I'm Still Here (Je Suis Là) (7 page)

Very comfortable, these mattresses…

I'm asleep in less than ten seconds.

E
ven if I could move, I don't think I would want to. I'd stay absolutely still so as not to disturb him, and silent so as not to wake him up. Perhaps I would let myself turn my head a little to watch him sleep, but nothing more.

I followed all of Thibault's back-and-forths about what to do before he lay down with a new kind of heightened attention. I never dreamt that he was going to lie down next to me. I'd have thought it might feel a bit morbid to try and go to sleep on the same bed as a person in a coma but, once again, my visitor surprises me. And to think that my mother sometimes hardly dares to touch me. Thibault is practically glued to my side. At least I think he is. I have to assume my bed is not enormous, so there must certainly be parts of us that are in contact with each other.

Physical contact… the thought makes me want to quiver with delight, or jump up and down like a little girl at the prospect of chocolate ice cream. I haven't felt the slightest tactile sensation in almost twenty-one weeks. The last thing I felt was the snow covering my body, which was not a wonderful feeling. In fact, I'd give my entire collection of climbing carabiners to feel even a patch of Thibault against me. There must be layers of clothes and covers between us, but some of his heat would transmit through to my skin and that would be enough.

To tell the truth, right now I could enjoy the idea of feeling contact with anyone at all—the care assistant coming to do my lip balm; my sister putting her hand on mine; Steve, Alex, and Rebecca kissing my forehead. But Thibault is different. He's my secret. He's my breath of fresh air. Even though I still don't have a clue what he looks like.

Automatically, I ask my brain to turn my head and open my eyes, but then I realize the futility of this command: “Tell my neurons to put my eyes back into operation.” Just like that. It won't work. They said so this morning.

I begin to wonder if I am actually capable of experiencing a feeling of hatred for those doctors, perhaps for all doctors and all their trainees, even the one who tried to stick up for me. They'll convince him to give up on me, too, eventually. In my angry delirium, I see them all trooping across my imagination as evil villains in mint green scrubs with caricature heads. I start to hope that one of them makes a wrong diagnosis and gets the sack for it, but I stop myself.

No, a wrong diagnosis would mean that someone doesn't get cured. I can't wish that on anyone. Especially as that person could be me. It could easily be me…

It could be me!

I imagine myself leaping out of the bed, shouting something like “Eureka!,” but instead I internally congratulate myself.

It could be me, the wrong diagnosis, with all those theories I didn't understand about the remaining two percent of hope.

My morale lifts with a single jolt. I feel like a seesaw.

That could be me. I could wake up and prove them wrong. After all, no one imagined that I'd be able to hear again, but it's happening already. If I could just open my eyes or give any outward sign of life…

The question remains, though: How to do it? At the moment all I do is listen and wait. But have I really tried to do anything else?

Five minutes ago, I chickened out of an attempt to turn my head because I thought I couldn't do it. I didn't see the point. They are all so categorical about me and what I'm capable of, but no one has actually experienced being in this coma… I am going to allow myself to doubt their theories. This is liberating.

But a part of me also has to admit that the doctor made me angry. Even if only to annoy him, I'd like to be able to wake myself up. But today, here, I have a feeling there's another reason I'd like to wake up. And until now, I'd never really made the conscious effort to do it. It hadn't even crossed my mind, even though I have absolutely nothing to do but think.

Of course, the effort implies a general control of muscles, not to mention much more of the brain than is at my disposal at the moment. I don't control either one or the other, with the exception of the auditory zone, but if that section has agreed to start functioning again, why shouldn't the others follow? The million-dollar question remains, though: how am I going to teach myself?

The answer follows, as though it has been waiting for this moment to come forward. I have to think, of course, because at the moment it's the only thing I am capable of doing. To think that I am about to turn my head. To think that I am about to open my eyes and get my eyesight working. To imagine myself as solid as a rock, a thinking superhero, capable of anything I set my mind to.

I brace myself for the onslaught.

Knowing that I have a hidden objective helps considerably. Well, it's not that hidden anymore. I am dying to look at Thibault. If I manage to turn my head, which would already be quite a feat, and then to open my eyes, an achievement of miraculous proportions, I might at last be able to see what my favorite visitor looks like.

I should be blushing at these thoughts, but my parents aren't exactly great company on their visits, and my sister's only interested in her boyfriends. And Steve, Alex, and Rebecca don't come that often. There aren't many contenders for the top spot.

I spend the entire length of Thibault's nap commanding myself to turn my head and open my eyes. I alternate between the two because, frankly, the whole operation is rather tiresome, but I have the breathing of my temporary roommate beside me for motivation. Each time he breathes in, I imagine that I turn my head, each time he breathes out, I imagine that I open my eyes and see him. Every version of him that I imagine for myself is slightly different, but there are certain points which always stay the same. I am certain, for example, that he has brown hair, though I have no idea why.

I continue my mental efforts until I hear a movement on my right. The sound suggests that Thibault is not just stirring in his sleep, but waking up properly. He must have been snoozing for at least an hour while I've been trying to turn my head. And while he certainly succeeded at being asleep, I can't say as much for the success of my own new activity. Maybe the new thinking technique will have a cumulative power, but at the moment I don't feel the slightest change.

The grunting and sighing sounds next to me pull me from my reflections. He seems to sit up, then get up, and then he stops moving. I am starting to wonder why he is staying so still when the regular breathing I hear a little way from me stops suddenly.

“Shit! Your tubes!”

His exclamation gives me a shock. I wonder what the problem is with my tubes.

“I must have pushed you while I was asleep and it's pulled all of these gadgets. Luckily none of them have come out!”

Hearing him mutter like this is quite amusing, but I don't remember him moving enough to cause what he has just said has happened. I hear him rearrange my wiring. I often wonder what I must look like amid all these “gadgets,” as he describes them. The first time, I thought I must look something like an insect in the middle of a spider's web. Then I decided that I preferred to think of myself as a carabiner in the middle of a rope rescue system. Like the ones they use to pull people out of crevasses. It's a bit more like me, and it certainly seems more sophisticated. But above all, it carries with it the notion of lifesaving. Whereas in the other case…

There's movement around me again when the door to my room opens. Thibault must freeze like a block of ice because I don't hear anything from his side. The new intruder comes in and Thibault still says nothing.

“Hello. Are you family?”

I recognize the voice of Loris, the junior doctor who defended me this morning. Now I know who he is, I wonder what he's doing here, but Thibault's answer interests me even more.

“No, I'm just a friend. And you? I mean… are you her doctor?”

I interpret the short silence as a head being shaken.

“I'm just a house officer doing the rounds.”

“Ah.”

I'd have given the same response as Thibault. In almost seven weeks, not a single “house officer” has come to do any rounds. I think the session this morning has brought him here.

“Did you have a question?” he asks.

“Uh… no, nothing in particular.”

I hear Thibault move around the bed. He must be trying to collect his things and make a quick exit. When Steve, Alex, and Rebecca surprised him, they managed to put him at ease, but today I have little hope that the junior doctor will be able to do the same because he's not saying a thing.

I try to picture the situation for myself. I remember that Thibault is still in his socks and that the covers on the right side of my bed must be messed up. I'd love to be able to laugh or to feel that little shiver of excitement I would surely experience at the prospect of his illicit imprint on the mattress being discovered. Just to feel the adrenaline of the forbidden, or at least the unexpected, would be quite exquisite.

I assume that Loris has noticed these details because he remains mute. Thibault gathers together his clothes and shoes clumsily. It must make him nervous to have someone watching him.

Finally I hear him come over to the bed and lean over me. I'm surprised that he dares to kiss my cheek in front of the doctor. But this movement is interrupted at the same time as the words leave his mouth.

“Yes, actually, I do have a question.”

Perhaps Loris is in mid-thought, or perhaps he makes a sign for Thibault to go on. Whatever he does, he still says nothing.

“What are they for, all these tubes?”

It's not a bad question and I find myself paying close attention. Eventually Loris does speak. He keeps the technical terms to a minimum and just gives the essential function of each infusion, air tube, pulse monitor, and wire until I lose track. Thibault asks him for a few extra details. His interest amazes me.

The improvised lesson comes to an end, and I hope that the helpful doctor will leave my room quickly. I'm scared (though of course I can't actually feel it in my stomach) that Thibault won't dare to say good-bye to me properly with him here. But, once again, his behavior surpasses everything I would have expected of him.

“Good-bye, Elsa,” he whispers, putting his lips on my cheek.

This time, I don't need to remember to try and force my brain to capture the contact. My entire being is concentrated on it. Unfortunately, I still don't feel a thing, so I make up the sensation for myself in each of its parts. Warm, gentle lips, a delicate kiss.

“Were you her partner?” asks Loris.

“Why do you say ‘were'?” replies Thibault.

“Sorry, it's just that… well, it's already been a while. Maybe you've moved on. I mean, I'm sorry. It's none of my business,” he stammers awkwardly. Happily, Thibault hasn't understood what he meant. I know exactly why he said “were.” His boss more or less sentenced me to death this morning.

I notice that Thibault doesn't answer the young doctor, neither his excuse nor his initial question. He just nods (I assume) and leaves the room. And, with this bizarre exchange, my favorite visitor is gone again.

Some time passes before I allow myself to pay full attention to the intruder. Apparently Loris still hasn't moved. I'm even wondering if I missed him leave, until I hear him move toward the window on my right. I don't know what he is up to. After a few moments I hear some movement and eventually I make out that he is on the phone.

“Yes, it's me… No… Lousy day, yep… The boss… Do I, depressed? Yes, a bit…”

He could have answered “utterly” from the sound of his miserable voice. But I might be hearing wrong. Perhaps so as not to worry whoever he's speaking to, he adds: “Oh, it's just a patient… Yes, on this ward. Prolonged coma… Her boyfriend has just left the room.”

There is your mistake, my dear house officer. Thibault is not my boyfriend; in fact we've never even met. But I have no way of making you understand that.