Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  “Those are Mommy’s clothes.” I try to make it sound like a problem.

  “The wardrobe needs to be emptied so other stuff can go in there.” Granny sounds like the look on the teacher’s face when she doesn’t want us to talk back.

  “We’re going to give them to Goodwill,” Auntie Rose says, as though this will make it better, “except for the things that would suit me or Auntie Emma, perhaps. That’s what we were talking about.”

  “But they’re Mommy’s clothes,” I try again.

  “Yes, child,” Granny replies. “Could you take your young legs downstairs to fetch us something to drink? All this dust is making me thirsty.” She stuffs a couple of sweaters in a bag and turns away from me.

  I gallop down the stairs and go into Daddy’s office. There are people in the waiting room, but for once I really don’t care. I knock on the door and storm in. “They’re getting rid of Mommy’s clothes, all of them.” My voice breaks. Daddy looks at me, as does the old lady lying in the chair with her mouth open and a cloth under her chin. A tube sucks up her saliva and it’s making a spluttering sound.

  “Calm down, Mona. You know you’re not allowed to come in when I’m at work. What’s Georgette here going to think?”

  The old lady smiles, tube and all. She doesn’t seem to mind much.

  “Her clothes.” I continue to stare at him. I don’t know what I expected exactly, but something, in any case.

  “We’ll talk about it later. Granny thought it would be a good idea to tidy everything up. Now I really have to get back to work, Mona, the waiting room’s full.” He looks at his patient again. “My apologies for the interruption, Georgette. Now I’m going to—”

  I turn around and close the door behind me. When I’m back in the living room, Alexander tugs at my sleeve.

  “You promised you’d play Sorry!.”

  “In a minute, Alexander.”

  I take a good look around the two large rooms. The photo of Mommy and Daddy when they got married that was above the cabinet that used to belong to Daddy’s parents is gone. The shoes that were under the radiator in the corner: gone. I go to the cupboard with her wool and her knitting: empty. I rush back upstairs and check the jewelry box in the bathroom: empty. The book that she was reading is back in the bookcase. Granny is tidying everything up, everything. I go back into the bedroom and glare at her. She doesn’t look back.

  “Did you bring water for us?”

  I don’t reply. When I’m angry, I forget my manners.

  Auntie Rose asks as she folds up a blouse, “How was school, Mona?” Just like asking someone “Is the soup good?” while they’re bleeding like a pig from a gash on their knee.

  “All right,” I say, just as Alexander did. I bite my lip.

  “It’s better if you’re not constantly reminded of what happened,” Auntie Rose says then.

  “Back to life as it used to be,” Granny adds.

  Then I go downstairs.

  “Get Sorry! out of the cupboard,” I say to Alexander. He runs to the playroom and then puts the game on the table. “We’re allowed to have Coke,” I lie. “Do you want some?”

  “Yes, yippee!” he squeals.

  I go into the kitchen, get the biggest glasses I can find, and fill them almost to the rim. “Chips too?” I shout. I climb up onto the counter and find two bags of sweet pepper potato chips on the top shelf.

  “Yes,” Alexander shouts.

  That evening Granny cooks us dinner. Meatballs in tomato sauce with mashed potatoes. I actually do like that, but I don’t feel hungry. Maybe it’s because of the chips.

  “You need to eat properly,” she says.

  “Yes,” I say, putting down my knife and fork.

  “The other meatballs are nicer,” Alexander says. He means the ones Mommy makes.

  Granny looks at him. “Eat, sonny,” is all she says.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “He’ll be along in a moment when he’s done.”

  “When will he be done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I have to go to bed at eight thirty. I didn’t get to see Daddy. Once I’m under the covers, I think: I’ll stay awake until midnight if necessary, and when I hear Daddy on the stairs, I’ll go to him. He won’t mind. He did say we’d discuss it later.

  I don’t think I made it until midnight. In the morning I woke up, and the only thing I could think was that he must be angry with me. I know I’m not allowed to just go barging in, it’s against the rules. Or maybe I made him sad. Even more sad. Maybe he didn’t like Mommy’s things being tidied away but he didn’t dare tell Granny that. After all, he should be grateful for everything she’s doing for us, so yes. I’ll be extra nice to him today. Hopefully he’ll forgive me then.

  As I brush my teeth, I think: Maybe they’re right. Maybe it is better not to be reminded anymore. The same way I try not to think about monsters, and about wriggly worms in coffins and Sophie’s smell. Luckily she sits far away from me in class now.

  5

  It’s Christmas Eve tonight. Daddy and Alexander and I are going to celebrate it with just the three of us. We don’t have guests coming until tomorrow. Mommy always said that Christmastime meant stress-time, and when I see the way Granny’s carrying on, already spending all afternoon cooking for us, I think she must feel the same.

  They say children look like their parents, but I don’t think Mommy looked like Granny. Except perhaps her nose and also that they’re both strict for my own good, but Granny a little less. I think I mainly look like Daddy.

  Most children love Christmas because of the presents. Ours have been lying there shining under the tree for a couple of days now. It’s hard only to be allowed to look at them, but Daddy wouldn’t let us open them until Christmas Eve. And now we’ve had to wait for him for ages because there was another urgent case. An old man who was roaring in pain, Daddy told us. I felt sorry for him, even though I didn’t hear any roaring. I also felt sorry for us because we’d waited so long already.

  Alexander opens his first, a big box of Playmobil, something to do with firefighters. He looks happy. Mine is a big box too. The paper’s blue and blue’s a pretty color, so it’s already looking good. I take it off carefully so that I can make something with it later. And then I see it: it’s a doll. Really, a doll. As big as a baby. Her eyes open when you sit her upright and shut when you lay her down. Her mouth’s a little bit open and she’s wearing a yellow romper with white stripes. I hate dolls, I don’t get what to do with them. This one smells like plastic and bedrooms before the windows have been opened. I really wanted a punching bag and boxing gloves, like Sophie’s brother, Berend, or maybe roller skates, or some of that special watercolor paint like Ellen’s got. Her mom says it’s called aquarelle and you can make much prettier pictures with it.

  I had actually made a card with a drawing on it and I’d written what I wanted inside. It was supposed to be for Santa, that card. I knew he didn’t exist, but last year Mommy had me make a card because Alexander still believed in him. But in November, just after the first toy catalog had come in the mail, Daddy suddenly said that grown-ups had invented Santa. We were eating tomato soup with those bits in it. I think Alexander was upset. “Yeah, I know, Daddy. That guy in the big store, he’s not real. He’s just an assistant Santa,” he said. But Daddy explained that parents bought presents for their children and said Alexander was a big boy now, and it was better he knew the truth. My brother pouted. I immediately thought about the card, of course. I’d put a lot of work into it. In the end, I just adapted my drawing a bit. There are also regular people who have beards, and I turned the cloak into a coat, like for regular people, and I added a little Christmas tree in the corner, so then it became a card with my Christmas list on it. I put it on Daddy’s desk more than three weeks ago so that he’d have enough time to go shopping. He didn’t mention it, but I just thought he didn’t want to ruin the surprise. And now this doll? Granny probably bought it and didn’t even see my
card.

  “There’s a bottle too, so you can feed the baby milk,” Daddy says. He’s taking everything out of the packaging for me. He’s being so nice I don’t dare say how ridiculous the doll is. Anyway, that wouldn’t be polite. I pick up the bottle, put the doll on my lap, and feed her the so-called milk. In the meantime, I look from the doll to Daddy and back again. He smiles at me. I like it when Daddy smiles.

  Personally I don’t think Daddy’s very handsome. Of course everyone has to make up their own mind about those things. Mommy must have thought differently. He’s got a beard that prickles when he gives you a kiss, and I always think beards smell a bit like dirty dishes. When I was smaller, only eight, he didn’t have one and that was better. He’s got small brown eyes, a reasonably big nose and big ears, and his ears flap a bit. My daddy’s also got bushy eyebrows and hair that stands up on top of his head. He’s also got hair on his chest and arms and legs and back and on his hands and ears too. When I look at him, I’m glad I’m a girl. I hope for Alexander that he hasn’t inherited all that hair.

  After about two minutes, I set the doll upright. “Now she has to be burped, right, Daddy?” He nods, gets up, and asks whether we want any candy.

  We watch TV together. We’re allowed to choose what to watch and we’ve each got a whole dish of candy. I’ve stuck the doll on the other sofa so that she can watch along with us comfortably. And to get rid of her. Maybe the card got lost. Or maybe one of Daddy’s patients took it and it’s somewhere on a lonely person’s shelf. That would be all right, actually, because at Christmas you have to be nice to lonely people, my teacher says. People who don’t have anyone else are lonely, according to the teacher. Luckily we’re not like that.

  6

  Uncle Artie has the radio on. Uncle Artie loves music and nice clothes and he runs races against us. He hates soccer and other sports on TV. And he never talks to me like I’m a kid. The speakers are singing “Save Your Kisses for Me.”

  “I know what that means,” I say proudly, and I giggle.

  Granny puts a plate on the drying rack. There’s been a crack in it for a long time, but she still doesn’t throw it away. It’s because she lived through the war, Daddy says. Granny never throws anything away. Except for some things, I’ve realized.

  “It won the Eurovision Song Contest, that song,” Uncle Artie says.

  “I know. There were four people in white suits who were singing and doing a kind of dance, waving their arms.” Mommy hadn’t liked their suits, she said at the time, when Eurovision was on. I was allowed to stay up for it because I was big enough.

  Uncle Artie sings along. He tosses away the dishcloth he was using, lays his arm on my shoulder, takes my hand, sticks it out, and dances around the kitchen with me. He smells of flowers and cigarettes. He’s wearing a lavender-colored shirt and a kind of scarf, very different from Daddy’s clothes. I always love Uncle Artie’s clothes.

  “Me too,” Alexander, who has just come in, cries.

  “No way,” I say. “I was first.”

  But Uncle Artie spins me around, my arms above my head, lets go, picks up Alexander, and dances around with him until the song finishes. There wasn’t much of it left but I’m still annoyed.

  Granny gives him his cloth back without a word. Granny thinks people should always be working, it seems to me. Uncle Artie makes a face behind her back, crossing his eyes and sticking his lower lip out over the top one. I think it’s funny, but maybe he shouldn’t, because if Granny saw she wouldn’t like it.

  Granny wanted to have the big Christmas party at our house, she thought that would be the easiest because there’s enough space in our house. Auntie Rose, Auntie Emma, and Uncle Olivier will be coming later too with their children. They’ve got five kids altogether. Five and a half in fact, because Uncle Olivier and his wife are going to have another baby in March.

  There are going to be two of Mommy’s sisters and two of Daddy’s brothers. I think it’s good that it’s even. Even though it doesn’t work out if you count Granny too, since she’s on Mommy’s side. But Granny only half counts because she’ll be in the kitchen almost the whole time, I can tell you that already.

  Yesterday she got started on the food: Vol-au-vents with croquettes, both homemade, even the croquettes. As an appetizer, soup made of something I’ve forgotten, with homemade meatballs. Chocolate mousse for dessert. It really is an awful lot of work to make that all yourself. I offered to help, but then it would only take longer, Granny said. That’s probably true. Mommy always said I had two left hands. When I was little, six maybe, or four, I thought she meant I was born wrong, now I know it’s just an expression. Granny slaves away for us, just like Mommy used to do, and she’s actually really old—fifty-nine. There isn’t a cake big enough for that many candles.

  It’s almost three and the first guests are arriving. Auntie Rose, who always comes too early. Not long after her, the others arrive, one by one. Uncle Olivier is almost thirty minutes late—little Walter just wouldn’t wake up from his nap, apparently. Uncle Olivier always talks really loud. I don’t know why. It amazes me that Walter can sleep through it.

  Everyone sits down and I’m allowed to take a tray of snacks around. There are pieces of melba toast with cream cheese and an almond in the middle, or with crab and a leaf of parsley, or with steak tartare, mayonnaise, and a pickled onion. They look beautiful. Everyone chooses one except for Auntie Emma, who is watching her figure, like Mommy always did. Uncle Artie takes two and winks. “There are plenty,” I say and wink back. Daddy pours everyone a glass of fizzy wine, which is the right thing to drink at a party. My cousin Emilie is sitting next to Auntie Rose, so after I’ve finished making my rounds, I put the tray down on the coffee table and nestle up to Daddy.

  The boys immediately rushed off to the playroom, and Walter is sitting among the toys Auntie Elke put on the floor for him. He stares intently at the tower of colored rings, arranged from big to small. Walter gets them off and puts them in his mouth, which isn’t how you’re supposed to play with them, but I’m not going to get involved.

  Uncle Artie is the first to raise his glass. “Let’s drink to a wonderful Christmas, a better New Year, and to Agnes, wherever she is now. Cheers!”

  Agnes—I haven’t heard that name for so long. I wonder whether Daddy still talks about Mommy to other people, in the evening maybe, when we’re in bed and can hear guests downstairs. Like a ridiculous amount of mosquitoes, a whole living room full, all buzzing at the same time—that’s what it sounds like. He hasn’t said the word Mommy to us since that time, nine days after the funeral, when I asked him why we had to get rid of her clothes. And now Uncle Artie has dared to say her name? I can feel how uneasy the silence is. Granny gets up and goes into the kitchen under the pretense of fetching something. Auntie Rose and Auntie Emma sip from their glasses in silence. Uncle Olivier smiles at his brother like he’s saying, Everyone makes mistakes, it’s not that bad. I like Uncle Artie but I don’t understand how he doesn’t realize he upsets people. I always do my very best not to upset people. Daddy stares at his shoes. I don’t move.

  Then suddenly the door to the hall opens and Alexander comes in crying. “They’re cheating.”

  Everyone replies at the same time.

  “Go on, Mona, go upstairs and play a different game with your brother. He’s the youngest and probably can’t compete with his cousins.”

  “And Mona,” says Auntie Emma, “tell the boys to be nice to Alexander, otherwise I’ll be forced to come up.”

  I don’t want to go is what I think. It might not be very well behaved of me, but I really don’t want to go upstairs. I want to stay here, like Emilie, even if Auntie Rose has started talking about the handbag my uncle gave her yesterday, which isn’t that interesting. I want to hear what they all say. They might even mention Mommy again.

  But Daddy says, “Come on, sweetie, hurry up.”

  I’m angry at Alexander. Why can’t he ever stay calm like the rest of us? I shout up the s
tairs in irritation, “Why do you always have to play with the big boys? They’re stronger and smarter than you, that’s just how it is.” At which point he cries even louder. That’s all I need. “Little brothers can be a real pain.” I just say it, and I don’t even feel guilty, because I’m not sorry.

  In the evening, we’re all called to come eat. They stuck all the children together at a separate table. I hate kids’ tables. Like I hate green gummy bears, which taste horrible, and gymnastics benches and having to stop reading in bed.

  It just seems like much more fun at the grown-ups’ table. Uncle Artie is always laughing, and Daddy talks a lot. Now he’s telling people about the patients of a friend of his who is a doctor. There was a patient with a shampoo bottle stuck up his ass—that’s what my daddy says, “up his ass.” Everyone laughs, which is understandable. My father says his explanation was that he’d slipped in the bath and that’s how the bottle got into his butt. This makes everyone laugh even more. I don’t think they’d laugh if it happened to them. Granny doesn’t find it very funny either, I can see that from her face. Granny has a deep wrinkle between her eyebrows, as if someone has used the back of a kitchen knife to cut a groove in clay, and when she frowns, the groove gets even deeper. Mommy had that too, but less.

  We’ve already finished the main course, our plates are clean, or almost. The whole room smells of frying. A lot of people have complimented Granny. Auntie Rose said how much better homemade croquettes taste, and almost everyone agreed. I told Granny that they were the tastiest croquettes in the world and asked whether I could have one, not because I was hungry, but because they tasted so good. I didn’t actually really need a croquette but I thought it might make Granny happy after all that work. She said I shouldn’t overexaggerate about the croquettes and that they’d make me fat.