I wake early in the light-soaked salon, the shutters left open and the voile curtains no match for the sun. My mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. I finish the dregs of tea in the glass next to me, then stumble into the kitchen to drink straight from the tap.
I’m so unsteady on my feet as I straighten up that I have to grab for the counter. I think I need to eat something. I take a spoon and eat the rest of the fromage frais without closing the fridge door, the chilled air on my legs making me feel slightly more alert.
A noise on the stairs makes me turn. It’s Élodie, fresh from the shower. There’s something I want to ask her but then it’s gone. The tisane glass on the counter catches the sunlight from the door to the garden. Even the tiles under my feet are warm today. A runnel of sweat creeps down my spine, though I suddenly feel cold.
“Shall I make you another tisane, Maman?” she says. As she passes me, I catch the shampoo scent of artificial fruit and some undertone that’s just Élodie. She’s suddenly back, her breath on the nape of my neck. “You’re so pale. Come and lie down again. You’re taking things too fast. You shouldn’t have gotten up yesterday. You shouldn’t be up now.” I let her lead me back to the salon. A question is beginning to form slowly in my head, and it makes me think of the shiny white square of a blank Polaroid, slowly darkening into something recognizable.
“Élodie, the tisanes—”
“Do you like them? Someone at the ashram showed me how to make them. She knew all about herbs.”
“What’s in it?” I’m lying down now and, for the first time in a day—or is it two?—I feel a ripple of nausea.
Élodie covers me with the blanket again, although I can’t tell whether I’m hot or cold, goosebumps rising even though my skin is clammy. I open my eyes, although I can’t remember closing them, and she’s gone. I try to sit up and then I see you sitting there in the corner, reading Bonjour Tristesse, Greg’s old headphones on, too big for you, and a record on the turntable. She’s got you listening to our music—her music—but you’re so apparently fine that I allow myself to fall back against the cushions.
“Hey, Mum,” you say, pulling off the headphones. “How are you feeling?”
“Are you all right, darling?” I murmur.
“Yeah, fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” The headphones are half back on.
“Where’s Élodie?”
“Swimming. She wanted me to stay here and keep an eye on you.” And then you’re back in the music, instantly absorbed, just like your father used to be, and I close my eyes again, though I don’t sleep. The Polaroid in my mind is beginning to color in.