I LOVE YOU, Mother says, in an experimental mood.
The sleeping girl says nothing in return.
Mother puts down her spoon, rubs her hands on her apron, and goes to stand alongside the bed. With a brisk, unthinking movement, she straightens the coverlet so that all is smooth.
She tries again.
I love you, Mother says. Very much.
And the girl, who has been known to sigh enormously, and moan, and even to let loose a ripping snore, makes no sound at all. She is as pale and unresponsive as a lump of dough.
Do you remember, Mother asks, how I used to brush your hair? You would make a rumbling sound in the bottom of your throat, just like a little cat. In the evening, when I sat down with the sewing, you would kneel at my feet and push your head in my lap, seeking out my hands, wanting again the feel of me moving the brush against your scalp. And never once did I not put my needle down and touch you. For it was a pleasure to me, to hear that sound you would make....
In her bed, the girl remains silent, and unmoved.
Do you remember, Mother asks, the story I used to tell you? About the donkey, and the princess, and how she found the golden key....
But Mother finds she can no longer recall the details exactly, nor the ending, nor the plot.
Well, there was a story, she says, and what matters is that you liked it, and that I told it to you. I told it to you countless times, for you could not be satisfied, and would refuse to hear another story, or to hear the story told by any other voice but mine. So I told it, again and again, long after I had grown sick of it, because you wanted to hear my voice, repeating the words that pleased you. Do you remember that? Do you remember my voice?
And, leaning very close to the pillow, so close that she can feel the moistness of her daughter's breath, she says, again, I love you.
The sleeping girl does not so much as shudder.
Ach, Madeleine! Mother cries in despair, turning away from the bed. You were always stubborn!