“Not now. Not yet,” I said. I started to dress.
He watched for a moment and then stood up. “Sometimes you Americans can be such prudes.”
I paused and smiled. “You don’t simply put a seed into the ground, Vincent. You prepare the ground first to ensure you will have a good crop.”
His smile widened. “I’m not planting a seed. No babies please.”
“There are other things to grow from making love.”
He shook his head. “You are different. You’re not a prude. You’re . . . too wise for your age,” he said.
“Peut-être. But I didn’t want to be.”
Despite this interruption, I could see he still liked me. Very much.
“Okay. I’ll till the soil,” he promised. “It will be special for you. I promise.”
I started to laugh when his mobile rang. He reached for it, and I finished straightening my clothes. I saw that he was just listening, and what he was hearing had drained his face of blood.
“I’ll be right there,” he said in French.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“She tried to commit suicide,” he said.
Darkness Really Fears the Light
Neither of us said another word. Instead, we hurried out of the apartment. It wasn’t until I was at the hospital with him that I would realize I should have asked more questions before we started out, but Vincent looked so upset I was afraid to speak. He handed me the helmet quickly.
“You don’t have to come. I can drop you off on a corner near your uncle’s home.”
“No. I want to go with you,” I said, and got on. He started up, and we were off.
I hung on to Vincent, because he was driving faster, taking more chances. I took off the helmet quickly when we reached the hospital. Without talking, we hurried into the emergency area. Once we entered the lobby, Vincent spotted his parents. He hurried to them. They didn’t look surprised to see me with him.
“How is she?” he asked.
His mother had been cr
ying. She took a deep breath. His father looked away.
I drew closer to hear what she was telling him in French, concentrating hard on every word.
“We thought she had left,” she began. “I was already upstairs when your father shouted for me. He saw the bathroom door slightly opened, and the light was on. He went to check, and he found her. She needed transfusions. She bled that much,” she added.
“With my good bread knife,” Vincent’s father said, as if that was the most serious thing.
I tugged on Vincent’s jacket sleeve, and he turned to me.
“I don’t understand. Denise went back to the pastry shop?”
He grimaced. But he didn’t have to reply.
Denise came walking into the lobby.
“Mon Dieu!” I exclaimed. For a moment it was as if I was looking at a ghost. She was pale, and she was crying. I looked at Vincent.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to get here. I should have made it clear. It’s my aunt, Denise’s mother.”