by M. D. Elster
The nurse unlaces the strings tied behind my stepfather’s neck and slips the hospital gown down so his chest is exposed. It’s a bit awkward, seeing my stepfather nude from the waist up and I shift uncomfortably on my feet, avoiding eye contact with Colette, who, for some reason, I would feel especially uncomfortable around to realize this is not an unusual sight for her. His chest is very white, with a smattering of very black chest hair — surprisingly black for a man over fifty. I look on as the nurse begins to unwind his shoulder and dress it with fresh clean gauze.
“Is that where…?” I begin to ask, unable to finish the question.
“Gunshot wound,” the nurse confirms. “Luckily the doctor was able to get the bullet out, nice and clean. With proper rehabilitation, your stepfather should eventually be as good as new — as long as he doesn’t go pulling the stitches out, mind you.”
I stare at the terrible wound, goggle-eyed as I glimpse flashes of it through the nurse’s attentive hands. It is high up on his left shoulder, the flesh surrounding it bruised, empurpled. I realize: The shooter — presumably Jules Martin — aimed to kill. My stepfather catches me staring with a horrified expression and chuckles.
“Don’t look so grave! I survived, my dear. And now we are reunited.”
The nurse finishes up her job wrapping the wound. His shoulder is clean and white once more. She helps him slip his arms back into the hospital gown and covers him back up, retying the strings, tight and tidy.
“Now, Anaïs,” he says, as the nurse flitters away, “Come closer; I want to get a good look at you, my sweet!” He pats the bed sheets beside him. Feeling strangely timid, I draw up next to him, and with an effort, scoot onto the bed. He reaches out, rumples my loose blonde hair, and tips my chin this way and that. I feel eight again, instead of fourteen — which is perhaps how he still sees me. I also forgot how handsome he is, how dapper — even in his hospital gown. The nurses did a decent job of shaving him, of carefully trimming and combing his thin black moustache. His hair is also neatly combed, his eyes as pale blue and piercing as always. “My, but you look well!” he says to me. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” I say. “I feel healthy. It’s only…”
“Only what?” he asks, frowning. I glance over my shoulder at Colette, who is hovering nearby, watching us like a hawk. An image of Lord Faulkner’s bright, beady stare comes to mind.
“It’s only that, well, I can’t remember everything,” I say finally. “I was struck on the head. A doctor has been treating me. He… he thinks I have trauma-induced amnesia,” I say, quoting Dr. Waters.
“Ah, yes,” he says. “The lawyer — Mr. Duval, I think his name was — told me as much when I woke up. And Colette here confirmed it.” He nods to Colette where she stands in a far corner of the room.
“I only recall bits and pieces,” I admit glumly. I look down at the plain white bed sheet, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “They wanted me to be a witness… but so far I’ve proved useless.”
He reaches for my hand and rubs it for comfort.
“Don’t worry, Anaïs. Now that I am awake, they have my testimony,” he says. “I’m told they may not even need yours. It would still help to convict the fellow, but if you can’t manage it, not to worry.” He smiles, and I notice the outside corners of his eyes crinkle. “I’m just glad we both survived. First the storm, then the intrusion.”
“Wait — you said ‘convict the fellow’… That means you got a good look at who shot you?”
“Of course,” he snorts. “It was that miscreant from my club — the one I never should have hired! The one, who…” he squeezes my hand as though to give me comfort, “… who I knew was harassing you.”
“It wasn’t exactly like that…” I say, but he waves a hand.
“He was always an angry young man. I should have known eventually he would boil over and it would come to this, but to be totally honest, the intrusion… it was a surprise.”
I frown, mulling all of this over.
I close my eyes for the briefest of moments, trying to think. I did see Jules there in our house that night — I am suddenly sure of it. But I can’t recall what was said, or what transpired; I can only see his face. I know Jules was frustrated by the fact that my stepfather would not give him his due chance to audition as a performer in the club. But my mind sticks on the word ‘intrusion.’ My instincts tell me Jules was not an intruder. I don’t know why I think that, but I do. Invited in… by Colette, perhaps? I see a flash of the two of them whispering backstage again. And clearly she was lying about something during the car ride over here.
I glance over my shoulder, to where Colette stands hovering near the door. There is something peculiar about her body language; it is as though she wants to flee the room, yet doesn’t want to leave me alone with my stepfather. She clearly wants to keep an eye on the two of us. I feel more certain than ever that she is hiding something, that she has something to do with the terrible events that transpired during the night of the hurricane.
“All right!” a new nurse announces as she comes striding into the room, bringing with her a rush of antiseptic-scented air. “Enough chit-chat for now! I’m very glad you’ve gotten a chance to see your daughter, Mr. Reynard, and I’m sorry to have to break up this cozy sewing circle, but I’m afraid your allotted visiting time is up. Everyone from the supervising doctor to that oily assistant district attorney has us on strict orders to keep your visits to less than thirty minutes at a time.”
“Thank you nurse,” Colette says. She reaches out a hand in my direction. “Come, Anaïs, let’s leave your stepfather in peace. He needs his rest.”
I am reluctant to rise from the bed, and even more reluctant to take her hand. I turn back to stare at my stepfather’s face, trying to memorize his face and features, drinking him in while I can. He squeezes my hand, and lets it go.
“We have been reunited once, and will be reunited again soon, eh?”
I nod. I rise from the bed, look down at my shoes, and shuffle my feet a bit.
“Get well,” I say, hesitating. I want to say so much more than that, but don’t know how. “Get well, papa,” I finally say, after plucking up the courage to use the word I used so sparingly before he was shot.
But hearing this word, he beams, and I realize I have bestowed a gift. I think I can make out tears glazing over his eyes. He touches his chest, and we have an understanding. I turn to go.
“And you, darling?” he says. “Going so soon… and no farewell from you at all?” I stop, and turn around, but I realize: He isn’t speaking to me. I follow his gaze to where Colette stands in the doorframe, tensed as though she might bolt, but still holding her hand out in my direction. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye, at least for the time being?”
She drops her extended hand by her side, and holds him in her stare for several seconds. Then her face relaxes.
“Of course,” she says, sounding slightly pained. She floats over to his bedside, her hips swinging in her usual smooth, sexy manner. My stepfather watches her as she approaches. She bends over and plants a peck on his lips.
“Oh, come now!” he says, chuckling. “That’s how I used to kiss my grandmother — no! Scratch that! That’s how I used to kiss my grandfather.”
Colette smiles at him and playfully swats at the top of his head. “Have it your way, then,” she says. She leans over again, and gives him a long, sweet kiss.
“Much better,” he says, his voice deep with approbation. He catches me staring at the two of them, a suspicious, confused expression on my face. “Colette and I had a little spat on the night of the hurricane, but we were able to have a nice long talk about everything this morning, didn’t we darling?” he says, as though explaining something.
He waits for her, and finally she gives a nod in agreement.
“Goodbye for now, dear. Goodbye, my sweet Anaïs. May we all find ourselves safely back at home soonest, just the three of us, reunited as
a family again!”
I feel sad to leave, but happy to have seen him looking so healthy and ever so dapper — even in his hospital gown, he is the most dapper man I have ever met.
When Colette and I leave the hospital, she doesn’t drive me straight back to the asylum. Instead, she pulls into the parking lot of a diner. One look at it, and I can tell right away: It’s the kind of greasy spoon that sells breakfast around the clock. Diners like this one are dotted about all over New Orleans. I’ve always wondered about the menu items advertised on their signs — things like catfish and waffles.
“Why’ve we stopped?” I ask — although, I think I know the answer.
“I thought we’d get some lunch together,” Colette says. “You must be sick of that asylum food.”
When we go inside, the booths have rips in the Naugahyde and the Formica tables are sticky, but the air smells greasy, sweet, and delicious.
“What’ll you have?” a heavyset colored woman asks us, wiping down the table with a wetted cloth.
Because it is the first thing that popped in my mind when we pulled into the parking lot, and also because I have never ordered it once since settling in New Orleans, I order catfish and waffles.
“Just a grapefruit,” Colette says. “And a glass of tomato juice, please.”
The waitress bustles away. She soon returns with our order during a period of time that seems far too short to cook up our complete order, and yet, here it is. I pour some maple syrup on my waffles and pick at the strange combination of flavors on my plate. I can tell Colette wants to tell me something; I can’t imagine what it might be.
“I’ve spoken with Dr. Waters,” she says finally, once a few bites of catfish and the majority of my waffle are gone. “He’s agreed to release you as early as tomorrow, so that you might come home and sleep in your own bed before the trial.”
I stare at her, utterly bowled over by this news.
“Will my stepfather be coming home, too?”
She shakes her head. “He is still too weak; the doctors want to keep him in the hospital.” She reaches out to touch my hand. Her thin fingers feel icy as she grips me. “It will just be the two of us at home, Anaïs.” I can’t help but note the low, menacing tone in her voice.
I don’t know what to say. The thought of leaving the asylum is a relief; the thought of being left alone with Colette in the house where my stepfather was shot is not.
“Everyone is pushing for a speedy trial,” she continues. “Your stepfather will be specially transported to the courthouse on the day he is scheduled to testify.” She bites her lip. “You know what he’ll say in court, Anaïs. It will be over for Jules.”
I look at Colette, and the full extent of the realization hits home: Now that my stepfather has woken up from his coma, my own testimony has become significantly less important to the prosecutor. I can’t believe I didn’t realize this fact sooner. This is why Dr. Waters is suddenly amenable to the idea of releasing me from the asylum, of allowing me to go home with Colette. I wonder if I will even be asked to take the witness stand at all.
“Can I still testify?” I ask, thinking aloud.
She puts her spoon down and looks at me, square in the face. Her eyes are full of meaning.
“Do you… do you feel you want to?” she asks.
I shrug. She picks up a paper napkin and begins absent-mindedly ripping off the corners.
“I thought you didn’t remember anything about that night.”
Her body language is odd; I am intrigued, trying to make sense of what this might mean. “Maybe it’s coming back to me.”
“What would you say?” she asks in a forced casual voice. She picks up her serrated spoon and loosens another bite of grapefruit.
“I’d tell them what I’ve remembered,” I say in a terse, frank voice.
Her eyes flick to my face and she sits there, looking at me for several minutes. Her face is distorted with… is that panicked worry?
Finally, she sighs and says, “Whatever you decide to do, Anaïs. Please, just consider the effects you might have on others’ lives.”
We finish our meals in silence, both of us only picking at what is left on our plates. Eventually, Colette asks the waitress for the check. The woman tucks a washrag into the waistband of her apron and produces a notepad, writing the bill up on the spot while standing before our table. She tsks at our uneaten food and eyes our bodies — Colette’s fashionable svelte figure and my awkward skinny frame — but gives us a matronly smile nonetheless.
Afterwards, Colette drives me back to the asylum.
“Dr. Waters tells me we’re to keep her overnight, but that you’ll be back around to collect her in the morning?” Nurse Kitching says to Colette as she signs me back in, scribbling her illegible signature on the clipboard at the front desk.
“That’s right,” says Colette.
“We’ll be sure and see to it that she’s all packed,” Nurse Kitching replies. She smiles her characteristic stiff smile at me, and I can tell she still hates my guts. “Isn’t that nice? Won’t you be glad to be going home?”
I don’t know what else to do, so I nod.
CHAPTER 31.
I did not always dislike Colette. I remember admiring her very much the day she boldly forced her way through the nightclub door to audition. To an awkward schoolgirl like me, she was a bright, mysterious, dazzling thing. I drank her in with my senses and had her memorized within seconds: The inky sheen of her dark, immaculately waved hair. The clean, warm, cozy scent of her dime-store shampoo mixed with the expensive scent of her Shalimar perfume. The tilt of her large eyes — slightly upwards at the outer corners, like a cat. Her glamorous red lipstick and long, black, curled eyelashes. The faint sashay to her walk that gave her svelte figure a greater suggestion of curves than it actually possessed. Colette was every bit as mesmerizing to a young girl as she was to a middle-aged man, although in retrospect I realize for entirely different reasons.
I recall the day she moved in, watching her things arrive in the hands of the burly, red-faced moving men my stepfather had hired. He had hired professional movers, in spite of the fact that Colette’s personal possessions amounted to little more than what could fill his Cadillac’s trunk in two or three trips; I remember the movers were sweating due to the thick New Orleans heat, not due to the strain, for Colette traveled light. In any case, movers handled what little there was that day, and she and I were meant to sit back and oversee the process.
“You’re not to lift a finger,” my stepfather said to her, winking and leaning in for a kiss.
I suppose I felt a little threatened and jealous, but the truth of the matter is that I was secretly fascinated. I had not lived with a grown woman since my mother passed away. I was but a little girl then; now I was a young woman myself, and desperately in search of an idol. As far as idols went, Colette certainly fit the bill. Each item that was ferried through our front door was fascinating to me, each a detail, a material object that contributed to Colette’s magical physical presence. And indeed, there were a good deal of items that contributed to her physical presence quite literally: gowns and hat-boxes, jewelry cases and shoes, tongs and rollers, lipstick and lacy things. Glimpsed through my eyes, Colette was the woman in all the fashion magazines — the one we were all meant to aspire to be.
And she was kind to me. To celebrate Colette’s first night in the house, my stepfather had taken her out to a fancy dinner, just the two of them. Edie no longer lived in with us; she only worked part-time now. She had left a single serving of dinner for me on the kitchen table before she went home for the evening: cold fried chicken and collared greens. I didn’t mind; Edie had a special knack for making delicious fried chicken, and in my opinion, fried chicken tastes best cold. I did, however, feel a sense of loneliness as I chewed my food in the echoing solitude of the empty downstairs. When I was finished, I tidied up after myself, rinsed the dishes, and returned to my room upstairs. I assume
d I would see neither hide nor hair of my stepfather and Colette.
Thus, I was surprised to hear a knock at my door. When I opened it, there was Colette, holding a little tray of chocolates and smiling at me.
“They gave them to us at the restaurant,” she said. She held out the tray for me to take one, which hesitantly, I did. “May I come in?”
“Sure,” I said, slightly awed she should want to pay me a visit. She came into my room, her eyes taking in all the objects there as though she were taking stock of me just as I had taken stock of her only hours earlier that day. I watched as she lifted one of my (by now rather weathered) illustrated medical encyclopedias from off a shelf and idly thumbed through a few pages.
“I used to want to be a doctor,” I explained awkwardly.
“You don’t anymore?” she asked, turning to me with wide, questioning eyes.
I shrugged, feeling sheepish. She put the encyclopedia back and lifted a different book. I recognized the gilded leather cover of my precious book of Flemish fairytales.
“This is beautiful,” she murmured, gazing at the pages and running a finger over the highly detailed pen-and-ink illustrations. She frowned. “What language is this?”
“Vlaams,” I answered. “Flemish. In Belgium, where I was born… some families still speak it.”
“And yours did?”
I nodded. “It was my father’s first language. And my mother knew it well enough to speak it with him — though she usually spoke French with me.”
“What was your mother like?” Colette asked. She continued to hold the book, pretending to inspect it more closely, but I could see her looking at me slyly from out the corners of her eyes. “Tell me about her.”
“She was… very beautiful. Golden-haired, like an angel,” I said. “She was a nightclub singer, too — like you.”
“Hmm, a singer, eh? So it’s fair to say your stepfather has a type,” Colette replied, her mouth twisting into a wryly-amused smile. “Well, except for the golden hair, of course!” She laughed and touched a hand to her own ebony waves.
