Every morning, the night staff pass on any information to us. Madame Le Camus tells us who is going to which floor.
We wake up the residents. We help them to wash themselves. We bring them down to the dining room. We settle them. We give them the medications prepared by the nurses. We serve them their breakfast. We bring them back up to their rooms. We make their beds. Then, if requested, we shampoo hair or apply polish to fingernails. At noon, we bring them back down for lunch.
That’s if we’re doing the floors with “independent” residents. Jo, Maria, and I often look after the floor with the “dependent” residents. We wake them up. We wash them. We help them to eat. And, if the weather’s fine, we take them down with the others into the garden, or elsewhere if it’s winter, as it is now.
If I didn’t do overtime, I wouldn’t be able to listen to the stories they tell. So my extra hours are like summer solstices. Each time I work, my days get longer. With the women, I massage hands, feet, or apply face cream while asking them questions. With the men (far fewer than women at The Hydrangeas, as at “retirement” homes everywhere), it depends. I wash hair, trim nose or ear hair while asking the same questions I ask the women.
I could fill hundreds of blue notebooks. Sometimes, I think of turning each resident into a short story. But I’d need to have a twin sister.
It’s incredible how well daughters look after their parents. When I was little, I wanted to have a boy. Since working at The Hydrangeas, I’ve changed my mind. Aside from a few exceptions, the sons visit every now and then. Often accompanied by their wives. As for the daughters, they visit all the time. Most of those forgotten on Sunday have only sons.
I always do Hélène’s room last, to have more time. This morning, when I arrive with my cart, Roman is there.
I fucked What’s-his-name all of last night. When I’m out of sorts, I either hit the bottle, or fuck.
After I’d jumped from the first story of the Municipal and Public Space Department, I went straight to his place. He wasn’t there. I waited for him in the hallway for an hour. I couldn’t go back home. Not after what I’d just read. The photos of the accident were inside a gray envelope. I stole it. I didn’t look at them, apart from the top one. While I was waiting for What’s-his-name in the hallway, I lifted the flap. I saw just a heap of scrap metal. I imagined that the photos underneath were awful. That they showed my parents’ bloodied bodies.
As soon as What’s-his-name arrived, he took the envelope from my hand and burnt it in his shower, using rubbing alcohol. When the burning was over, nothing was left but a foul smell in the apartment.
We aired the place. And I admit that I cried.
After that, we looked up Pierre Léger in the local phone directory. He was the sole witness of the accident. I’d never heard of him. He wasn’t named in the newspaper article.
What’s-his-name found seven Pierre Légers. He phoned them, one by one. Until he found the right one. He said:
“Hold on, I’m passing you Mademoiselle Neige.”
He held his phone out to me.
“Hello, good evening . . . I’m Justine Neige, the daughter of Christian and Sandrine Neige, who died in a car accident in Milly, in 1996. Is it you who called the police station?”
A long silence. Finally, Pierre Léger replied:
“At the time, I asked the journalists not to publish my name anywhere. How did you find me?”
First lie:
“My grandfather, Armand Neige, gave me your name.”
“How does he know my name?”
Second lie:
“I don’t know. Milly’s a small village, things get around.”
Silence. Breathing down the phone. The TV was on in the room he was in. It must have been the news bulletin, I could hear rocket fire.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to know what you saw, that morning.”
“I saw the car coming off the road and crashing into an oak tree. The impact was so violent, it wrecked the tree.”
“Was the car going fast?”
“Like a rocket.”
Silence. Lump in throat. I could barely speak.
“Was there black ice on the road?”
“The car overtook me—the driver was going so fast that I shouted out and sounded my horn at him. I didn’t get time to see the people inside the car. It’s only afterwards that I learned there were four of them. I didn’t even get time to catch my breath. The car sped two hundred meters ahead of me, started to zigzag, then rammed into the tree.”
Silence. He continued:
“At first, I didn’t dare get out of my car. Thought how mangled they must be inside. You won’t believe me, mademoiselle, but I’d been given my first mobile phone the previous day, for my birthday. The first ever number I called on it was the fire brigade. I threw it away after that, and never wanted one ever again. Between me phoning and the fire brigade arriving, it was a good ten minutes . . . I got out of the car, my legs were shaking. I went up to the wreck: it was concertinaed metal. All the windows had exploded. Looked like a bomb had been in it. Not a sound from inside. I realized immediately that they were . . . ”
“Did you see them?”
“No. And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you about it. Speaking of the dead doesn’t bring them back.”
“It does, Monsieur Léger. I swear to you, it does bring them back a little.”
I’m fairly sure I’m looking rough. Roman is, too. He’s very pale. I thought it was sunny in Peru. But in his eyes, still that infinite blue. I’d give my life to drown inside him. And I definitely wouldn’t want my body to be fished out.
“How are you, Justine?”
“Well. Thanks.”
“You look tired.”
“I had a difficult night.”
“You were working?”
“Yes. Was your trip good?”
“Like all trips. Lots of learning, like at school, except the teacher’s fascinating and unforgettable.”
I smile. He’s holding Hélène’s left hand in his hands.
“My grandmother’s never worn jewelry.”
“No. She always loathed it.”
“You know so many things about her. Are you still writing for me?”
“Yes.”
“I look forward to reading it . . . It reassures me, knowing that you’re close to her, all the time. If I were old, I’d want a young lady like you to look after me . . . You’re gentle. One can hear it and see it.”
I feel like convincing him that he is a hundred years old. I even pray that, all of a sudden, he becomes a hundred years old. But . . .
“I’m going to ask you to leave the room for ten minutes: I need to freshen her up.”
He lets go of Hélène’s hand.
“I know I’m not allowed to visit in the morning, but there’s nothing I can do, because of the train, and then the car afterwards. It’s so far away, this place.”
“I know. That’s what everyone says.”
“I’ll go and have a coffee.”
“There’s a new coffee machine on the second floor. The coffee’s almost as good as a good coffee.”
He leaves the room. I take Hélène’s left hand in mine. It’s warm. I kiss it. I kiss Roman’s fingerprints. That’s at least something.
She opens her eyes and looks at me.
“Hélène, I understand why you waited for Lucien. I understand everything now.”
Her eyes are still on me, but she says nothing. It’s been three weeks now that she’s not said a word. In the blue notebook, it’s me talking for her.
I put my sign up on her door: “Care in progress, do not enter.”
“Yesterday evening, I read the report of my parents’ accident.”
I take her nightdress off carefully, so as not to hurt her.
“I did something crazy. I broke into the cops’ building. I mean, the gendarmes’. I know you don’t like the French police.”
I remove her pillows and raise the head of the bed. I fill the first washbowl. For Hélène, I always make the water a little warmer because she’s sensitive to the cold.
“I did what you had done in the classroom on the evening of the seagull. I hid in a cupboard and waited until everyone had left. And I managed to find the file on my parents’ accident. They were driving like lunatics. Parents shouldn’t drive like lunatics. Instead of reading books like How to Be a Good Mother, they should respect the speed limits.”
I place a protective sheet under her body. I always start by washing her buttocks. And then her back.
“And apparently, the brakes were screwed up . . . but that’s not certain.”
I soap her arms, her thorax, her abdomen. And while I’m at it, I massage her elbows with sweet almond oil.
“We’re Thursday today. Your daughter will come to read to you. And your grandson is here, too.”
I move her onto her back again and uncover the lower half of her body. I soap and rinse, carefully. I know her body by heart. This body that so loved Lucien. Us nursing assistants, we’re the guardians of the temples of past loves. But that doesn’t show on our pay slips.
Hélène says a few words:
“All those years of waiting for him. At the café, the men would say to me, ‘Lucien is dead, you have to accept it.’”
It’s good to hear her voice again, and, above all, it’s a good sign. As soon as a resident stops speaking, the doctors ask for neurological tests to be done.
I massage her heels. And after drying every square centimeter of her body, I slip a clean nightdress on her. Hélène picks up her monologue:
“He couldn’t be dead.”
Finally, I wash her face with fresh water and a little baby lotion. I finish by brushing her teeth, and make her spit into the kidney tray.
I throw everything away: wash glove, protective sheet, diaper.
I write on her care form that she’s spoken.
I remove the sign. Roman is waiting behind the door. He comes in and glances at my cart. Then at me. He says, “Thank you.” I reply, “I’ll leave you with her.”