17 Days
Charlotte Forever
When I left Louis’s room after telling him, with much forced laughter, about the lewd antics of his mother and grandmother at the Paul Éluard High School, I was exhausted.
I needed to sit down, right there in the corridor, on the fourth floor. Just for a moment. That morning, I’d become aware of a detail which, as the day went by, had taken on a growing importance in my mind. Louis had seen almost nothing of the month of January 2017. He’d spent it in this room – room 405 – the decor of which made me feel ill.
I was sick of the sight of that window that afforded nothing but a dismal vista of geometric concrete blocks overlooking a greyish boulevard. Sick, too, of the green lino floor, of those walls, where stickers of laughing birds, weird spaceships and delicate flowers were supposed to distract from the suffocating smell of disinfectant. I’d had enough of the forced poetry, the feigned cheerfulness with which I filled the room, those smiling photos that contrasted painfully with the cries and moans that could sometimes be heard coming from the other end of the corridor. I’d had enough of all those tubes preventing me from touching my beautiful son. And I couldn’t bear the thought that Louis might never see the spring again.
I found all these thoughts agonizing. Most of the time, I managed to keep them at bay, but the closer we were to 18 February – in other words, one month to the day from Dr Beaugrand’s grim ultimatum – the heavier my sense of dread. Louis had to wake up now. Later would be too late. The crushing coldness of his absence would gradually kill me. I would not survive the arrival of a spring without him. Spring would be my physical and emotional limit.
Slumped in that uncomfortable hospital chair, lost in my thoughts, I’d adopted a position that, at first sight, looked like one of despair. My bowed head was cupped in my palms, and my fingers were making slow circular movements over my scalp. I gave myself a massage to stop myself from sinking into hopelessness. This was only the beginning of February. I had seventeen days left to rouse my son; I had to keep going.
I hadn’t heard Charlotte approach and I jumped when she softly broke into my thoughts.
‘Are you all right?’
‘You gave me a fright . . . Yes, thank you, Charlotte, everything’s fine. Feeling a bit down, that’s all.’
‘I’m off duty now; would you like me to give you a ride home? I believe you live near the Saint-Martin canal – it’s on my way.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you. I’ll walk – the fresh air will do me good.’
‘If you want fresh air, you’ll get plenty with me. I’m on a scooter. Come on, I’ll give you a lift, and I won’t take no for an answer.’
I didn’t say yes, but I followed her out, anyway.
I’d realized a few days earlier that I’d developed a fondness for this young woman. Unlike some of her colleagues, she had always been very considerate with Louis, extremely respectful. Whereas some of the others had no hesitation in continuing their private conversations in front of my son, as if he wasn’t there or was invisible, Charlotte spoke to him. Whereas others spoke to him as if he had learning difficulties, using honeyed tones and baby language, Charlotte described to him what she was doing, precisely and in a normal voice.
Charlotte did a difficult job, always with a smile. There was something luminous about her fair hair and radiant complexion, a hint of sunshine in her azure gaze. She had a huge, almost fierce joie de vivre that was infectious. All five foot one of her was impressive, with her self-assurance, composure and kindness. She was brave, and never complained in front of the patients or their families. I had started to look up to her, in a way. In any case, I respected her for what she was, what she exuded, what she did. And yet she must have had her own problems too. A leaky pipe to deal with, an overdraft to pay off, a cold she couldn’t shake off, a boyfriend who wasn’t phoning back, her scooter breaking down.
I had a sudden impulse to get to know her. I don’t know why. Yes, I do know why. Because she appeared to love my son. ‘Love’ is perhaps a bit strong; over the years, she must have developed a thick skin to stop herself from crumbling in the face of all that human suffering, but she wasn’t indifferent to this adolescent and his slightly wacky mother and grandmother.
What was her story? How had she decided to become a nurse? Where did she live? How old was she? Did she have children? Was she married? Did she have a dog, a cat, a hamster?
When we were outside my place, I found myself starting a conversation:
‘Would you like to come up for a minute?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t like to . . . and, in any case, I can’t . . .’
‘You know I’m asking you in because I want to. But, don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you!’ I added that last bit with a laugh, because I saw her hesitate and it occurred to me that my invitation – and especially the way I’d phrased it – might have sounded ambiguous.
She laughed too and replied that she hadn’t imagined any such innuendo, but she really couldn’t. After a pause, she finally said, ‘To tell you the truth, I’m having a little party at my place tonight for my birthday – it was two days ago – and, if you’d like to come, you’d be welcome.’
‘Thank you for the invitation, Charlotte – I’m deeply touched. Truly. But don’t feel you have to ask me, and don’t take your work home. You already put in so much effort at the hospital. No need to lumber yourself with your patients’ depressed mothers . . . Happy birthday, all the same!’
‘Thank you . . . You know I’m asking you because I want to. But, don’t worry, I’m not hitting on you!’
We laughed again, and Charlotte insisted, assuring me that it would do me good and saying her place was just around the corner. She’d known that, like her, I lived close to the Saint-Martin canal, as did probably more than a hundred thousand Parisians, but she hadn’t realized we were almost neighbours. She gave me her address, which turned out to be three streets away. If I felt bored or out of place, I could leave at any time; it would be a simple little dinner with friends, buffet style, people would be dropping in all evening. Then she added, with that typical twinkle in her eye, ‘Let your hair down, it’ll do you good – and I’d love you to come!’
I said yes. She said something like, ‘Great, so see you around eight,’ and I watched her slight form ride off on her scooter.
Shit – why had I accepted? What the hell was I going to be able to talk to all those strangers about? I looked at myself in my bedroom mirror and felt a surge of panic. This would be the first time I’d gone out since Louis’s accident. I began inspecting myself by rolling up my trousers. I rolled them down again immediately, realizing with horror that my legs were more like those of Chewbacca than Miss World. My grey roots were beginning to show. At Hégémonie, I’d have been pelted with stones – or at least rotten tomatoes.
What time was it? Four fifteen. I had three and three-quarter hours to do something about it and make myself presentable. I started to thank the god of beauty salons that I lived in Paris and not in one of those small towns where everything closes at six. I still had time to get my legs waxed, buy some flowers to thank Charlotte, get my hair done and camouflage my wrinkles beneath one of the foundations that had been gathering dust in my cupboard for a month.
I grabbed my jacket and raced out. I’d left my mother a Post-it that would give her the shock of her life. I’d written, soberly but in a flurry of excitement, Don’t cook for me tonight – I’m going out.