I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (16 page)

T
he sound of a door banging on the landing makes me jump. With difficulty, I open my eyes and let them adjust to the darkness.

In a corner of the room, the digital clock display shows
02
:
44
. I can hear the liquid murmur of the fridge in the kitchen, and the hum of one or two cars in the road below. Red lights from the room's electronic appliances glow here and there through the darkness, and the orange streetlights let some light in through the window.

If I didn't have this leaden feeling of pressure in my stomach, I might think it was an ordinary, calm night, and that I'd fallen asleep on my sofa reading something. Except that there's no book lying on the table, only the outline of a dead bottle of pineapple juice, and I think it must be two days since I last showered. Or maybe three…

I push away the old blanket with my foot and get up, circling my head to get rid of the crick in my neck. I think it's been at least twenty-four hours since I last ate. In fact I'm not even sure exactly how long it's been since I last moved from the sofa.

Better not to think about it. My stomach tightens. I can't work out whether I'm hungry or not. Either way, it would be sensible to eat something.

I get up and move toward the kitchen. My fridge is still relatively full, but the first things I take out of it are either out of date or unappetizing. In the end I opt for steak haché with pasta. At almost three in the morning I don't have much imagination. I put some water on to boil and get the pasta ready on the side. The pan begins to heat up and I throw in the piece of meat. In a daze I get out the sieve, some cutlery and a plate and then I collapse into a chair.

I do all this in the dark, with only whatever weak light the streetlights offer to guide me around the landmarks of my kitchen. I don't know what it's like to eat in darkness, but I don't think I'll experiment with it now. I lean back in my chair to flick on the light over the hood of the cooker. My arms are just long enough to reach the little switch. The yellow light shines onto my back, but emits enough of a glow to be able to distinguish the features of my environment. That'll do.

Another little light, white and flashing, attracts my attention in the living room. It's my phone. I haven't been near a phone for several days. I even took the trouble of changing the landline answering machine so that it says to leave a message if there's anything really important and that I'll listen to it later. Otherwise, people can just hang up. I can remember hearing my mother a couple of times, asking how I was. Julien and Gaëlle, too. But, other than that, nothing since the first day.

I don't want to check my cell phone yet. I'm not tempted to send one of those universal messages to all my contacts to explain the situation. There must be about thirty notifications on there. Between the text and voice-mail messages there'd probably be enough to keep me occupied for an entire morning. As well as the messages from my mother and Julien, I expect there are also some from other members of the family, who, horrifyingly, probably want to talk about Christmas gatherings, which must be taking place in a few days' time. I think my cousin has been trying to get in touch with me since last Saturday.

Behind me the water boils. I get up to put the pasta on and turn the steak. The smell is already making my mouth water, and I reassure my stomach that it won't be long now. It's strange how our most primitive instincts can break through when we least expect them. I am consumed by the death of my brother yet my body still demands that I eat. It seems wrong to be able to feel hunger, but it's just the natural cycle of things. Life does go on.

That's also what the person who buried my brother last Saturday said. Everything is a cycle. We are born, we live, we die. It's cyclical, and it continues for us all until we are removed from the cycle in our turn. I'm not sure where I started, but I certainly feel caught in the middle of something with no way out.

But of course I know exactly where I started: last Thursday when I arrived at the hospital with my mother and Julien. It was obvious immediately that it had been no accident, that my brother had actually committed suicide. He had left various indicators in his room, one of which was addressed to me. When we were kids we had said that one day we would be airline pilots and that the two of us would fly together. There was a paper airplane left on his bed and on it he had written: “We used the same runway but we both flew off on our own routes.” Underneath it he had drawn a smiley face, and even if there seemed to be an element of reproach in the way he summed up our lives, I knew that my brother was just speaking in a simple way about the different choices we had made for ourselves.

After that everything happened without me really noticing. The papers, the burial, my boss granting me two weeks of bereavement leave, Clara's christening where no one spoke to me, because Gaëlle and Julien had warned them in advance. I managed to crack a smile when I had Clara in my arms for the signing of the register, but I left straight after the ceremony. I changed my voice-mail message when I got back that day. And since then I've had no contact with anyone.

The smell of the cooked meat brings me back to myself. I pile everything onto my plate and put it down on the table. I'm surprised at the voracity with which I devour my dinner, or whatever meal it is. I empty a half bottle of water and fill it again before returning to the living room. I don't know whether it's having eaten something, or whether it's just waking up at this hour, but I'm terribly sleepy all of a sudden. I fall back onto the sofa with, for the first time in several days, the definite intention of going to sleep. I don't even have time to count to three before the darkness envelops me again.

The next time, it's the doorbell that wakes me. I glance at the clock. It's almost
11
in the morning. My living room is flooded with light; I must have been in a deep sleep. The persistent shrill sound of the doorbell makes me wince and I call out a vague “I'm coming” as I disentangle myself from the blanket.

Making use of the little mirror behind my front door for the first time in a year, I quickly try to bring some order to my hair. Apart from that, I am dressed—I've been in the same clothes for what seems like an eternity, but they're better than nothing.

I open the door with the firm intention of sending whoever it is immediately on their way with a few strong words, but hold back when I see my elderly neighbor standing on the other side of the threshold.

“Ah! You
are
here!” she exclaims. “I didn't know whether you were on holiday or not, because your letterbox is absolutely full! I have taken the liberty of collecting the overflow. Here. And… I recommend you have a shower.”

She throws me a glance and I just stand there, stunned, as she returns to her apartment. It must have been her door I heard slamming at three in the morning. She has a surprising amount of energy for someone her age. And she certainly doesn't beat around the bush.

First I glance at the mail she has just handed me. Nothing very important, so I put it all down in the living room. I hesitate between coffee and a shower, and then I opt for coffee, followed by a shower. It is a renewed hunger that eventually coaxes me out of the bathroom, and I find myself going through the fridge again. While my breakfast is cooking, I pick up the pile of mail and try to take an interest in it.

I was right; there's nothing urgent here. They're all completely pointless letters. The blinking light on my cell crosses my field of vision again when I carry the mail back into the hall. I tell myself that while I'm on a roll with the letters, I might as well get stuck into the phone messages as well.

I look quickly at the texts and send very brief answers to Julien, my cousin and my mother. I don't feel like calling anyone. Then comes the long list of voice messages, so I leave the phone on loudspeaker to listen to them all, shouting “delete” every once in a while from the kitchen, while I check on my breakfast. I must have reached about message number twelve when a new voice begins to speak.

“Hello, Thibault. It's Rebecca. Do you remember, we met twice at the hospital? It might seem strange that I have your number, but I managed to get it from the hospital staff. I wanted to warn you—and Alex and Steve agree that it's the right thing to do. Elsa is going to be disconnected. That's it. The family are planning for it to happen in four days' time. I wondered if you might want to come and say good-bye, or something like that. You've got my number now, so please do give me a call if you'd like.”

My body and my brain spring back into action in a flash. I leap onto my phone to listen to the message again, fighting with the keypad. After a minute I manage to find the date of the call. Rebecca contacted me on Monday the
16
th. If I believe the display on my phone, today is the
20
th. It doesn't take me long to realize that “in four days' time” is today. Then whatever is happening outside slows, and everything starts whirring inside my head.

I turn off the gas and hurry to find my things. I don't stop to tie my shoelaces or to put on my jacket. By the time I reach the car, I'm not even sure if I locked the door. The only thing I know is that I have been the biggest fool of all the fools on this planet.

How did I forget her? How could I have forgotten Elsa?

As I drive I realize that I didn't forget her—I stopped believing in her. My brother's suicide made me rethink everything I had thought about the fact that Elsa could hear me. Elsa was my safe haven as long as my brother was there. From the moment he left us, I felt as though Elsa had left me as well. Except that, in reality, it's me who left her. What a fool…

I know that she can hear me. I'm certain of it.

The question I should be asking myself right now is not “How could I have been stupid enough to leave her?” but “Why would they want to unplug her?”

And with this question I rush into the fifth-floor corridor, preparing myself for the argument I will surely have to have any minute now.

I
'm frightened.

That's obvious. In fact I'm terrified.

By now I'm probably not the only one. It's been a long time since Loris and the consultant left. They only stayed for the beginning, the medical part. I feel like saying the electrical part, because, honestly, the switching off of all those machines could have been done by a six-year-old.

There are three people left in here with me now. There were nine of us at one point, me included, in this little room. It was quite crowded. Steve, Rebecca, and Alex left a moment ago. I think I heard them say that they'd wait downstairs. It makes me sick just thinking about it. My friends waiting until I… the thought of it is horrifying. In their place I would run as far as possible; they've only been able to get five floors away.

My parents and my sister are here, and they are also waiting. I want to tell them to get out. I don't want their love, or their heartbreak. They've chosen not to believe in me and it makes me sick. But maybe they're right. What sort of life can it be, if you can only receive and never give anything? If I am destined to spend the rest of my days only listening and feeling, it might be better to—

The door opens. Sharp footsteps and deep, gulping breaths. My parents seem surprised, judging by the rhythm of their sighs, so it can't be the doctor come to announce that he's changed his mind.

“Hello,” says my mother in an infinitely sad voice. “Have you come to see—?”

“Mom,” interrupts my sister, “who do you think he's come to see? Come on, let's leave them alone for a couple of minutes. We've been standing here for an hour and a half already and there's been hardly any change, she's not going to go right this moment.”

The tone of her voice, firm but in immeasurable pain, overwhelms me.

“Why are you doing this?”

My heart leaps out of my chest, causing a slight alteration in my weakening pulse, but no one notices.

My rainbow.

I didn't recognize him from his footsteps or the way he was breathing, even though it's very quiet in my room now, with none of the racket from my respirator. Perhaps my brain really is starting to need oxygen; I've been breathing by myself for more than an hour, or at least trying to. My brain knows that it's getting more difficult, but I've been doing everything I can to keep going. Now that I can hear Thibault's voice, it's as though my body is really ready to hang on to a last hope.

My mother begins to stammer.

“What do you mean, why—?”

“Mom, you're unbelievable! Why are we disconnecting her? That's what he wants to know! Isn't it? Isn't that what you want to know?”

My sister's bitterness resounds through the entire room. She must never have agreed with my parents about unplugging me.

“Yes, that's exactly what I would like to know,” replies Thibault finally.

“Ask
them
!” my sister spits, before leaving the room.

“Pauline, come back!” calls my mother, weakly. “I'll go and get her.”

“Leave her alone,” says my father.

“No, I'm going after her.”

The door closes. I imagine my father and Thibault standing together in the room. If the circumstances had been different, this would have been a very interesting meeting. But as things are, I sense that these are just two souls, each one as lost as the other. Thibault comes over and kisses my cheek. I imagine my father stiffening. He has no idea who Thibault is—neither do I, of course—and seeing a stranger kiss your daughter must provoke some sort of reaction.

“You're still breathing…” Thibault murmurs in my ear with relief, before straightening up. “So?” he asks my father, without moving his hand from my shoulder.

“There is no hope,” says my father, sounding defeated.

“Because you have decided there isn't.”

“Do you think this decision has been easy?”

My father is beginning to get angry. I wish I could warn Thibault, but there's nothing I can do. So I listen. After all, I do it so well.

“It's easier than believing in her,” Thibault retorts. “She can hear us! She knows that we're here! How can you sentence her to death?”

“Yes, I know all about people in comas supposedly being able to hear us. But eventually you have to face facts: Elsa has chosen to leave us.”

“She hasn't chosen anything at all! What choices can she make in this state?”

At this point, I actually want to tell Thibault he is wrong. I have chosen to try. The only trouble is that it hasn't worked in time.

“Who are you?” asks my father, suddenly.

“A friend of Elsa's.”

I know this answer by heart. I don't know why, but today I'm a little disappointed by it.

“I've never seen you before,” continues my father. “Are you one of the ones who goes out to the… on those glaciers?”

That last word is spoken with such disgust that he must have grimaced while he said it.

“No. But we're wasting time. You cannot disconnect her. Not until she wakes up!”

“Elsa won't wake up ever again.”

“What do you know about it? I'm telling you that she can hear us!”

“It's just the way it is. And I don't have to listen to you, some so-called friend who I've never heard about, and who has no idea what my wife and I have been through to make this decision. I love my daughter. My wife and I love our daughter! How dare you come in here with your own ideas?”

By the time he finishes, my father is shouting. The volume of Thibault's voice contrasts with his. His response is almost a whisper.

“Because I am in love with your daughter.”

Feelings of hot and cold mixed together. Tingling in my fingers. The pulse monitor, the only one I am still attached to, reflects the accelerated beating of my heart. I hear Thibault turn toward me.

“Elsa? Elsa, I know you can hear me! Did you see that?” he calls to my father. “She reacted.”

“Stop it. It's just a random discrepancy. Her doctors have explained all that to us. Please leave her now.”

My father's anger has turned to resignation.

“No chance,” says Thibault. “I'm not moving from here.”

“Well… do what you like. But… What are you doing?”

This time, I can hear the concern clearly in my father's voice. I also hear a noise in the background, the noise of my machines being moved around. I realize that Thibault intends to attach me to them again. But he doesn't know how to attach a drip, or where to put the nasal tubes.

“I'm doing what you should have done yourself,” says Thibault, concentrating on me.

“You're crazy… Stop it! Stop it right now!”

“Make me.”

Thibault's tone would have stopped anyone in their tracks. The rainbow has frozen into the haughtiest, most detached white-blue of any solid glacier I've ever seen.

“I'm going to get the doctors.”

My father moves away; the door closes. I am alone with Thibault.

He pushes around the machines, looking for the tubes. But the nurses have done their work too well. There doesn't seem to be anything much left in the room, except my respirator which is too heavy to move, and the pulse monitor, left here to pronounce the final outcome. I feel a trembling hand on my shoulder.

“Elsa, please. I know you can hear me. I don't know anything about what it's like to be in a coma, but I know you're here. Please…”

The door to my room opens with a lot of noise, but the sound reaches me muffled. I hear my father. I hear footsteps moving toward me. Or actually toward Thibault, because next they are pulling him off me. The sounds are growing more and more colorless. I can just make out the voices in the midst of this noisy, but also curiously silent throng. The consultant, the junior doctor, my father. My mother and my sister are hysterical. Steve is here, too. He's talking to someone, screaming over them, even.

I feel light and heavy at the same time. I don't know where I am anymore. Everything blends into everything else. So I go back to my exercises. Only once, though. Only once before everything fades away.