"No, Mommy. He was already gone by the time I went downstairs this morning."
"Good. Please don't say anything, darling. He's so emotionally fragile as it is. One more thing could push him over the edge. You don't want that, do you?"
"But, Mommy, going to cemeteries at night . . ."
"I promise I won't go there again. Okay? Come here, honey," she said and reached out for me. I stepped closer, and she took my hand. "You and I have always had a deep bond between us, haven't we? We have always trusted each other entirely."
"Yes, Mommy."
"Trust me, then, Pearl. Please," she pleaded, her eyes soft and loving.
"All right, Mommy. As long as you don't go back there."
"I won't." She looked around. "Well, I guess I'll get up and have breakfast. I am hungry this morning."
"Will you go to the hospital with me today, Mommy?"
"I will," she said. "I have just a few things to do first. Why don't you go ahead and I'll join you later?"
"When?" I demanded.
"After lunch. Okay?"
"Maybe I should wait for you and we should go together," I said, not believing her.
"Now, Pearl, what did I just ask from you? I asked for a little trust between us, right? I'll be fine. Besides," she said, "by the time I arrive, Pierre will have begun a real recuperation. You'll see," she said. She rose and went into the bathroom. I lingered awhile, wondering if I shouldn't just call Daddy and tell him to rush right home.
But then I realized that Mommy was right. Daddy was fragile, too. If he was beginning to put himself together, I should let him do that unhampered. It had fallen to me to be the pillar of strength in our house, whether I wanted it or not. It was getting late anyway, and I didn't want Pierre to see so much of the day go by without any of us there.
When I arrived, however, I learned that Daddy had already visited with him. He had brought him his favorite comic books and some of his favorite pralines, but everything remained on the table where he had left it. Pierre was propped up comfortably in his bed, his hands folded in his lap, his eyes fixed on the wall, the lids blinking reflexively. His lips quivered slightly when I kissed his cheek and sat beside him, taking his left hand into mine.
"Mommy's coming to see you today, Pierre. Won't you try to speak just for her. She desperately needs to hear your voice."
His blinking continued in the same rhythm, and his eyes didn't shift. I looked down at his hand in mine. His fingers were curled inward and his palm was cool.
"We're all blaming ourselves, but it was no one's fault, Pierre, no one's," I murmured. Slowly his fingers began to straighten. I looked up and saw his eyes and then his face turn toward me. His lips began to stretch with his effort to open his mouth and then I saw his tongue lifting against his teeth. His eyes widened with the tremendous struggle to animate his face and produce an intelligible sound. I waited, holding my breath.
And then his lips moved up and down, followed by a clicking sound. I rose and stroked his forehead and his hair.
"Easy, Pierre. Easy. What do you want to say? I'm right here."
I kissed his cheek again. His lips moved faster, and a sound started in his throat. It formed itself into his first word since Jean's tragedy: "I . . ."
"Yes, Pierre," I said, my tears building. "Yes, honey."
"I . . . tha . . . tho . . . thought."
I brought my ear closer to his lips.
"Thought it was a branch," he said and closed his eyes.
"Oh, Pierre." I hugged him. "We know. We know, honey. No one blames you. No one," I said rocking back and forth with him in my arms. When I released him and sat back, however, he was staring at the wall again, his lips frozen, his eyelids blinking in that same rhythm.
"How are we doing?" I heard someone say. I turned to greet Dr. LeFevre.
"He spoke to me!" I said. "In a whisper, but he said a sentence."
"That's wonderful. His recovery has really begun. I am going to recommend that you and your family take him home. He'll need some nursing care, but he's off the I.V. and taking in food and water. The rest is just a matter of time and tender loving care. Afterward we'll see what sort of therapy is required."
"Oh, Pierre, do you hear that? You're going home. Isn't that wonderful?"
He didn't react, didn't change his expression, didn't move his lips.
Dr. Lefevre checked his blood pressure, then spoke to him. "Your family wants you home, Pierre. They need you to get well and be yourself again. But they can't do everything for you. You've got to want to help yourself. You've got to do what we talked about, okay?" she said, patting his hand. He didn't seem to hear her or see her. She smiled and winked at me. "It's going to take time," she said. "Time and patience."
"I'll call my father and tell him what you want us to do."
"Fine. I can recommend some nurses. Have him call my office in an hour or so," she added. Then she paused and led me away from the bed. "How is your mother doing? I've seen your father here, but not her."
"Up until now she hasn't been doing well. She blames herself too," I said.
"Of course. But she's made an improvement?"
"I think so."
"Taking care of Pierre will occupy her mind and end her self-condemnation. She won't have time for it," Dr. Lefevre assured me. "And you should come back to work, too," she added. "They miss you around here."
I smiled and thanked her, and then I hurried out into the corridor to call Daddy.
He was very excited. "Did you call your mother yet?"
"No. I thought I'd call you first so you could make the arrangements."
"Good. Okay, I'll get right on it. You call her. She was so dead to the world when I rose that I didn't even speak to her," he said.
"I know." It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him why, but I thought Mommy would be devastated if I broke our pact. "I'll call her now."
I phoned and Aubrey answered.
"I have to speak to my mother right away, Aubrey," I said quickly.
"Madame has left the house," he said.
I glanced at my watch. She had said she wasn't coming to the hospital until after lunch. "Did she say where she was going?"
"No, mademoiselle. She just said good-bye to everyone and left."
"Said good-bye? How do you mean?"
"She made it a point to see every servant before leaving," he said, obviously confused by Mommy's behavior. My heart began to pitter-patter. Where had she gone? What was she doing? I was wrong to leave her and to make such promises, I told myself.
"Did she receive any phone calls this morning or any visitors, Aubrey?"
"None that I know of, mademoiselle."
"Did she take anything with her when she left?" He hesitated. I knew he didn't like reporting or seeming like a spy. "It's all right, Aubrey. Mommy has been troubled since Jean's passing and isn't herself. I have to know."
He was silent for a moment and then began. "The only reason I know this is because Margaret was confused and mentioned it to me, mademoiselle."
"You know what, Aubrey?" I demanded with impatience.
"Madame was searching for something in your brother Jean's dresser. She pulled all of the drawers out and spilled the contents on the floor, and then she took down the picture of the twins that hung above Monsieur Andreas's desk and . . ." He paused. "And?"
"She cut your brother Jean out of it and left the other half, and then she left the house with only a small satchel."
I sensed from the way his words hung in the air that there was something more. "What else Aubrey?" I asked, my teeth practically chattering in anticipation.
"She didn't take the car, mademoiselle. She simply walked away."
"No one came to pick her up, not a taxi, nothing?"
"Not that I saw, mademoiselle."
"You saw her walk away from the house?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. She never looked back. Is there something you wish me to do?"