"Well," she said hesitantly, "this is my first case where the patient has gone into a coma from psychological reasons. I have had comatose patients who were injured and who improved. I even had a young man who was shot by a mugger and who went into a deep coma and later improved. You can't give up hope," she added, but I didn't see any optimism in her eyes, and she did shift them away from me quickly.
Dr. LeFevre visited and merely said, "We'll see," when I asked her for an opinion.
Daddy returned to take us to dinner, but Mommy was so tired that we decided it would be better to just go home. Sitting in a chair and talking to Pierre all day didn't require much energy, but it was emotionally draining for my mother. She looked so bad, my heart cried for her. Her eyelids drooped, her lips trembled, her complexion was pallid, and she walked with stooped shoulders.
When we arrived home, Mommy decided to lie down. Her supper would be brought to her room, but she insisted Daddy and I eat in the dining room. We did, but we weren't very talkative. It was as though Pierre's funeral had begun.
"The doctor told me Pierre could go on like this for months and months," Daddy finally said. "I don't see how your mother is going to last. She was convinced her rituals and appeals to various spirits would help. Now that all of this mystical business has failed, she's at the lowest point I've ever seen her. I'm afraid we'll be visiting her in a hospital soon, too."
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?"