A Good Life, page 19
“Impossible,” I snap. “I lived with her for years, and even after that, came to see her often. I’d have known.”
Georges looks at me as if I’d just realized that Father Christmas didn’t exist.
“There wasn’t a day when we didn’t see each other,” he insists, smiling.
My sister laughs:
“It’s so like her, leaving us a surprise as an inheritance!”
8:14 P.M.
We leave Georges, promising to stay in touch.
“I like him,” Emma declares, as we walk back to Mima’s.
“I think I do, too.”
“Not too hurt?”
“Of course not.”
She knows me well enough to know I’m lying. Of course I’m hurt. I’d have wanted Mima to talk to me about Georges, to share her secrets with me as I shared mine with her. I’d have liked her not to lie to me, to spare herself that guilt. To spare me my guilt. The guilt I felt every time I left her. Imagining her alone in her house broke my heart. I felt like I was abandoning her. I would have been happy for her. What upsets me most is that she could have doubted that.
Going past the Garcias’ house, I spot Joachim in the garden. He waves at me. I wave back, but with just one finger.
YESTERDAY
FEBRUARY 2014
AGATHE—28 YEARS OLD
There’s a knock on my apartment door. I don’t know the time. I haven’t washed for three days and I smell of breaded fish, but the person keeps knocking, so I open.
There are two of them. My uncle and my aunt. Going by their expressions, they haven’t come to play Monopoly.
“Mima told us you’d dropped eight kilos,” he begins.
“ . . . ”
“Your grandmother doesn’t need this. You must stop telling her your problems, it upsets her, as you can imagine.”
“You must pull yourself together,” my aunt adds. “It’s beyond me, you have every reason to be happy.”
“We can’t stand for it anymore,” he continues. “If you want to go under, fine, but don’t drag my mother down with you.”
“I’m not dragging anyone down with me.”
“You confide in her, you think that doesn’t affect her?”
“It stinks in here,” my aunt snaps, opening the window. “And the sink’s full of dirty dishes. You can’t live in this state!”
The trial lasts about twenty minutes. The two prosecutors list all the charges against me, while I listen in silence.
“You quit all your jobs.”
“And you change partners as often as a shirt. Do you think your father would be proud?”
“People are talking, you know. You’re shaming the family. Do you ever think of us?”
“We can’t take it anymore, you’ve always been difficult, but it’s going from bad to worse.”
“You must stop talking to Mima. You’re going to end up killing her!”
“You should go back home.”
They kiss me and leave, no doubt satisfied that they’ve done their duty. I can imagine them congratulating each other for having shaken me up and having done so for my own good.
I sleep for twenty-four hours.
Mima calls me three times, I don’t answer.
I can see no way out. I’ve been in this state for months now, and I can no longer envisage things getting better one day.
The only person I feel like talking to is Emma.
We talk for a long time. Mainly her. I don’t even have the strength anymore.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” she says. “You need some help. I’ll take you to hospital, where you have to stay until you’re better.”
“No.”
When she turns up the following day, I still say no, and yet I let her fill a bag with my things, drape a coat around my shoulders, lace my shoes, and take me to the psychiatric emergency department.
She’ll probably never know it, but she saves my life.
YESTERDAY
JUNE 2014
EMMA—34 YEARS OLD
We were up at the crack of dawn. We had breakfast in our room. It’s a family room, we left the double bed to Mima, and I’m sharing the sofa-bed with Agathe.
Mima and I thought of the surprise to celebrate Agathe leaving hospital. “She needs to regain some weight,” Mima declared. Italy was the obvious choice. Where better than the land of our roots to get her back on her feet?
Mima had been there twice as a child and once with Papi. We’d never been. When we were little, our grandmother would tell us that, if she won the lottery one day, she’d take us to discover the country of our ancestors. I can still see us, lying on her bed, asking her for a story to postpone bedtime, and her telling us about Romulus and Remus, the Palatine Hill, the flavors of ice cream, the scent of wisteria. But the story we loved best, and that made us shudder, was the one about the Bocca della Verità, the Mouth of Truth. She’d tell us how, as a child, she’d plunged her hand into the mouth of this marble mask, which, according to legend, was supposed to close on those who didn’t tell the truth. She had indeed lied shortly before, to cover up some mischief of her little brother’s. Her knees were knocking and heart racing as she awaited the verdict. My sister and I would be in that state, too, every time, even though we knew the happy ending.
Yesterday, when we arrived in Rome, it was the first thing we wanted to see. As we approached the mask, hands outstretched, I’m sure all three of us were ten years old again.
It’s barely seven in the morning when we leave the hotel. It took some time to wake Agathe up. The antidepressants and tranquillizers she’s been prescribed knock her out. She’s rediscovered her taste for life but lost her enthusiasm. She’s the sort who goes into raptures over a pebble, but she didn’t react when we flew above the clouds. She told me she felt like she was inside a bubble, impervious to emotions. Shielded from her moods. If that’s the price to pay so she doesn’t suffer, I accept it, but I’m sad to see her so not herself.
We reach the Trevi Fountain. Mima is pleased, she wanted to get there before it’s invaded by tourists. There are just a few people taking photos. A young bride and groom strike a pose.
Mima takes three coins from her purse and gives us one each.
“You have to throw it in and make a wish,” she says.
“You know they collect a million euros every year?” Agathe says. “I don’t know where it all goes, but it’s a clever ploy!”
“It’s far too early for cynicism,” Mima retorts.
She asks a lady to take our photo, handing her the camera.
“At least you’ll have one photo in focus,” I say, as she slots in between us.
Agathe doesn’t laugh, and yet it’s one of our favorite jokes. Mima takes forever to take a photo, and the result is invariably blurred, which always greatly amuses us.
“Ready?” Mima asks, standing with her back to the fountain, as tradition dictates.
She’s so happy to be here, with us. Even without having won the lottery.
“One, two, three!”
We each throw our coin backwards. I’m sure that Mima and I are silently making the same wish.
TODAY
AUGUST 12
AGATHE
9:03 P.M.
“Could I come and visit you, over the next vacation?”
Emma nods:
“With pleasure. You’ll see, our apartment isn’t big, but it’s in a good location.”
“It’s much too far from the sea to be in a good location.”
“The children will be pleased to see you.”
“I should hope so!”
For our last evening, we laid a rug out in the shade of the linden tree and threw together a picnic. Neither she nor I said so, but we didn’t want to be with anyone else.
There’s an end-of-vacation vibe. A joyful insouciance wrapped in nostalgia.
“I love you, too.”
Emma smiles:
“You took four hours to reply, that’s some delay.”
“I missed you, big sister. You can’t imagine how much.”
She pours us both a glass of wine.
“I wasn’t sure you’d agree to come,” she says.
“You’re kidding, it’s all I was hoping for. And it was even better than I hoped. Hey! Why don’t we have a week’s vacation together every year?”
She doesn’t reply but hands me a slice of bread with some feta on it. I’m already full (I’ve eaten so many cherry tomatoes, my innards are going to produce ketchup,) but I try it anyway.
“Are you happy?” she asks. “I mean generally. In your life.”
The question surprises me, it’s one I haven’t asked myself in a long time. Which is, without any doubt, the best proof that I am happy.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling different, being swamped by my emotions, dependent on my moods, thinking, and almost accepting, that I’d never be able to find serenity. I wasn’t aiming for happiness, firstly because I’ve never really understood what it was about, and then because it seemed more like an illusion than an objective. No one understood me, least of all me. I was the troublemaker, the girl you can’t count on, whom you fear inviting, who goes too far, goes over the top, who wears you down, overwhelms you, exhausts you, the one you call less and less frequently, and end up leaving in a corner of the past. Most of my friends grew tired of those endless fresh starts. I get it. You support someone, help them back onto their feet, you’re relieved, and then there’s the collapse, again, the same words, the same old refrains, the feeling of not being heard, of not being useful. Mental illnesses cause collateral damage.
When I was depressed, I was there for no one, not even myself. It’s quite something, depression. It’s spoken about in a whisper, with eyes rolled, as if shameful, as if it’s an act. The sick person is expected to pull themselves together, show some willpower, as if they enjoyed feeling like that, floundering in despair, as if they didn’t hope to glimpse some light one day that would make the darkness bearable. I think depression scares people. They know that no one is immune to it. To see someone going under and realize your own powerlessness is frightening. I don’t hold it against anyone, especially not my sister.
During my hypomanic phases, in that state of elation, I was buzzing with plans, I barely slept, I’d blow my salary in a single day, throw myself into new activities, fall in love, make love again and again, I was beautiful, intelligent, invincible. Everyone loved me, everyone wanted me around. I felt good. It never lasted, a few weeks at most. Sometimes I miss that euphoria.
Medication turned my ocean into a lake, my storm into a summer morning. The side effects are difficult. At the start, I’d sometimes stop taking the drugs. As soon as they took effect, as soon as I was feeling better, I’d conclude that I wasn’t ill, that I didn’t really need them. Of course, a relapse awaited me, lurking behind the withdrawal symptoms. It would take Mima finding me in a bad way, and me seeing, in her eyes, the pain I was causing her, to understand that I had to continue with my treatment.
My sister, glass in hand, waits for my reply:
“I’m doing well. I’m doing really well.”
She smiles.
“Those are the words I came to hear.”
“And you?” I ask, lighting a cigarette.
“I’m happy, yes.”
She seems, suddenly, to search within herself.
“I’m crazy about my kids, my husband’s great, I’m passionate about my work, I grew up with Mima’s love . . . and I have the most extraordinary sister on the planet.”
“At the least!”
“To say the least, yes. If I could swap, I promise you I wouldn’t want any other sister. Seriously, I’ve thought about it a lot lately, and I can say that I have a good life. The one I dreamt of.”
“That’s a worthy project, that. A good life. I’ll put it right at the top of my list.”
“Before or after the Jean Paul Gaultier show?”
I almost choke on my bread. My sister laughs at her bad joke and slips her arm around my shoulder.
“I hope you get your good life, my Gagathe.”
11:59 P.M.
We exhausted every subject, pulled the memory thread—that time we dyed each other’s hair and I ended up with green highlights; that day we left the hair-removing cream on for too long; that one when Mima caught us smoking behind the linden tree—we ranked Mima’s recipes in order of preference, did impressions of Uncle Jean-Yves and Auntie Geneviève. I can’t find a comfortable position anymore, our bodies are telling us to go to bed, Emma has a long drive, and yet we stay there, talking about any old thing, simply to stretch time.
YESTERDAY
FEBRUARY 2015
AGATHE—29 YEARS OLD
I arrive early at Mima’s. It’s our tradition—every Friday I come for lunch. I had training today and left work earlier than usual. I used the extra time to stop and buy bread and a dessert, hoping she hasn’t made one. As I pull up on my scooter outside the gate, a man is leaving the garden. Mima is standing in front of the house.
“Hello, my darling! Oh, you shouldn’t have, I’ve made pancakes!”
“Hi Mima. Who’s he?”
“A neighbor looking for his dog. Come in, it’s warm inside.”
We eat in front of the TV news, that’s her routine. She almost never watched the box when Papi was here. Now, it’s become a companion.
“Any news of your sister?” she suddenly asks.
“Not for a few days. Last Monday, I think. Why?”
“She had her blood test yesterday, I believe.”
“If she hasn’t rung, it mustn’t have worked.”
Mima puts her fork down:
“Is there a problem between you two?”
“We fell out a bit.”
“And that stops you from supporting her at this difficult time? She asks after you every time she calls me.”
I roll my eyes.
“Mima, you know very well that I’m the nasty one. Emma is perfect, she does everything right, she’s wonderful.”
She laughs:
“Goodness me, what am I going to do with you two? I didn’t have a sister, just a little brother, and between us, too, there was sometimes a little jealousy. It’s inevitable, you know.”
“Well, number one, I’m not remotely jealous, and number two, I’d be amazed if Emma’s jealous of me. She has no reason to be.”
“And yet she recently told me that she’d have liked to be as funny and free as you. She even added that you were my little favorite.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You wouldn’t dare call me a liar?”
“Apart from when you play Chinese checkers, you mean?”
“Cheeky!”
It’s soon time for me to get back, Mima wraps two pancakes in some foil:
“For your afternoon snack.”
“I’ve already eaten enough to last ten days!”
She winks at me:
“Seems you’re my little favorite, so I have to spoil you.”
“Did she really say that? That I was funny and free?”
“Really.”
YESTERDAY
MAY 2015
EMMA—35 YEARS OLD
Sacha is three years old. I can’t get over it. And yet I’d swear he was born just yesterday.
I wish I could preserve forever his lisp, his garbled words, and his little arms around my neck. He says “in any case” in every sentence, asks me every morning if he can “woke up,” follows me everywhere with his mini vacuum cleaner when I’m doing the housework, keeps saying “Mommy” all day long, and sometimes, when I’m desperate to sleep, all night long, too. It took me some time to enjoy this blessing. It took therapy and medication to haul me out of the abyss. Now, my happiness can be so intense that it hurts, makes me want to cry. Just by looking at my son.
“Come, Mommy!” he says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the fridge. “Godmother she want thocklit cake.”
“Hey, you little rascal!” Agathe cries, laughing. “It’s you who wants cake, I didn’t ask for a thing!”
He puts on his surprised face, but I’m not taken in. He’s entirely capable of passing the blame. The other day, when I asked him if it was him who’d drawn on the wall with my lipstick, he shook his head: “No way, in any case! It’s teddy!”
Mima and Agathe have made the trip for the birthday party, arriving yesterday. My mother, too, with Gérard, her new partner. And Margaux, and Alex’s brother are here. We’re just waiting for his parents now, and then Sacha can eat some thocklit cake.
“Come here, my little darling!” my mother says, lifting my son into her arms.
He struggles, but she smothers his cheeks with noisy kisses, while glancing at Mima:
“You love your granny, don’t you Sacha? Say you love me!”
He manages to wriggle away and runs off to the bedrooms. Alex sets the drinks out on the table, I offer sweets to our guests. Agathe tells a story, everyone laughs. The jovial atmosphere helps me to forget this morning’s test, for a while.
“We’re a chair short,” Agathe warns me.
“I’ll go fetch the one in the bedroom.”
I cross the corridor and pick up the chair that sits in a corner of our room. It’s where Alex throws his clothes when he gets undressed, when he could put them straight into the wash, or away in a cupboard. Drives me crazy.
I think I hear a noise.
A sharp slap.
Crying.
I understand instantly. I run to Sacha’s room, adjoining ours. My son is there, in tears, his little body racked with sobs, his arm gripped in my mother’s hand.
