One of the doctors came out behind her, and Vincent and his parents rushed to speak to him.
Still stunned, but definitely happy it wasn’t Denise, I hurried to greet her, hugging her and then helping her to a seat. I didn’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t want to say that I just assumed it had been she who had tried to commit suicide. All the way here, I had a terrible fear that she had learned Vincent had a date with me and I had lied to her, not that it alone would be enough to drive someone to suicide. However, she was depressed and sensitive enough for it to be the last straw or something.
“She was tired of the struggle,” she said. “She thought my life would be better without her. She blames herself. She thinks she’s responsible for my sad life, for all that has happened to me. She thinks her whole life is a terrible failure, and all she can do is drag me farther and farther down with her. I told her she was wrong and what she tried to do would only make life more miserable for me.”
Yes, I thought, but you did blame her for so much. It was easier than taking responsibility for yourself now. I was thinking the way my father would, I thought, Roxy and my father, the man she loved to call “the general.” But I had to believe that even he wouldn’t be so hard on Denise at this moment. He would never say what I thought.
“How is she? What did they say?” I asked, looking at Vincent and his parents talking to the doctor.
“It was very close. She almost went into a deep coma.”
“I’m sorry, Denise.”
She nodded, and then she looked at Vincent and his parents and back at me.
“Je ne comprends pas. How did you get here? Why are you here now?”
Of all the times to have to admit to a lie, I thought, but I couldn’t think of any way out of it.
“I was with Vincent,” I said. “He invited me to have pizza with him.”
She looked more devastated about that than about her mother’s attempted suicide. She took her hand out of mine and sat back.
“But you said you had to have dinner with your uncle.”
“Yes, I did say that. I didn’t want to upset you. I’m sorry,” I said.
She didn’t say anything. She rose and went to her aunt and uncle. Her aunt hugged her. Vincent said something to his father and then came to me.
“The doctor says she’ll be all right, but they want her to have psychological counseling. My mother,” he added, looking back at his parents, “is blaming my father for not being understanding enough.” He looked back at me. “Are you all right? I told you that you didn’t have to come.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Denise,” I said. “I told her I was having dinner with my uncle.”
“So?”
Was he that oblivious? “I lied to her.”
“You don’t have to say that. Just tell her I called you and talked you into meeting me. Why should you have to report to her? Don’t worry about it,” he added quickly. “I’ll tell her. I’ll fix it. C’mon. I’ll take you home.”
I looked at Denise again. She was standing with her arms across her breasts and staring at us while her uncle and aunt continued to speak with the doctor. I stood up, thought a moment, and then approached her as we headed out.
“Do you want me to wait with you, Denise? I don’t have to go home. I’ll call my uncle, and later you can come home with me. There’s a spare bedroom, and I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t mind you staying with us.”
“Good idea,” Vincent said.
“No,” she said. “I don’t need you to stay with me. I have my own home.”
“She’s just being nice,” Vincent told her in French.
She smirked. “I don’t need anyone to be nice to me.”
Vincent’s parents began arguing. His mother was tearing into his father. The doctor looked embarrassed and overwhelmed. Vincent shouted to them, and his mother retreated.
“Your mother needs me,” Denise told him, and went to her.