"Daddy," I said.
He turned to me as in a dream. His dark eyes shone, full of tears. "Yes, Pearl."
"It's about Pierre, Daddy. He's not improving. He hasn't eaten anything since . . . since the hospital. He won't even sip water."
"He's blaming himself," Daddy said, shaking his head. Then he pounded his chest with his closed fist so hard that I winced. "I am the one to blame," he declared.
I hurried to his side and put my hand on his shoulder. "Of course you're not, Daddy. No one's to blame."
"I wanted us to go there. I pushed for it," he moaned, his voice cracking.
"But, Daddy, sooner or later we would have gone there anyway. You can't blame yourself. It was a horrible, horrible accident."
"Accident," he said bitterly. His chin quivered. "I warned them; I told them not to wander off, didn't I?"
"Yes, Daddy. Stop blaming yourself. Mommy's upstairs wrenching her heart with blame, and Pierre has fallen into a serious coma because he blames himself. Jean simply shouldn't have gone into the water."
"He was just a young boy, still a child," Daddy protested. "It was my job to take care of him, watch over him, protect him. I failed. I failed miserably," he said and closed his eyes. He looked as if he might keep them shut forever.
"Daddy, I'm afraid for Pierre. We've got to do something. Call the doctor back."
Daddy opened his eyes slowly and stared at me as if my words were taking hours to enter his brain. "You think it's that serious?"
"He'll be dehydrated. I think he's even running a fever."
"Oh, no. I'll lose both of them," he said and stood up. He nodded after his own thoughts. "I'd better pay some attention to him and stop wallowing in my own tragedy," he added and started out. I followed him up the stairs to Pierre's room.
Pierre hadn't moved a muscle since I had last been beside him. His eyes were open, but so empty it was as if I could see through them, down the long corridor, into the blackness of his closed-down mind. Daddy went to the bed and sat beside Pierre, taking his hand into his.
"Pierre, you've got to snap out of this and help us, help Mommy. You must eat and drink something. It wasn't your fault. You tried to keep Jean from going into the water. Come on, Pierre," Daddy pleaded. Pierre didn't even blink. "Pierre." Daddy touched his cheek. "Come on, son. Please," he begged. Pierre's eyes remained turned inward. Suddenly he grimaced as if in great pain. And then he made a horrible guttural noise that frightened Daddy and me. Daddy retreated with surprise and stood up. "What's wrong with him? Why is he doing that?"
"I think he's reliving the tragedy," I guessed.
"Pierre, stop it. Stop it," Daddy ordered. He shook him by the shoulders. Pierre's expression didn't change, but the horrible sound ended. Daddy released him and turned to me. "I'd better call the doctor, as you say, Pearl."
"Go on, Daddy. I'll stay with him," I said. Daddy left the room.
I sat on the bed and took Pierre's hand in mine, stroking it gently.
"Poor Pierre," I said. "You had to see such a terrible thing, but you can't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."
I lifted my eyes to his face and saw the beginning of a single tear as it crawled over his eyelid and made its slow zigzag journey down his cheek to his chin. Incredibly, that was it, only one tear; as if he had cried all the others inside and had nothing more left to show. I leaned over and wiped the solitary tear away.
"Won't you try to drink some water, Pierre? Please. For me. Please," I begged. His lips didn't move, and his eyes remained as cold and hard as chips of turquoise. I sighed and held his hand and spoke to him softly until I was exhausted with the effort. Then I heard the door open and saw Mommy standing there, her hair down, her face streaked with her own dried tears, her skin waxen. She was in her nightgown, but wore no slippers.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked in a voice stripped of emotion. She sounded like someone who had been mesmerized and was speaking under a spell, but she seemed finally to realize there was something the matter with Pierre.
"He won't drink or eat anything. His expression hasn't changed since we returned, nor has he moved. He's in a catatonic state, Mommy. I told Daddy to call the doctor."
"Mon Dieu," she said. "What have I done?"
"Mommy, please. It doesn't do anyone any good if you blame yourself. Look what it's doing to Pierre." I turned to him. "I'm sure he's blaming himself."
"My baby," she said and moved forward to embrace him. She sat on the bed and took him in her arms, but he was like a rag doll, his head wagging, his eyes frozen, his limbs lifeless. She rocked with him and tried to soothe him, but he didn't respond. The realization struck her, and she lowered him to the pillow, an expression of shock and fear in her face.
"What can we do, Pearl?" she cried.
"The doctor will be here any minute, Mommy, but I think Pierre's going to have to go to the hospital. They'll have to put him on an I.V. until he returns."
"Returns?" she asked. "From where?"
"From his own sanctuary, his place of escape, a place where what's happened is not a reality."
"How long could this last?" she asked, looking at him. I was afraid to tell her what I knew. I had read of people who had gone into a catatonic state for years because of some emotional trauma. Some of them never emerged, and some, when they emerged, were dramatically different because they had regressed into childhood.
"He'll snap out of it soon, Mommy, but he needs medical attention," I replied.
"Yes, of course, you're right." She put her hand on my cheek gently and smiled. "You're my big girl. I'm going to depend on you for so much now, Pearl. It's not fair, I know. You should be able to enjoy these years and not be weighed down by so much hardship and misery. I had hoped your life would be different from mine. I had hoped . . ." She paused, her lips quivering.
"I'll be all right, Mommy."
She looked at Pierre again. "The twins were so close. Even as babies when one would cry, the other would, too, and when one woke up, the other was soon to wake up as well. Jean started to walk before Pierre did, you know."
"I remember, Mommy."
"But even though he could, he still crawled because Pierre crawled. One never wanted to leave the other too far behind. Now . . ." She closed her eyes. I put my arm around her, and we cried and comforted each other for a few moments. Finally the doctor arrived, and Daddy brought him up to Pierre. We all stood back and watched him examine my brother, noting the way his pupils dilated, checking his pulse, listening to his heart and lungs.
"We should put him into the hospital, monsieur," he told Daddy. "I'd like him to be under the care of a psychiatrist too."
Daddy swallowed hard. Mommy started to sob softly.
"I'll make the arrangements," the doctor said. "If I may use the phone."
"Come down to my study," Daddy said.
"I'll get him ready," I offered quickly.
"He'll be so frightened," Mommy moaned.
I dressed Pierre in his bathrobe and slippers and put together some of the things I knew he would need, things I prayed he would soon need. Mommy went to get dressed. Soon afterward Daddy carried poor Pierre to the car again and we were off to put him in the hospital.
He looked so much smaller when he was dressed in a hospital gown and put in a hospital bed; and when they inserted the I.V. in his arm, the seriousness of what was happening to him struck both Mommy and Daddy at the center of their hearts. Daddy embraced her, and they stood together watching as the nurse and the doctor attended to him.
Because the nurses knew me, they were more concerned and sympathetic. The psychiatrist who was called in was a Dr. LeFevre. She was in her early sixties with fading light brown hair. I knew of her, but I had rarely seen her and never talked to her before. She interviewed Daddy first to learn about the circumstances and then went in to examine Pierre. After her initial examination, she spoke to Daddy, Mommy, and me in the hallway. She was a soft-spoken woman, but her demeanor was authoritative and confident.