CHARLOTTE
All the way through the Edith Piaf concert I thought of Jean-Luc, especially when she sang “On danse sur ma chanson”—“Dancing to My Song.” He made my heart dance, and I couldn’t wait for the weekend to pass so I could see him again.
When I arrived at the hospital on Monday morning, I took the mop and bucket, cleaning down the floor in his ward, just like I did every morning. As I neared his bed, I glanced around, hoping the matron wasn’t watching me. I knew his neighbors would be taken out for physiotherapy sometime in the morning, and I was wondering if I might be able to snatch a few moments with him. As I mopped side to side, I saw the physiotherapy team coming my way. I held my breath as they swanned straight past me. Yes! They were collecting their patients and Jean-Luc wasn’t one of them. I concentrated on the mop in my hand, forcing myself not to look over. When the coast was clear, I moved my mopping away from the central aisle, down toward his bed.
He was sitting in the bedside chair, reading a pamphlet. When he saw me, his eyes lit up. “Sit down for a minute, will you? Please?”
“No! I can’t do that. I have to make your bed.” I put the mop down, moving to the end of the bed, where I concentrated hard on getting all the creases out of the sheet, my hand smoothing out the lines, running backward and forward.
“Charlo-tte.” The way he said my name—slowly, deliberately, hanging on to the “tte” as though he were tasting it—made my heart jump.
“Yes?” I tried my best to sound nonchalant.
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
My hand stopped moving and I looked back at him. The intensity in his eyes burned into me.
“Please, sit down, Charlotte. Just for a minute. There’s no one around right now.”
I slipped onto the side of his bed, perching on the edge, ready to hop up as soon as anyone looked our way.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” He spoke softly. “The other day, when you said you shouldn’t be here.” He lowered his voice even more, and I had to lean toward him to hear him. “In a German hospital. You haven’t done anything wrong. You do what you have to do.”
“But it’s true. I shouldn’t be here.”
His eyes turned dark, the specks of light leaving them. “I didn’t want to work for them. It’s myself I’m disappointed in.”
I nodded, quickly glancing around to check no one was near. It was okay; the matron and the other nurses were helping with the physiotherapy.
“I made a promise to my father,” he continued, looking past me as if he were focusing on some distant point. “When he was taken away for STO…”
“In Germany?”
His eyes looked into mine again as he spoke in a monotone. “Yes. They took him away nearly two years ago. When he left, he made me promise to look after my mother.”
“I might not have listened to him, but I felt so bad.”
“Why?”
“I’d had an argument with him just before he left.” He paused. “It was horrible.”
I waited for him to continue.
“I told him we shouldn’t be lying down and taking it from the Boches.” He stopped, wiping his brow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“No. Go on.” I looked around the ward again, but it was still quiet.
“He was just protecting his family. That was his priority.”
“It’s important to keep your promises. Your father would be proud of you.” I touched his shoulder. “You only did what you thought was right.”
He shook his head. “What’s right has changed, though, hasn’t it? My father didn’t realize how bad things would get. I think he’d rather see me doing something active now. I want him to be proud of me when he comes back.”
I nodded. “I understand. I’m disappointed in myself too.”
“Neither of us should be here.” He stood up from his chair, putting his weight on his good leg.
I stood too, my face so close to his, I could feel his breath on my cheek. It made my skin tingle.
“Charlotte,” he whispered. “We’re better than this. I know we are.”
My heart stopped. His presence was like a physical force pulling me in, and I felt myself swaying toward him. I closed my eyes for a second. For a lingering moment I felt his lips on my forehead. Anyone looking would have thought it a kind of paternal kiss. Only I knew it was much more than that. It was a lover’s kiss.