Daddy flooded Jean's face with kisses I knew he prayed would be magical; but the stitches that had drawn Jean's eyelids shut appeared unbreakable, and his beautiful little face, a face always animated, those blue eyes sweeping a room or a place to find some-thing interesting, was already growing as pale as a faded water lily.
Daddy turned to me with eyes I shall never put to sleep in my memory, frantic eyes.
I hurried to his side.
"He's not breathing!" he said.
I had him put Jean on a patch of soft moss. "Make him better, Pearl. Make him better," Pierre pleaded.
Jean had been bitten on the left wrist. It had swollen into a large lump, so I knew an adult viper had bitten him and he had taken a big dose of venom. The shock of the bite and its effect on his nervous system must have put him into a panic. He obviously fell into the water, but instead of heading for shore, he had floundered into deeper water. His wrist was surely burning; his heart pounding.
From a first aid course given by the fire department last year, I knew that when a person panics at the surface of water, his thrashing movements are incapable of keeping his body afloat. If they sink and begin to swallow water, initially, an automatic contraction of the muscle in the windpipe prevents water from entering the lungs and instead it enters the esophagus and stomach. However, the laryngeal reflex impairs breathing, which can quickly lead to the loss of consciousness even without the injection of lethal viper venom. This was surely what had happened to Jean.
Jean's lips had turned blue-gray. I couldn't hear his heartbeat or feet a pulse in his wrist, so I began CPR, never having dreamed when I learned it last year, that I would be practicing it for real on my own little brother. I kept reciting the instructions in my mind, shutting out Daddy's moans and Pierre's cajoling to make Jean better. Instead, I heard my instructor saying the rate of compression should be eighty per minute with two breaths given after every fifteen compressions. After what seemed like hours, but was really only two minutes, I looked up at Daddy.
"We've got to get him to the hospital."
He nodded and lifted Jean in his arms. Pierre and I followed him out of the woods and across the field. Mommy was seated on a bench, her face drained and white, her tears flowing, her lips quivering.
"We've got to rush to the hospital," Daddy shouted and headed for the car. Mommy shook her head violently, as if to drive off mosquitoes. I took Pierre's hand and we both helped her to her feet.
We all piled into the car. Mommy and I remained in the back with Jean. She kept his head on her lap and stroked his hair, her tears now falling on his face as well.
I don't remember the ride. Daddy had the car on two wheels around turns, his horn blaring at anything and anyone in our way, driving them off the road. We pulled into the hospital emergency lane, and Daddy scooped up Jean again. Mommy rose slowly to follow. All hope was gone from her. She was a shell of herself, drifting along with us.
A team of doctors and nurses worked on Jean. I sat with Mommy in the lobby, holding her limp hand. Pierre sat beside me, stunned, his head against my shoulder, his hands clutching my other hand as if he hoped I could pull him up from the tragedy unfolding around us.
Mommy had been sitting there staring blankly at the wall, when suddenly she spoke: "If only I had left the party . . . if only I had spoken to Nina before she died."
"Stop that, Mommy. Nina had nothing to do with this."
She shook her head and sighed so deeply I thought I heard her chest shatter. She continued to stare ahead with vacant eyes, waiting.
In my mind I envisioned what they were trying to do with Jean. They were injecting the anti-venom; they were defibrillating his heart; they were drawing the water from his lungs. Daddy was beside them watching, praying, a man turned to stone.
Time had no meaning, so I didn't know how long we actually waited before Daddy emerged, followed by some of the medical staff. There was no need for words. Everything was said in their faces.
Pierre, who had drawn even closer to me and put his arms around my waist, still clung desperately. The analytical part of me, incredibly detached emotionally, wondered when we as children first understood the finality of death. We are told that people who die go away forever to a place that is nicer, and that eases our confusion and the pain because we can imagine them even happier. It helps us to put them aside, to forget, to turn back to those who are still with us.
But later, at some fragile age, we suddenly realize that death is more than just a ticket on a train or a plane, and we understand the temporal nature of our own lives. Sometime, somewhere, somehow, we, too, will take that inevitable journey. But nothing is more unfair and unreasonable than when a child is made to go.
Maybe Jean wouldn't have become a doctor or a lawyer, but maybe he would have become a great athlete or a good businessman. He would have had his own family and his own children. He was still at the well of "maybes," there to draw from the dreams and possibilities. He was curious and alive and full to the brim with a desire to live every moment, to taste every cookie, drink every soda, laugh every laugh, run until his heart felt as if it would burst, climb trees and have a dog at his feet or a cat in his lap. He was Everyboy, our own Huckleberry Finn, more comfortable in a pair of torn jeans than in suit and tie, never annoyed by strands of hair over his forehead, eager to poke his finger into the pie or the cake icing.
And now he was no more.
"He's gone," Daddy said, and the stone face crumbled under the flow of his own cold tears.
Mommy raised her eyes toward the ceiling and screamed just before she collapsed into Daddy's arms. I was so shattered by her reaction that I never noticed Pierre had toppled back. But when I looked at him, I felt a second stab of ice through my heart. I realized he had fallen into a catatonic state, his eyes wide open.
Our tragedy was just getting under way.
To see Pierre without Jean at his side was like looking at someone who'd had a limb removed. He always looked incomplete; so it was understandable that he would fall into a state of shock, perhaps even deeper and more intense than the shock Mommy was feeling. The doctors examined him. They thought he would snap out of it after a while. They advised us to take him home and pay him as much attention as possible. Daddy had carried his one twin son into the hospital, and he had to carry the other out. We drove back to the chateau as if we were already in Jean's funeral procession. Mommy lay back, her head against the side of the car. I sat with my arm around Pierre, holding him beside me and whispering words of comfort in his ear. Daddy was mechanical, going through the motions of what had to be done. He carried Pierre into the chateau, and I helped Mommy. Daddy put Pierre to bed, but we weren't going to stay there. Daddy had the servants get our things together quickly, and he called ahead and had our doctor waiting at the New Orleans house. Then he made the arrangements for the transfer of Jean's body to the funeral parlor. I was at his side, ready to help him with anything, but he wanted me to concentrate on Pierre, who still hadn't snapped out of his semiconscious state. When it was time to leave, he had to be carried to the car, where he lay limp against me all the way to New Orleans. Mommy was collapsed in the front seat, her eyes shut to keep out the reality.
Nothing travels as fast as bad news. We weren't home an hour before the phones began to ring. Daddy had to call Europe to tell Grandpa and Grandma Andreas what had happened. As usual, they had gone to the Riviera for the summer. Grandma Andreas told Daddy that Grandpa was too sick to travel home for the funeral. He had suffered a stroke the year before.
The doctor had given Mommy a sedative. He examined Pierre and thought he would snap out of his shock soon. Following the doctor's orders, I tried to get him to eat something, drink something; but he wouldn't open his mouth. I began to fear that the doctors at the hospital and our doctor might have underestimated the intensity of his emotional trauma.
The air of gloom that had permeated our house before we went to the country was nothing compared to what followed. Death had
made a camp in our dark corners; it moved proudly and freely through the corridors, dimming every light, fading every color, making every flower droop, and painting our windows with a gray tint so that no matter how much sunshine fell from the blue sky above, it looked like rain to us. People spoke only in whispers and lifted their feet so their footsteps were barely audible. The servants glided in and out of rooms to do their work and then hovered together in the kitchen or the pantry to console each other. The ticking of clocks began to sound like thunder.
Later in the day Daddy gathered all his inner strength to greet people in his study and finalize the arrangements for Jean's funeral. In the dim lamplight, he looked ashen and gray, like a man who had aged decades in minutes. Early in the evening, just after one of his business associates left, I entered his study. He was sitting back in his desk chair, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He didn't seem to notice me.
"Daddy," I said.
He turned to me as in a dream. His dark eyes shone, full of tears. "Yes, Pearl."
"It's about Pierre, Daddy. He's not improving. He hasn't eaten anything since . . . since the hospital. He won't even sip water."
"He's blaming himself," Daddy said, shaking his head. Then he pounded his chest with his closed fist so hard that I winced. "I am the one to blame," he declared.
I hurried to his side and put my hand on his shoulder. "Of course you're not, Daddy. No one's to blame."
"I wanted us to go there. I pushed for it," he moaned, his voice cracking.
"But, Daddy, sooner or later we would have gone there anyway. You can't blame yourself. It was a horrible, horrible accident."
"Accident," he said bitterly. His chin quivered. "I warned them; I told them not to wander off, didn't I?"
"Yes, Daddy. Stop blaming yourself. Mommy's upstairs wrenching her heart with blame, and Pierre has fallen into a serious coma because he blames himself. Jean simply shouldn't have gone into the water."
"He was just a young boy, still a child," Daddy protested. "It was my job to take care of him, watch over him, protect him. I failed. I failed miserably," he said and closed his eyes. He looked as if he might keep them shut forever.
"Daddy, I'm afraid for Pierre. We've got to do something. Call the doctor back."
Daddy opened his eyes slowly and stared at me as if my words were taking hours to enter his brain. "You think it's that serious?"
"He'll be dehydrated. I think he's even running a fever."
"Oh, no. I'll lose both of them," he said and stood up. He nodded after his own thoughts. "I'd better pay some attention to him and stop wallowing in my own tragedy," he added and started out. I followed him up the stairs to Pierre's room.
Pierre hadn't moved a muscle since I had last been beside him. His eyes were open, but so empty it was as if I could see through them, down the long corridor, into the blackness of his closed-down mind. Daddy went to the bed and sat beside Pierre, taking his hand into his.
"Pierre, you've got to snap out of this and help us, help Mommy. You must eat and drink something. It wasn't your fault. You tried to keep Jean from going into the water. Come on, Pierre," Daddy pleaded. Pierre didn't even blink. "Pierre." Daddy touched his cheek. "Come on, son. Please," he begged. Pierre's eyes remained turned inward. Suddenly he grimaced as if in great pain. And then he made a horrible guttural noise that frightened Daddy and me. Daddy retreated with surprise and stood up. "What's wrong with him? Why is he doing that?"
"I think he's reliving the tragedy," I guessed.
"Pierre, stop it. Stop it," Daddy ordered. He shook him by the shoulders. Pierre's expression didn't change, but the horrible sound ended. Daddy released him and turned to me. "I'd better call the doctor, as you say, Pearl."
"Go on, Daddy. I'll stay with him," I said. Daddy left the room.
I sat on the bed and took Pierre's hand in mine, stroking it gently.
"Poor Pierre," I said. "You had to see such a terrible thing, but you can't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."
I lifted my eyes to his face and saw the beginning of a single tear as it crawled over his eyelid and made its slow zigzag journey down his cheek to his chin. Incredibly, that was it, only one tear; as if he had cried all the others inside and had nothing more left to show. I leaned over and wiped the solitary tear away.
"Won't you try to drink some water, Pierre? Please. For me. Please," I begged. His lips didn't move, and his eyes remained as cold and hard as chips of turquoise. I sighed and held his hand and spoke to him softly until I was exhausted with the effort. Then I heard the door open and saw Mommy standing there, her hair down, her face streaked with her own dried tears, her skin waxen. She was in her nightgown, but wore no slippers.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked in a voice stripped of emotion. She sounded like someone who had been mesmerized and was speaking under a spell, but she seemed finally to realize there was something the matter with Pierre.
"He won't drink or eat anything. His expression hasn't changed since we returned, nor has he moved. He's in a catatonic state, Mommy. I told Daddy to call the doctor."
"Mon Dieu," she said. "What have I done?"
"Mommy, please. It doesn't do anyone any good if you blame yourself. Look what it's doing to Pierre." I turned to him. "I'm sure he's blaming himself."
"My baby," she said and moved forward to embrace him. She sat on the bed and took him in her arms, but he was like a rag doll, his head wagging, his eyes frozen, his limbs lifeless. She rocked with him and tried to soothe him, but he didn't respond. The realization struck her, and she lowered him to the pillow, an expression of shock and fear in her face.
"What can we do, Pearl?" she cried.
"The doctor will be here any minute, Mommy, but I think Pierre's going to have to go to the hospital. They'll have to put him on an I.V. until he returns."
"Returns?" she asked. "From where?"
"From his own sanctuary, his place of escape, a place where what's happened is not a reality."
"How long could this last?" she asked, looking at him. I was afraid to tell her what I knew. I had read of people who had gone into a catatonic state for years because of some emotional trauma. Some of them never emerged, and some, when they emerged, were dramatically different because they had regressed into childhood.
"He'll snap out of it soon, Mommy, but he needs medical attention," I replied.
"Yes, of course, you're right." She put her hand on my cheek gently and smiled. "You're my big girl. I'm going to depend on you for so much now, Pearl. It's not fair, I know. You should be able to enjoy these years and not be weighed down by so much hardship and misery. I had hoped your life would be different from mine. I had hoped . . ." She paused, her lips quivering.
"I'll be all right, Mommy."
She looked at Pierre again. "The twins were so close. Even as babies when one would cry, the other would, too, and when one woke up, the other was soon to wake up as well. Jean started to walk before Pierre did, you know."
"I remember, Mommy."
"But even though he could, he still crawled because Pierre crawled. One never wanted to leave the other too far behind. Now . . ." She closed her eyes. I put my arm around her, and we cried and comforted each other for a few moments. Finally the doctor arrived, and Daddy brought him up to Pierre. We all stood back and watched him examine my brother, noting the way his pupils dilated, checking his pulse, listening to his heart and lungs.
"We should put him into the hospital, monsieur," he told Daddy. "I'd like him to be under the care of a psychiatrist too."
Daddy swallowed hard. Mommy started to sob softly.
"I'll make the arrangements," the doctor said. "If I may use the phone."
"Come down to my study," Daddy said.
"I'll get him ready," I offered quickly.
"He'll be so frightened," Mommy moaned.
I dressed Pierre in his bathrobe and slippers and put together some of the things I knew he would need, things I prayed he would soon need. Mommy went t
o get dressed. Soon afterward Daddy carried poor Pierre to the car again and we were off to put him in the hospital.
He looked so much smaller when he was dressed in a hospital gown and put in a hospital bed; and when they inserted the I.V. in his arm, the seriousness of what was happening to him struck both Mommy and Daddy at the center of their hearts. Daddy embraced her, and they stood together watching as the nurse and the doctor attended to him.
Because the nurses knew me, they were more concerned and sympathetic. The psychiatrist who was called in was a Dr. LeFevre. She was in her early sixties with fading light brown hair. I knew of her, but I had rarely seen her and never talked to her before. She interviewed Daddy first to learn about the circumstances and then went in to examine Pierre. After her initial examination, she spoke to Daddy, Mommy, and me in the hallway. She was a soft-spoken woman, but her demeanor was authoritative and confident.
"Your son is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder," she began. "After the experience you've described," she said to Daddy, "it's quite understandable. It's not unlike what some combat veterans experience. In the profession we sometimes refer to this as emotional anesthesia. He's turning himself off, in a sense, to keep from suffering."
"How long . . ."
"I think we'll bring him out of it soon, but I must warn you, he'll need serious therapy, maybe for some time. Something like this could leave him with severe depression and anxiety. We could find he experiences chronic headaches, has difficulty with his concentration . . . Of course, we have to wait and see. In the meantime, we'll see that he's well looked after." She turned to me. "Why do you look so familiar to me?"
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