always save her. At some stage, she’s going to have to take charge of herself. She’ll soon be thirty, she’s not a kid anymore.”
“I know . . . ”
“We can’t come running as soon as she’s struggling. You go there almost every weekend as it is, which is already a lot, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. But she’s my little sister, I’m worried for her. I’ve always felt that this world was too tough, that she didn’t have big enough shoulders. When I think of her, I see her as tiny, surrounded by towering mountains.”
“Maybe she needs to prove to herself that she can cope. You know, overprotecting her isn’t helping her.”
“That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.”
He laughs.
“That’s true, I realized it as I was saying it. But you can’t live for her. You’re there, she knows that. She’s not alone. And there’s also your grandmother, your uncle, your aunt . . . ”
“What a joke! When Uncle Jean-Yves discovered that Mima had helped Agathe with paying her rent last month, he went ballistic. He threatened Mima that he’d place her under supervision, and sent a message to Agathe accusing her of being an idler. Great support he is.”
“Fine, we’ll forget about your uncle and aunt then. Go and spend some time over there during the next vacation if you like. Or suggest she comes here. But we can’t just chuck up everything to go and live near her. D’you understand that?”
I nod my head. I know he’s right.
I switch my computer back on and resume my search for an apartment in Anglet.
TODAY
AUGUST 12
AGATHE
1:23 P.M.
Emma parks near the harbor. I thought we’d never make it on time, never known anyone who drives so slowly. I’d have gotten here faster moonwalking. She still doesn’t know what we’re doing here, despite all her questions throughout the journey, but the surprise will soon be revealed.
“Are we going sailing?” Emma asks, as we walk along a pontoon.
“How perceptive!”
She claps her hands in delight. When she discovers the purpose of this boat trip, she may well be doing cartwheels.
Julie and Amélie are waiting for us on the boat. Emma has met them several times but doesn’t know what they do. They quickly explain it to her.
They are both biologists. Part of their work involves studying the cetaceans that live in the Gouf de Capbreton.
“It’s an underwater canyon that’s more than 4,000 meters deep,” Julie explains to my sister. “What makes it exceptional is that it starts just a few hundred meters from the coast.”
“Its biodiversity level is high, particularly its many species of cetacean,” Amélie continues. “Our role is to study them to understand them better and raise people’s awareness to protect them. Agathe told us you were passionate about dolphins?”
Emma’s eyes are sparkling:
“Oh yes! I had a poster for The Big Blue on the wall in my room for ages, and I dreamt of seeing dolphins, swimming with them. I even wrote to the Journal de Mickey to ask them what studies I should do to work with dolphins, but I never got a reply.”
The disappointment has clearly endured over the years, Emma frowns just remembering that let-down.
“I always knew Mickey Mouse wasn’t to be trusted,” I say.
“We’re not going to swim with them, because we don’t want to disturb them, but we’ll try to spot some,” Julie declares.
“For real?” Emma asks, looking at me.
“No, it was a joke, we’re going to walk on water like Jesus. Are you ready?”
She laughs:
“I’m so happy, Gagathe! Let’s hope we see lots of them!”
2:07 P.M.
She’s not happy at all anymore. Well, that’s the impression she’s giving, unless throwing up over the rail makes her very happy.
The boat stops. Julie puts some headphones on and lets a cable sink into the water, at the end of which a microphone and a sort of dish antenna are attached.
“She’s trying to locate them,” Amélie explains. “In the middle of summer, it’s trickier, there’s lots of noise pollution with all the leisure boats. But you can still hear them.”
After a while, Julie shakes her head: “Let’s go and look further on.”
5:34 P.M.
We still haven’t seen any dolphins, but the good news is that Emma has quit feeding the fish. Julie has lowered the hydrophone at several locations, at various depths, without success.
Emma comes to sit beside me:
“I’m touched by your surprise.”
“Oh, I just felt like seeing you throw up.”
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“If you’re that keen, I can throw up on you. It’ll be my revenge for all those times you pooed in the bath.”
“You’re lying. Inventing memories for us.”
She raises her head and gazes at the horizon. The blues of the sea and the sky merge together. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wiping her cheek.
“I love you, Gagathe.”
She turns towards me; in her eyes I see the same light as in that photo of twenty years ago, with Alex. She nudges me:
“Don’t ask me to repeat that, you can’t imagine how saying it pained me.”
“Sorry, I thought I’d misheard! Fucking hell, let’s celebrate, Emma’s revealing her feelings!”
“If you want to make me regret doing so, you’re doing a good job.”
“So sorry, it gave me a shock.”
She laughs.
“You’re hard work, Gagathe. So, I’m not going to say it again!”
“That’s okay, I heard it, and there are witnesses. Girls, did you hear it, too?”
Laughing, Julie and Amélie confirm that they did.
At that moment, a few meters from the boat, a fin cleaves the water, then two fins, then six.
Emma is mesmerized, the dolphins leap, frolic all around us.
“My god,” she murmurs. “Are you seeing this magnificent show?”
I see it. But it’s something else that moves me: my sister’s childlike delight, and the look of wonderment in her eyes.
7:17 P.M.
Robert Redford is in front of the gate when we get back. He knows his way, he doesn’t need us to find Georges’s house. And yet I scoop the cat up and head for Mima’s sweetheart’s home.
Emma follows me without asking any questions, she has understood.
The discovery of that painting had knocked me sideways. I discovered that my grandmother could have had a sex life, that her children weren’t delivered by a stork, it was a lot to take in. I didn’t have the strength to say a thing to Georges; I handed him his painting, he thanked us, he left, end of story.
The door to no. 14 overlooks the street. I use the iron knocker. Georges opens, Robert Redford springs from my arms.
“Come in,” he says, as though expecting us.
It’s cool inside his house.
“I’ve just opened the shutters, I keep them closed all day,” he explains.
We follow him along a corridor and emerge into a huge sitting room. Pieces of imposing furniture rest on a red-tiled floor. He indicates for us to sit on a brown leather sofa.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Emma asks for a glass of water, and I accept a glass of wine. While he’s fetching them, my sister checks on my intentions.
“You know he’s an elderly gentleman, Agathe.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Be nice to him.”
“Am I usually not nice?”
“You can be.”
I don’t get time to respond before Georges returns and sits opposite us:
“I imagine you have some questions.”
The first one comes out of my mouth before my brain has time to tidy it up:
“Were you together? With Mima, I mean? Or do you have nude portraits of you with all your female neighbors?”
He laughs.
“It troubles me, betraying her secret, your grandmother was determined to keep it. But the loss is unbearable, and I have no one I can talk about her with.”
“Why didn’t she tell us?”
Emma throws me a dark look. I realize my tone was sharp, and try to make up for it:
“Why didn’t she tell us, please?”
“Your grandfather had been dead for several years when we fell in love. But she knew how much you loved him, she feared hurting you. Time went by. On several occasions she announced that she was going to reveal everything to you, but in the end, she never found the right time.”
He stares deep into space, seeming to gather his thoughts. We wait, silently, hanging on his memories of a Mima we didn’t know. Finally, he continues:
“You know, she did resist. She battled with her feelings. She refused to love a man other than your grandfather. But love is stronger than the will. We were happy. Oh yes . . . supremely happy.”
Georges’s voice falters. There’s a lump in my throat. Imagining Mima as a woman in love overwhelms me. I’m happy about this happiness I didn’t know about.
“You never wanted to live together?” Emma asks.
“We thought about it several times, but our relationship was so perfect as it was, we feared spoiling it. We thought we had time. The years flew by so fast. And yet, we had a rule that we never broke: we’d see each other every day. Whether for hours or a few minutes.”
