I tried to sound hopeful, to find the words that would restore faith and hope to him as well as to myself, but my well of optimism had run dry. All I could do was shake my head and mutter, "She'll be all right. Everything will be all right."
Daddy smiled. "You can't let any of this get in your way, Pearl. I know you are not a self-centered person by nature, but I don't want to hear any talk of you postponing your college education," he said firmly. "It's enough you had to quit your job at the hospital."
"But—"
"Pearl, promise me," he insisted. When I didn't respond immediately, he looked as if he might burst into tears, but he raised one arm and added, "We can't lose everything, even our dream for you."
"Okay, Daddy. I promise," I said. My chest ached. I knew if I didn't get up and go upstairs soon, I would sob openly and only make things harder for him. I forced a smile and excused myself.
When I looked in on Mommy, I saw she was asleep. I started for my room, but something drew me to the twins' room instead. I opened the door that had been kept shut tight since Jean's death and Pierre's transfer to the hospital, and I stood there gazing at their toys—Jean's frog and insect specimens on the shelf, his model airplanes and cars, their bookcase filled with adventure stories and books on animals and soldiers. How many times had I looked in and pleaded with the two of them to straighten up their things before Mommy saw the mess?
I smiled, remembering Jean's impish grin and Pierre's serious concern. I recalled them playing checkers, each of them looking into the other's identical face after every move in search of a reaction. Usually, Pierre won, and when Jean did win, I had the feeling Pierre was letting him win.
They were both hoarders, refusing to throw anything away. Their toy chest was filled to the brim, and in their closets were cartons of older toys and books. It was as if they wanted to mark and save every stage of their development, every moment of pleasure, every new discovery. Mommy was always pleading with them to sort out the things they would never use again, but how do you throw away a memory?
What would become of all this now? I wondered. Would Daddy see that it was discarded or given to poor children, or would it be stuffed in some attic corner and left to gather dust and cobwebs?
I stood in the doorway until I realized the tears were streaming down my face so fast and so hard they were dripping off my chin. Then I closed the door softly and went to my room to read myself to sleep.
I did fall asleep with a book in my hands. I never heard Daddy come upstairs, and later, much later, I never heard Mommy sneak out. She didn't go to the cemetery this time, nor did she go to see some voodoo mama. She returned to the hospital and to Pierre's bedside. Later she would tell me she heard his voice; she heard him calling for her in her sleep.
Well after three in the morning, when everything in the world seemed to be slumbering, when even the stars blinked like tired eyes, I woke to the sound of the phone ringing. It rang and rang until someone answered it. When I realized what time it was, my heart thumped with a deep, hard pounding that took my breath away. I held my breath anyway, listening hard for the sounds I feared most—the sound of wailing, the sound of sobbing, the sound of death.
I heard a door open, and then I heard the tap-tap of Daddy's crutches. He came to my door. My reading light was still on, and I was still dressed, my book open on my lap. I sat up slowly. He looked confused, just woken from a deep sleep.
"What is it, Daddy?" I asked in a small voice.
"Your mother got up and left the house without my knowing," he said. "I never heard her. She must have walked on air."
"Where did she go?"
"To the hospital," he said. "She just phoned." I brought my fist to my lips.
"She said Pierre . . . Pierre just spoke to her."
As soon as the words registered, I leaped from my bed and ran to him. We embraced, both of us crying so hard from happiness that neither of us could catch enough breath to tell the other to stop. He was kissing my hair, and I was holding him so tightly I was sure I was crushing his ribs.
Then he started to laugh through his tears, and I smiled and wiped mine away as quickly as they emerged.
"I'll throw something on," he said, "and we'll rush right over. My boy, my boy is coming home," he cried happily.
It was enough to turn even the most skeptical person into a believer. When we arrived at Pierre's room, we found him sitting up and sipping warm tea through a straw. Mommy turned to greet us, her face beaming like some previously dying plant resurrected, blossoming again with those bright and beautiful eyes full of light. Even her cheeks glowed, the richness rushing back into her complexion.
"Hi, Pearl," Pierre said. His voice sounded strained, like the voice of someone who had a bad sore throat, but it was his voice and he was looking at me.
"Hi, Pierre." I hugged him. "How do you feel?"
"I'm tired, but I'm hungry," he said. He threw an angry gaze toward his nurse. "They won't give me anything good to eat until the doctor comes, they said. When is she coming already?"
"Not for a while, Pierre. It's four in the morning," I told him and laughed.
"Four in the morning? I've never been up that late, have I?" he asked, looking from Mommy to me.
"No."
He looked past me and saw Daddy on his crutches in the doorway. Pierre's eyes grew bigger than silver dollars. "Dad, what happened to you?"
"Oh, I slipped and fell down the stairs," Daddy said nonchalantly. He hobbled up to the bed.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much anymore. Later I'll let you sign your name on my cast."
Pierre smiled. Then, just as quickly as that smile came, it faded. "Jean can't sign it," he said.
"Then you'll sign it for him," I replied quickly, before the tears could come to anyone's eyes.
"Yes," Pierre said, thinking. "I will sign everything 'Pierre and Jean' from now on," he said excitedly.
"Well, people might not understand that, Pierre. When you sign your name, it's enough that you know you're signing for Jean, too, okay?"
He thought a moment and then reluctantly nodded.
But I sensed that from that moment on, everything Pierre did in his life, he would do for his dead brother, too. He would drive himself to do twice as much twice as well. He would try to live two lives. It would take a long time for him to bury Jean. When he did that, Jean would die again for him, and he would suffer the tragedy a second, maybe even harder time.
Pierre couldn't believe how long he had been sleeping. We told him as much about his condition as we could. He was smart enough to understand most of it. I promised him that when he was up to it, I would explain it in more detail. He loved to learn, and it occurred to me that he, perhaps as much as I, had the potential to be a good doctor.
We remained with him until he got tired and closed his eyes again. Mommy was terrified he would slip back into unconsciousness, but the nurse and Dr. LeFevre, who arrived hours earlier than usual, having been told of Pierre's recovery, assured us the worst was over.
"But there is much to do," she added quickly. "He's going to need loads and loads of tender loving care and therapy. It will take time. Don't expect him to put on his running shoes and go off to join other children his age right away," she warned.
"We'll do whatever it takes to help him get well again," Mommy pledged.
Although it was still quite early and none of us had had enough sleep, we were too excited to just go home to sleep. Daddy took us out for breakfast, and we discovered that we were quite hungry. We hadn't done much more than nibble at our food the past day or so.
It was good to see my parents reanimated, talking excitedly about the things they were going to do to prepare for Pierre's homecoming. Mommy thought it might be wise to hire a tutor for him as soon as possible, and Daddy suggested some short sight- seeing trips. I warned them about moving too quickly and advised them to wait to see what the doctor thought before we made any decisions or took any actions.
"L
ook who's become the wise old lady," Daddy kidded and then reached for Mommy's hand across the table. "And look who's become as giddy as a child."
She smiled at him and they exchanged that magical look I had seen so many, many times before, a look I envied and dreamed of having between me and someone wonderful . . . someone like Jack.
Jack! I thought.
"Daddy, we've got to get home soon. Jack will be arriving."
"Jack?" Mommy said. "Oh, I had forgotten."
"How could you forget Jack?" Daddy teased.
"You stop it right now, Daddy," I warned. The two of them laughed. It was the sweetest music I had heard in a long time.
Just as I feared, when we returned to the house, Jack was already there.
"You have a guest in the sitting room, mademoiselle," Aubrey told me. I thanked him and hurried down the corridor.
Jack looked lost and unsure of himself seated on the velvet settee in our grand sitting room. He wore jeans, boots, and a cotton plaid shirt, but his dark hair was brushed neatly, not a strand out of place.
"Jack!" I cried, rushing to him. He almost didn't get to his feet before I embraced him. I kissed him and held him for a moment.
"Whoa," he said.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived," I said, laughing. "But we had the most wonderful news this morning. Pierre came out of his coma. We've been at the hospital since very early this morning."
"That's fantastic." He looked up as Daddy came to the doorway on his crutches. "Bonjour, monsieur," he said.
"Bonjour." Daddy came in as quickly as he could and extended his hand. "I want to formally thank you for all you have done for my daughter and for my wife," he said. "I am in your debt."
"Oh, no, monsieur," Jack said gazing at me. "I am in yours for having such a wonderful daughter."
Daddy raised his eyebrows and turned a small smile at me. Blushing, I turned and saw Mommy in the doorway.
"Bonjour, Madame Andreas. I am glad to hear the good news," Jack said.
"Thank you." She came in to greet him. "If we don't behave like proper hosts, please forgive us. We're so full of mixed emotions. It's exhausting."
"Oh, please, madame. Don't think twice about my being here, and if I am in the way, even slightly, I will be gone before you can blink your eye, hear?" he said with his Cajun intonation.
Mommy seemed to drink in his accent, and I suspected that memories of her Cajun life were rushing over her. "I doubt my daughter will permit you to get away that soon," she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Now I did blush, and so did Jack.
"Are you hungry, Jack? I'll have something fixed for you," Daddy said.
"No, thank you. I ate just before I arrived, monsieur."
"Well," Daddy said. "I guess I had better see to my business concerns so someone can pay the mortgage around here," he jested.
"I'm going to show Jack around New Orleans," I said.
"Good idea," Daddy said. "Why don't we take him to one of our finer restaurants for dinner tonight, make a reservation."
"Please, monsieur, don't plan anything special for me," Jack said.
"What are you talking about?" Daddy asked. "This is New Orleans. Everything we do for everyone is always special," he said. He turned to me. "Run him by your mother's current exhibit in the French Quarter," he suggested.
"Oh, Beau, there are many more interesting things for her to show him," Mommy said.
"I'd really like to see the exhibit," Jack said.
"Very diplomatic, monsieur," Daddy said. He gazed at me again. "You'll see that Jack is settled in the guest room?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Bien. Have a good time," he said, and then he and Mommy left us.
After we put Jack's things in the guest room, I took him to my room. He stood by the window and gazed out at the gardens, the pool, and the tennis court, watching the grounds people clear away fallen palm fronds and manicure our hedges and flowers.
"You're right," he said. "This isn't what I think of as city life. You have a beautiful home, Pearl. And your room and your closets . . . practically as big as my whole trailer. You've grown up in a magical place, a castle," he said with a sad note in his voice.
I knew what he was thinking and what was happening. He was becoming overwhelmed with our wealth and feeling inadequate. He was sorry he had come.
I went up to his side and threaded my arm through his as he gazed down at the grounds.
"None of this means anything if you can't share it with the right person, Jack. I know a great many sad rich people who would trade most of what they have just to have a sincere, loving relationship."
"You say that now, little princess, but I wonder what you would say after you'd lived without servants and fine foods and cars and clothes."
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, and I spun him around to face me.
"I'll tell you what I would say, Jack Clovis. I would say I love you, and all the servants in the world and all the fine clothes and cars couldn't compensate if I lost that love. I'd say that there's nothing more beautiful than a sunset when I'm in the arms of someone I love and nothing more precious than waking up in those arms, whether I'm sleeping in a trailer in the bayou or in a mansion in New Orleans.
"Being rich doesn't make falling in love impossible. I'm not sorry my parents have done well, but falling in love with someone who really is in love with you—that's really being rich, Jack. Maybe that sounds like a schoolgirl's fantasy, and maybe you're right that most people would regret losing their pleasures and comforts, but I'm not most people.
"Don't you forget I'm part Cajun, too, and my blood can be traced back to those swamps you cherish."
Jack's face broke into a wide smile. "You're not kidding about your Cajun heritage," he said. "I remember I said I didn't want to risk your wrath. That was a smart piece of advice I gave myself. I should have listened."
I softened. "Just see me for who I am and not for what my family owns," I pleaded.
"Okay. I'm sorry," he said. "That's the last time I'll make a big deal of this overgrown shack."
I laughed and hugged him. "Let's go. There's nothing like showing someone else your hometown," I told him and hurried him out and down the stairs.
I took him on a whirlwind tour. First I drove him past Loyola and Tulane. We stopped at the Audubon park and zoo, and then he said he wanted to ride a streetcar. I drove back to the house, and we walked up to the stop and took the streetcar to Canal Street. We crossed into the French Quarter and had po'boy sandwiches at a sidewalk café near the river where there was something of a breeze. For a while we just watched the steamboats and barges going up and down the Mississippi and listened to the street music performed by guitarists and harmonica players, and trumpeters.
"It's nicer here than I expected," Jack offered, but there was still some hesitation in his voice.
"What is it you miss the most, Jack?" I asked. We were holding hands, but he suddenly seemed hundreds of miles away.
"The stillness, I guess. Nature, the animals, even the dangerous ones. And your well," he added. "They're drilling for a different kind of oil in these streets, hawking from the storefronts, pushing their wares." He shrugged. "I guess you gotta be what you are . . . but it really is pretty here," he added.
I thought about what he'd said and wondered if the gap between us was too wide. We lived only hours away from each other, but the way we were brought up had become part of us and had given us a different view of the sunrise and the sunset. How strong was love? Could it bridge the gap and show us how to really know each other?
We did have a wonderful day together, though. Late in the afternoon, after we visited Mommy's new exhibit, we had coffee and beignets at the Café du Monde. Jack smiled and said Bart was right: their baker, back in the bayou, was right up to par. His loyalty made me laugh, but it made me a little sad, too.
Before dinner we all visited Pierre again. He was more animated, and he liked Jack, especially when Jack promised
to show him how an oil well brought the oil up from the depths of the earth.
"Can we go up there as soon as I get out of the hospital, Pearl?" he asked me excitedly.
"Not as soon as you get out, Pierre. You have to get strong and healthy first. Then we'll go," I said flashing a look at Mommy.
"We'll all go there. I promise," she said, smiling at me, and I had the feeling she had killed all the demons that had kept her from visiting her past. We would go back often.
Jack was concerned that he didn't have the proper clothing for the restaurant Daddy had chosen. He mumbled about it, but Daddy overheard and told him not to worry. He considered him, nodded, and suggested Jack try one of his older sport jackets.
"I bought this a while ago, when I had a trimmer figure," he explained. The jacket fit Jack well. Daddy loaned him a tie, too. Jack was reluctant to take the clothing, but did so at Daddy's insistence.
Our dinner was spectacular. Daddy went overboard to impress Jack and to celebrate. After our rich desserts, Jack leaned over and whispered, "I bet the bill for this dinner is as much as I make a week." He laughed, but once again I felt the gap between us.
Mommy and Daddy drank a little too much wine. They were both giddy and pleasantly tired by the time we arrived home. Jack and I went out to the patio and pool, and they went upstairs to fall asleep in each other's arms.
It was a particularly starry night, no moon but a myriad of twinkling lights.
"Most of those stars are bigger than our own sun. But when you're far away, bigger things look small. Then, when you get closer, you see how small you are," he said. I knew what he was saying.
"No matter how far away I am from you, Jack, you will never seem small to me."
He laughed. "I only went to high school. My daddy taught me all I had to know about being an oil rigger. The fanciest party I've been to is a wedding, and I bet the whole affair didn't cost as much as tonight's dinner in that restaurant. And you're going to be a doctor."
"Don't make me regret it," I replied quickly.
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