three | trois
Ange descendre du ciel hier,
Elle est restée avec moi juste assez longtemps pour me sauver.
- Jacques Maréchal-Henri, « Ange »
I woke up the next day, alone. I was used to it; my mother works long hours and I’m used to being alone in the house. I descended the hospital bed and put on a pair of cheap slippers that was lying on the floor. It’s better than my bare feet on the cold floor.
I grabbed the metal IV pole where my intravenous bag was hanging from and dragged it towards me. Now I had this metal stand to accompany me when I use the washroom.
I parted the curtains and realised that I was meant to share the room with three other people. Though Santonian healthcare was mostly free, but they probably prioritise some people to those single-occupancy rooms. It’s no big deal. That day, it was like being in a private room – there was nobody occupying the two other beds. I headed to the washroom for my morning routine, made doubly difficult by my new metal appendage.
Changing clothes was made more complicated as well. I was able to change my lower garments despite the IV line sticking out of my hand. But the top was more complicated. Perhaps that was why the hospital gowns here were designed like that. No need to pass the IV line and IV bag through the sleeves. Very easy to remove and wear. But then again, stubborn me wanted more comfy clothes. I took a random shirt from my bag and tried to put it on, getting tangled up in a knot of my arms, the fabric, and the IV line.
After about ten minutes of struggling, I gave up trying to change clothes. I was standing there half-naked when I heard somebody came in the door. I quickly snatched the blanket off my bed to salvage some of my dignity.
“Who’s there?” I asked, peering through the gap in the curtains.
“Good morning, Kyle,” a young female nurse with a Hessunland accent greeted me. She was carrying a tray with pills. “I’ve brought your medications.” She then probably noticed me wrapping myself in the blanket.
“Thank you,” I murmured as I retreated back behind the curtain.
Undeterred, the nurse went inside my space. She finally realised what I was trying to do. “Are you… trying to change clothes?”
“Uh… yes,” I replied sheepishly.
“Okay, let me help you.” She put down the tray on my bed and pulled the blanket off me. She chortled a bit at my embarrassment. She took the shirt I was trying to put on, and first passed the IV bag and IV line through the left sleeve.
“You really chose this?” She snickered a bit as she passed my left arm onto the left sleeve. Apparently what I was trying to wear was a printed black-and-white roundneck T-shirt with three-fourths raglan sleeves, adding to the difficulty of me putting them on. “It’s a nice shirt, but you should’ve chosen ones with shorter sleeves or no sleeves at all.”
“I got that at random,” I told her. “I have other shirts in my bag, maybe those would be more suitable?”
The nurse laughed. “Too late to change it,” she said as she gestured for me to put my right arm onto the right sleeve. “Is your mother here?”
“She’s at work, but she’ll be coming later.”
“Good, because you will need probably need assistance taking this off as well.” She put the neck part of the shirt over my head. When my head emerged from the top of the shirt, she told me, “Although you can call one of us nurses as well.”
“Thanks,” I said as I straightened my shirt on my body.
“Did you know that visitors are coming, that’s why you changed clothes?”
I gave the nurse a quizzical look. I wasn’t trying to look nice for visitors. I didn’t even know there would be visitors.
“On certain Saturdays, schoolgirls from the
École de Sainte-Scolastique come to visit sick children here in the hospital,” she explained. “It’s their outreach program. You’re here at the right day.”
École de Sainte-Scolastique. I heard about that school. An all-girls private church-run school in right-bank Saintes. Girls who went to that school are stereotyped as beautiful but snobbish upper-middle-class girls.
“Would you want a visitor too?” The nurse asked. “You seem lonely.”
“Sure,” I was intrigued about all these things. And perhaps it would be nice to have someone to talk to this boring day.
* * *
A few minutes later, I heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said loudly as I tried to make myself as presentable to the visitors. After ensuring I didn’t have dirt on my face, I opened the curtains and then I saw her. I felt my heart skip a beat.
She was roughly my age. She had this pleasant angelic face that was beautiful even without her wearing makeup. Behind her transparent-rimmed glasses were expressive blue eyes that indicated that we must’ve been feeling the same thing. Her cheeks blushed as our eyes locked in a gaze.
If heaven was real, it made this angel come down on me.
Sensing some discomfort in her, I looked away for a moment. But I could not resist returning my eyes on her. Her long blonde hair was neatly pinned into a chignon. A crucifix hung from her neck. She was wearing a yellow tea length dress that covered up as much skin as possible, yet hugged her petite body, accentuating her feminine curves. In front of her, she clutched a fruit basket, wrapped in clear cellophane and tied up in a neat pink bow. She looked like she was going to church, dressed in her Sunday best, going to the altar for the Offertory. She might be overdressed, but it fits her aura of being a shy, conservative type.
I then heard someone clear her throat. It wasn’t the girl. I was startled a bit and looked up. Standing behind her was a nun dressed in a habit.
Of course there would be a nun somewhere in the equation! They’re from
École de Sainte-Scolastique, an all-girls school run by an order of nuns. It shouldn’t be surprising there was a nun present. Good thing my mother was not there or she would’ve gone berserk.
I respectfully smiled at the nun, I think I even bowed my head a bit. Even though I’m not religious, Santonian society afforded a lot of respect for the men and women of God. Some of that rubbed off on me.
“Good morning, Sister,” I greeted her.
She smiled pleasantly as if she hadn’t noticed anything. “May the Lord be with you, my son,” she replied, and then introduced themselves. “I’m Sister Narcisse, and this is Danielle.”
So Danielle was her name.
“We are from the
École de Sainte-Scolastique, and we visit the sick children every now and then,” the nun continued. “Danielle is here to visit you.”
Danielle turned her head towards Sister Narcisse. The nun gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I will leave you here, I’ll accompany your classmates,” she told Danielle. “Just call me if you need anything.”
“Yes Sister.”
Sister Narcisse then left the room.
As the nun started to leave, I scrambled for something to say just to break the ice. She was this shy, prim-and-proper girl stuck in a room alone with a boy her age. It was a bit… awkward.
After the nun closed the door, I pushed the curtains away to reveal my little space. If she had been afraid of being cornered in a small space with me, opening up my space would signify to her that I’m open and I have nothing to hide.
When I finished opening up the area around my bed, I caught her looking intently at me. She quickly averted her gaze to stare at her fruit basket.
“You were expecting to visit little kids, am I right?” I asked her in a comforting tone. “But instead you were assigned to me.”
Danielle looked up from her fruit basket. Colour again came up her cheeks as our eyes met. “No, I volunteered for this.” She then offered me the fruit basket. “This is for you.”
“Thank you,” I muttered. I continued to think of ways on how to possibly make her feel at ease. Dragging my IV pole with my left hand, I took the fruit basket with my other hand. “I can add these to my growing fruit collection,” I joked, tipping my head towards the bedside table that my mother stocked with fruits. I started heading towards the bedside table when she laid her hands on the fruit basket, inadvertently touching my hand.
“Uh… I can put these on the table for you,” she told me.
“Thank you… you’re very nice.”
I saw her smile at the compliment as she put the fruit basket astride the bananas and apples on the bedside table. She had the sweetest smile, very earnest, very genuine. I wanted to bring it out. I wanted to get her out of her shell. Maybe getting to know her would lessen the awkwardness?
As she returned towards my side of the bed, I realised that we haven’t been formally introduced to each other. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves to each other yet,” I said.
“Oh right,” she muttered.
“I’m Kyle-Colbjörn Bronconnier,” I introduced myself as a I extended my hand for a handshake. Maybe that would be a more professional way of being introduced.
She took my hand. “I’m Danielle-Jéssica Briault,” she said as she looked at me. She was blushing less now. That was a good sign.
“Nice to meet you, Danielle,” I told her as I shook her hand. She had soft and silky hands, unaccustomed to manual labour. I then ended the handshake for fear of making the situation more awkward.
“Nice to meet you too… Kyle?” She said, smiling. “Is that the name you use?”
“Yes, I’m called Kyle.”
“
Like the DJ? So cool.”
Finally somebody had a different point of reference for my name.
“Thank you for saying that,” I told her. “I don’t get that quite a lot.” I noticed her still standing with a quizzical look in her face. “Come and take your seat first.” I gestured for her to sit on the cushioned bench opposite my bed.
As she was taking her seat, I told her the truth about my name. “Actually, I was named after the sausage.”
I half-expected her to laugh. Despite having been bullied about my name in the years past, I eventually learned to make light of it when needed.
“Really?” She asked, incredulous, as she sat on the bench. “I’d still like to think you’re named after the DJ, because I think you’re cool.”
If that was flattery, it didn’t sound like it. She said it with sincerity and authenticity that would be hard to fake. Did that mean she thought I was cool?
“You think I am cool?” I asked her.
“Wouldn’t a guy who won their football game be cool?” She said with a big grin.
I didn’t know why this girl from
École de Sainte-Scolastique cared about the high school football championship in Saintes.
“How did you know about… ?”
She answered the incomplete question. “Search engine,” she fished out her smartphone from her pocket and showed me the news article that covered last Tuesday’s game. “You’re the hero of the game.”
“Oh, that,” I muttered. I felt myself blush a bit. “This striker’s gotta score.”
“Congratulations for winning. I hope you get well soon.”
“Thank you.”
After a moment of silence, she picked up another conversation topic. “Also, you have a second name, right?”
“Colbjörn.”
My second name, Colbjörn, was my biological father’s name. My mother didn’t want to tell me his story in detail. All I know was that my biological father was killed while trying to protect her from the murderous Syndicalists. The Syndicalists had killed her family because they were Courantists; they were after her as well. I had only seen a picture of my biological father once. I know that she has a picture or two of him somewhere, but I feel that it stirs up so much painful memories that she keeps it away from sight.
“What does it mean? Is it Santonian?”
“Colbjörn is a Prydanian name. My mother is Prydanian. Colbjörn was the name of my biological father…”
And then I got lost in relating to her the story of my life. My biological father. My refugee mother. My adoptive father. Growing up poor, raised by a single mother. Telling the stories was cathartic. All of those stories of pain, they lose their bite, one telling at a time. Still, all of those stories made me what I am now. Alone.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear all of that,” Danielle said sympathetically at the end of my story. “Can I give you a hug?”
I was too overwhelmed to resist. I nodded weakly.
Danielle stood up and gave me a close friendly hug. “I hope it gets better for you,” she whispered. “You deserve better.”
She straightened back up and held my hands. “If you want, I can stay here until your mother comes so that you’ll have someone to be with.”
It was an interesting offer, but I doubt my mother would be happy to see her or the nun in my room.
“I’ll be okay,” I told her with a feigned smile. “Thank you for your concern.”
I then tried to change the topic. “How about you? How’s your family?”
She then related parts of her story. As expected, she came from an ordinary Santonian family. A father, a mother, a sibling. Upper middle class from right-bank Saintes. Relatively sheltered, comfortable life.
As Danielle and I continued talking, we became at ease with each other. It brought out the conversationalist in her. We swapped stories, laughed at each other’s jokes, and dreamt about the future. I felt the connection between us. I thought that a sheltered girl like her would have nothing much to share, but I found every bit of her interesting. How she and her brother spent some of their past birthdays visiting orphanages, because their parents wanted to show them how lucky they were. How devout and prayerful her mother was, and how her mother goes to Mass every day. How her parents talked to her openly about choosing the right boyfriend and how they would want to be involved in the process.
Minutes turned into hours, and we lost track of time. The hunger pangs we assuaged by helping ourselves to the fruit basket and the plentiful food my mother left in the fridge. She even complimented my mother’s Prydanian cooking. I found out that she liked bananas the best – especially overripe ones because “they’re mushy and sweet.”
“Just like you want your boys to be?” I jokingly asked her. “Mushy and sweet?”
Danielle gave out a dainty laugh. “Maybe. I haven’t found the one yet.”
A knock on the door interrupted our conversation.
“Come in.”
Sister Narcisse must’ve noticed our expressions and the emptied food containers lying around us. “I see you two have had a good time,” the nun commented. “I hate to interrupt your fun, but I think it’s time to go…?”
Danielle looked at her watch. “Oh, I’m sorry sister, I didn’t notice the time,” she remarked. “I’ll just help Kyle clean up. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
“Sure. We’ll be waiting at the lobby,” the nun replied.
Danielle and I started picking up the fruit peels and the disposable food containers. “Kyle, are you sure you don’t want me to stay here? I can ask Sister Narcisse if I can stay.”
I threw the banana peels in the garbage can at the corner of the room. “I’ll be alright, Danielle. I’m used to this. And besides, I don’t want to take too much of your time… you might need to do something else.”
“I have no plans, actually. Mum and I went already went to Mass at dawn, so I’m free until the end of the day.”
So that was why she was dressed that way on a Saturday. She went to church.
“I appreciate your offer. I enjoyed being with you,” I told Danielle. “I gained a new friend.”
“Me too.”
Inasmuch as enjoyed her company, I don’t think my mother will approve of her. Then I remembered I was scheduled for a scan later that day. A perfect excuse. “I might also be in for a scan later today. Maybe instead we can stay in contact…?”
“Sure.”
“Can I have your number?”
Danielle hesitated for a moment as she threw the food containers in the trash can. I saw the reluctance. My question sounded like I was picking her up.
“Oh, I understand if you don’t want to give it out,” I backpedalled a bit. There are probably other ways to keep in touch. Like on social media. “It may be a private… thing.”
“Uh… Sister Narcisse and the outreach programme forbid us to give out our contact details,” she told me. She strode towards my side of the bed. “But if it’s okay with you,” she said as she sat beside me, “why don’t
you give me your number instead?”
I became a bit flustered. Was she picking
me up?
I did not even think of the answer to my mind’s question. Having no qualms whatsoever, I gave her my mobile number.
“Thank you, Kyle,” she told me after saving my number on her pretty pink smartphone. “It’s been nice meeting you.”
“Same here. Keep in touch.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “One hug before we part?”
We gave each other a friendly hug before she left. As I closed the door behind me, the empty room stood before me.
Welcome back to your real life, Kyle.
* * *
“You ate a lot,” my mother remarked later that night, as she noticed the emptied food containers and the fruit peels in the trash bin. “If you have said you wanted grapes, I would’ve bought you some.” Clearly, she caught sight of the bunch of grapes from the fruit basket and thought I might’ve gotten it somewhere.
“Oh no I didn’t eat all of it,” I told her. “There were some visitors giving gifts to sick children.” I had to be careful with what I say. I had to say as much that she won’t pry around what happened earlier, yet say as little as possible so that she won’t be upset. I tried the jokey way. “I qualified as a sick child. So they gave me a fruit basket.” I pointed to the grapes she was referring to. “They came during lunchtime. I offered them your food, ‘cause that’s how Santonian hospitality works, right?”
My mother smiled. “You and the visitors ate some of the food?”
I nodded. “They liked it. It was the first time they tasted Prydanian food, and your cooking passed Santonian taste buds.”
“I’m glad they liked it,” my mother smiled at my flattery. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“Yes mum, after the scan.”
“So how was the scan?”
“It felt like nothing,” I shrugged. “You wouldn’t like it, ‘cause you’re claustrophobic.” I let out a short laugh.
“You’re really like your father,” she said as she sat beside me on my bed. “You like to tease me, but I love you to bits,” she said as she gave me a bear hug, like how she used to play with me as a small boy.
“Which father?”
She paused for a bit, and then abruptly broke off the hug. “Colbjörn.” She then stood up and looked away. Uh-oh. Her bad memories were coming back.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured as I reached out to her.
When she turned to face me again, her misty blue eyes betrayed her forced smile. “It’s not your fault.” She leaned closer to me and gingerly touched my face. “You look like him, too.” A tear fell from her left eye. “
Litli Colbjörn,” she murmured lovingly.
I wisely shut my mouth. This was her moment. I let her have it. She rarely talked about my biological father, and I was not going to interrupt her storytelling with my corny jokes.
“Your father Colbjörn was about your age when we met,” she said. “He was such a sweet boy. A bit… uh… passionate too,” she giggled a bit, punctuating the general sadness of her words. “That's why I was pregnant at seventeen.”
That child was me.
“That’s why you, mister, should get a job first before having children,” she told me. “I don’t want to be a grandmother at thirty-four.”
“Yes ma’am,” I answered.
My mother wiped off her tears. “You need to rest now,
litli Colbjörn.”