by Seth Patrick
He’d often wondered if Léna had experienced the same thing, catching her own reflection and finding Camille’s name dying in her throat.
Claire took a breath; her words tumbled out. “She’s in the bathroom. Do you want to see her?” She was nodding on his behalf, agitated. Of course you want to.
He said nothing and came inside the house, following her up the stairs, walking as quietly as possible. He could hear someone in the bathroom. Léna, of course. He hoped Claire hadn’t given Léna any indication of her state of mind. Then he could manage this, he could deal with it. Spare Léna the trauma somehow.
Claire guided him to the door. “Listen,” she said, looking like a bemused child.
He took a breath. “Léna?” he called. She would answer, and he would lead Claire back downstairs, and they would sit and talk and…
“No, it’s me,” said Camille’s voice. Jérôme turned and looked at Claire. She looked back at him with a desperate smile, and Jérôme opened the bathroom door.
She was there in the bath. Camille, arms suddenly across her chest, angry and embarrassed. “What are you doing?” she said.
Jérôme paused.
“Get out!” said Camille.
Jérôme shut the door. The look that he’d seen on his wife’s face, a mixture of fear and hope, suddenly made sense to him, because he could feel it on his own face now.
• • •
He headed straight outside to the patio and couldn’t get his shaking hands to light his cigarette fast enough.
“She doesn’t remember the accident,” said Claire, her voice clipped. There was a hint of madness in her eyes that Jérôme empathized with. “Only that she was on a school trip this morning.”
“No,” he said. “This isn’t possible.” He shook his head, feeling as if he were trying to shake the sight of his dead daughter out. We buried her, he wanted to say. She’s in the town graveyard, deep and cold and silent.
“I know it’s not possible,” said Claire. “But she’s here.”
“There has to be an explanation,” he said and took a long drag on his cigarette.
“Like what? I’m going mad? That means you’re mad too.” Jérôme didn’t answer. He knew that the possibility of some kind of breakdown was exactly what had been going through Claire’s mind when he’d arrived at the door. The relief that he’d shared in her vision was making her almost giddy.
“You saw her,” she said. “Didn’t you?”
His back was to the house. Claire’s eyes caught something behind him.
“Look,” she said. “Look at her.”
He couldn’t turn. Insanity was the only explanation he could think of, and he wanted nothing of it. Then the door behind him slid open.
“Is something wrong?” asked Camille. “What are you doing?”
He turned around. His dead daughter was standing there in her dressing gown. Her hair wet. Completely normal. Completely alive.
Her eyes went to his hand. “Dad, are you smoking?”
His hand dropped by his side. He couldn’t stop staring at her. Camille carried on talking, oblivious to the behavior of her parents. “Did Mum tell you? Weird, isn’t it? I must have had a blackout or something, right? Shouldn’t I see a doctor?”
Jérôme wondered exactly how that would play out. “Do you feel OK now?”
“Yeah…but I’m a little freaked out. So where’s Léna?”
“I told you,” said Claire, sounding uneasy. “At a friend’s.”
“Which friend?”
“I don’t remember.”
Camille shrugged and went back inside, heading for the kitchen phone. Claire and Jérôme followed, exchanging looks.
“Who are you calling?” asked Claire.
“Frédéric,” said Camille. She dialed.
Claire shot a look of panic at Jérôme. “It’s late,” she said. “You’ll wake him.” They watched, fearful, just able to hear the sound of the phone ringing, ringing, expecting it to be picked up at any second.
Then Camille hung up. “Not answering,” she muttered. “Well, I’m exhausted. I’m off to bed. Maybe tomorrow will be a little less weird.”
Claire and Jérôme wished her good night and watched her go, watched her all the way up the stairs, step by step. Only when they heard her bedroom door shut did they realize they’d both been holding their breaths. They looked at each other apprehensively.
Maybe tomorrow will be a little less weird.
Jérôme didn’t think the chances were good.
6
Julie Meyer sat on her sofa with her legs curled under her, working through the huge amounts of paperwork that came with the job. Ten feet away, people were being torn to pieces.
Somebody screamed. She looked up at the television, unable to remember what the film was or how long it had been on. The faces on-screen contorted in pain as undead teeth sank into skin. Julie glanced casually at the horror in front of her, feeling nothing.
She got back to the paperwork. It had been a long day, her busiest of the week. Seven clients visited, two of them borderline dementia, one whose daughter was there to supervise, suspicious that the work wasn’t being done well. Julie had been suspicious too. She wasn’t the usual nurse for the patient, and she wondered if her employers had somehow caught wind of the daughter’s suspicions and sent her to avoid trouble. Julie had done her job; the daughter had been satisfied.
“I’m sorry I doubted,” the daughter had told her as she left.
“I’m not her usual nurse,” Julie had said. “Keep doubting.”
It depressed her, sometimes, the things that people tried to get away with when nobody was watching—especially with those who had no way of defending themselves.
At last, she came to the end of her write-ups and set her folder down. Tired, she wondered if she should eat something. She wasn’t hungry, but she couldn’t remember having eaten much all day. She sat and watched the people die on screen, bored of it but immobile. Eat or not, it didn’t seem to matter to her. Watch a film or not, she didn’t seem to care. Get to bed then? Maybe. Or maybe she would just fall asleep where she sat and wake in the night and wonder why she was continuing to live at all.
It wasn’t a life she was living. Everyone had the drudgery of work, the tedium of all the regular hoops you had to jump through just to survive, a long series of the same things over and over, like breath or pulse. That was what food had become to her, and sleep—something that just had to be done and no end in sight.
But everyone else had the moments between the drudgery: the moments that counted, the moments that made it worthwhile.
That was what life was, she thought. The moments between.
And she had none. She was paralyzed by the inertia of it all. Sometimes she wondered if she’d died in that tunnel seven years ago, because this was not life.
The phone rang. She switched the television off.
“Hello? Monsieur Costa, calm down…” The man was agitated. She liked Michel Costa: he was old but still sharp, a teacher at the local school until he’d been pushed into late retirement. On every heart medication known to science, it sometimes seemed, but his mind was still bright. “OK, I’m listening.”
Chest pain, palpitations. Not unusual for him. She questioned him long enough to be sure it wasn’t more serious, but she promised she would get out to him as soon as she could manage.
“It’s urgent,” he said.
“I can only go so fast, Monsieur Costa. I’ll be as quick as I can. Meanwhile, you should lie down. Try and stay calm, OK?”
“I’ll be waiting, Julie.”
“I’ll see you soon, and don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
There was a pause. “Julie? I wanted to…” He trailed off.
“Yes?” She waited. It was five or six seconds before he replied.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said, then hung up. The curious distraction that had been in his voice wasn’t encouraging. Julie looked at the phone for a moment, wondering if the light of Michel Costa’s mind was finally starting to fade.
She left her apartment and went downstairs. As she approached the exit to the apartment building, she saw a man outside angrily keying into the security pad. Tall, young, a great mop of unruly black hair—she didn’t recognize him, but then she didn’t pay much attention to the other residents. As she opened the door, he gave her a look of relief.
“Evening,” she said, passing him.
“Has the code changed?” he asked.
“No.”
He opened his mouth to say more, but Julie didn’t slow. “Good night,” he called after her. She kept walking.
She was lucky with the bus across town, getting to the stop just before it came around the end of the street. Then it was a ten-minute trudge up steep roads to Michel Costa’s house.
When he answered the door, he seemed less than eager for her to come in.
“Julie, I, uh, I called again to tell you I was fine, but you must have already left. No need to come out, I’m afraid. I’m much better now. Much better.”
She gave him a small smile, but inside she was thinking about his state of mind. The man had nobody left to look after him. His wife had died decades ago, and the couple had no children. Chest pains and disorientation—it could be much more serious than the usual little twinges she treated him for. “Well, I’m here,” she said. “Let me take a look at you and make sure, yes?”
He just stood in the doorway. Julie raised her eyebrows and smiled again. “Can I come in?”
He blinked. “Yes, of course, Julie, of course.”
She sat him down in his living room, keeping a close eye on his behavior. His eyes were darting to the corridor, agitated, almost frightened.
She checked him over. Everything was reasonably normal, despite his heart rate being slightly elevated—certainly no sign of a stroke or anything more serious. She put his heart rate down to anxiety and gave him what she could to calm it, but after the injection, there was little else for her to do.
“You seem very distressed, Monsieur Costa. Will you be OK?”
He looked at her. She thought for a moment that he was going to tell her something, confide in her, but then he looked away. “I’ll be fine,” he said.
She stood and packed up. As she was about to leave, she heard a sound from elsewhere in the house, like the clatter of plates. “You’re not alone?” she said, moving for the door.
He stood and intercepted her with a burst of speed that left him breathless. “Yes, I am. It’s just…” Again, that look of almost confiding came and went. “It’s no one.”
Was there someone here? She leaned close to him and whispered, “If you need me to call the police, just nod.”
He shook his head. Slow, steady. Sad, almost.
She looked at him, wondering if she should push further, but his privacy had to be respected. “I don’t want to pry, but I’m here if you need to talk, OK? Call me, anytime.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “And thanks, Julie. See you next week.”
When she left, it was raining. It mirrored her mood. Whatever had happened with Michel Costa, she hoped it was temporary. The man had always shone, an example to her that old age held more than indignity and decrepitude.
That was the problem with dealing with so many of the older patients in town, those without support from relatives, those near the end of their days and susceptible to the ravages of dementia. She saw it too often, the accelerating decline to the inevitable. One by one, the key parts of their lives—those moments between—would fail them and vanish, mourned like lost children.
Perhaps that was the advantage to being the way she was. There was little to warrant mourning.
7
After Camille had gone to bed, Jérôme and Claire stood in restless silence in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Jérôme caught movement outside the window. Someone was approaching the house. Pierre.
“What’s he doing here?” he asked, knowing he sounded bitter even as the words left his mouth. Claire threw him a look that left him in no doubt that she’d called him. Jérôme followed her to the corridor but stood back, almost out of sight, as Claire opened the door. Pierre smiled at her and put his hand on her arm, saying nothing.
“Camille has come back,” Claire said eagerly, grasping his hand and pulling him through the door. Jérôme was almost amused at the way Pierre’s expression changed at once, extreme wariness and a failed attempt to mask it. She didn’t tell him why he was invited, Jérôme thought.
“Just like you said,” Claire continued. “You said he would listen to my prayers.” Pierre looked dazed. “Do you want to see her? She’s in her room.”
“Yes,” Pierre managed.
“She’s so beautiful,” Claire said with a manic edge. “I’m so happy.”
Pierre gave Jérôme a quick look of surprise as he walked past. Didn’t think the husband would be home, huh, Pierre? Not the kind of visit the man had expected, Jérôme thought. Not at all.
Jérôme let them go upstairs. When they were out of earshot, he took his cell phone and called Lucy Clarsen. She didn’t pick up, so he left a message: “Lucy, it’s me. Jérôme. I need to talk to you. Call me. Please.”
Claire thought Pierre was the one with the answers, but Lucy was the only person Jérôme knew who had ever claimed to speak to the dead—the only person he’d thought might be telling the truth, at any rate. And it didn’t work tonight, he thought. Because how can you contact the dead, if the dead have already come back?
• • •
Standing outside the bedroom door, Claire could hear movement from within. She’d expected Camille to be sleeping, expected to just sneak the door open so that Pierre could see the miracle before him. She knocked instead. “Camille? Can we come in?”
Camille wrenched the door open, angry. “Have you been cleaning? Mum, why have you moved all my stuff?”
Claire took a deep breath. “Yes, I cleaned. I’m sorry.” She smiled though. She’d waited a long time to hear Camille complain about that. “This is Dr. Tissier,” she said; Pierre was no doctor, but the white lie Pierre had suggested on the way upstairs would help him reassure the girl.
“Hello, Camille,” said Pierre. There was hardly a flicker in his eyes when he saw her, Claire noted. He was considerably calmer than she had been when confronted with her resurrected daughter. It was why she’d called him. He seemed unsurprised by almost everything.
Camille frowned, immediately suspicious. “Why isn’t Dr. Delouvrier here?”
“He’s on vacation,” said Pierre, improvising. “I’m filling in. Your mum told me what happened, but I’d like you to tell me, in your own words. Do you mind?”
“There’s nothing to tell. I was on the bus, and I woke up in the mountains. That’s all I remember. I think I had some kind of blackout. Maybe it’s amnesia…” Camille’s eyes widened. “Perhaps it’s a brain tumor?”
Pierre smiled to calm her. “No, I don’t think so. Where did you get that idea?”
“Will you examine me?”
Pierre hesitated. “Yes, of course.” He indicated for Camille to sit on the bed while he took the chair. Camille offered her wrist. Pierre took it in his hand, pretending to take her pulse, looking at Camille with a degree of wonder. Claire stood in the doorway, still trying to come to terms with the sight in front of her. But now three people had seen—it was no shared delusion. Camille was real.
After a moment, Camille pulled her wrist away, her eyes narrowing. “You’re no doctor. You don’t even have any equipment with you. What are you, a psychiatrist?” She looked at her mother, but Clair
e said nothing. As far as Claire was concerned, her daughter was with exactly the right person.
“No, I’m not a psychiatrist. Do you think you need one?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Camille, what do you think madness is? Shall I tell you? Madness is denying reality. We all do it at some point in our lives. Sometimes it seems it’s the only option. A coping mechanism. When reality is too hard to accept, we would rather deny it, or pretend to, just to avoid facing the simple truths around us.”
He glanced up at Claire. She realized that Pierre was speaking to her, just as much as to her daughter.
Pierre looked back at Camille. “And I don’t think you’re one of those people. Whatever this is, Camille, promise me…promise me you won’t run from it.”
Camille sighed, bemused and a little wary. “I’m too tired for this.”
“You need to rest,” said Claire.
“I already tried to. I’m so tired, but I just can’t get to sleep.”
“We’ll give you something to help,” said Pierre, still in his doctor’s role. He looked to Claire, who nodded. She’d had more than her share of sleepless nights, and her medicine cabinet was well stocked.
• • •
Jérôme was waiting for them when they came back downstairs. He’d been straining to hear what they’d been talking about, trying to make out the muffled words coming down through the floor. Some, he’d caught; most had been unintelligible. And the thought of Pierre having this privileged role rankled with him.
There was another source of his anger, though. Irritation with Pierre hadn’t been the only reason he’d not gone up to Camille’s room. While he’d been waiting, it had occurred to him that his wariness of Camille was perhaps a little more than just caution. He thought he might even be scared of her.
