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?"
"Not for a while, Pierre. It's four in the morning," I told him and laughed.
"Four in the morning? I've never been up that late, have I?" he asked, looking from Mommy to me.
"No."
He looked past me and saw Daddy on his crutches in the doorway. Pierre's eyes grew bigger than silver dollars. "Dad, what happened to you?"
"Oh, I slipped and fell down the stairs," Daddy said nonchalantly. He hobbled up to the bed.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not much anymore. Later I'll let you sign your name on my cast."
Pierre smiled. Then, just as quickly as that smile came, it faded. "Jean can't sign it," he said.
"Then you'll sign it for him," I replied quickly, before the tears could come to anyone's eyes.
"Yes," Pierre said, thinking. "I will sign everything 'Pierre and Jean' from now on," he said excitedly.
"Well, people might not understand that, Pierre. When you sign your name, it's enough that you know you're signing for Jean, too, okay?"
He thought a moment and then reluctantly nodded.
But I sensed that from that moment on, everything Pierre did in his life, he would do for his dead brother, too. He would drive himself to do twice as much twice as well. He would try to live two lives. It would take a long time for him to bury Jean. When he did that, Jean would die again for him, and he would suffer the tragedy a second, maybe even harder time.
Pierre couldn't believe how long he had been sleeping. We told him as much about his condition as we could. He was smart enough to understand most of it. I promised him that when he was up to it, I would explain it in more detail. He loved to learn, and it occurred to me that he, perhaps as much as I, had the potential to be a good doctor.
We remained with him until he got tired and closed his eyes again. Mommy was terrified he would slip back into unconsciousness, but the nurse and Dr. LeFevre, who arrived hours earlier than usual, having been told of Pierre's recovery, assured us the worst was over.
"But there is much to do," she added quickly. "He's going to need loads and loads of tender loving care and therapy. It will take time. Don't expect him to put on his running shoes and go off to join other children his age right away," she warned.
"We'll do whatever it takes to help him get well again," Mommy pledged.
Although it was still quite early and none of us had had enough sleep, we were too excited to just go home to sleep. Daddy took us out for breakfast, and we discovered that we were quite hungry. We hadn't done much more than nibble at our food the past day or so.
It was good to see my parents reanimated, talking excitedly about the things they were going to do to prepare for Pierre's homecoming. Mommy thought it might be wise to hire a tutor for him as soon as possible, and Daddy suggested some short sight- seeing trips. I warned them about moving too quickly and advised them to wait to see what the doctor thought before we made any decisions or took any actions.
"Look who's become the wise old lady," Daddy kidded and then reached for Mommy's hand across the table. "And look who's become as giddy as a child."
She smiled at him and they exchanged that magical look I had seen so many, many times before, a look I envied and dreamed of having between me and someone wonderful . . . someone like Jack.
Jack! I thought.
"Daddy, we've got to get home soon. Jack will be arriving."
"Jack?" Mommy said. "Oh, I had forgotten."
"How could you forget Jack?" Daddy teased.
"You stop it right now, Daddy," I warned. The two of them laughed. It was the sweetest music I had heard in a long time.
Just as I feared, when we returned to the house, Jack was already there.
"You have a guest in the sitting room, mademoiselle," Aubrey told me. I thanked him and hurried down the corridor.
Jack looked lost and unsure of himself seated on the velvet settee in our grand sitting room. He wore jeans, boots, and a cotton plaid shirt, but his dark hair was brushed neatly, not a strand out of place.
"Jack!" I cried, rushing to him. He almost didn't get to his feet before I embraced him. I kissed him and held him for a moment.
"Whoa," he said.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived," I said, laughing. "But we had the most wonderful news this morning. Pierre came out of his coma. We've been at the hospital since very early this morning."
"That's fantastic." He looked up as Daddy came to the doorway on his crutches. "Bonjour, monsieur," he said.
"Bonjour." Daddy came in as quickly as he could and extended his hand. "I want to formally thank you for all you have done for my daughter and for my wife," he said. "I am in your debt."
"Oh, no, monsieur," Jack said gazing at me. "I am in yours for having such a wonderful daughter."
Daddy raised his eyebrows and turned a small smile at me. Blushing, I turned and saw Mommy in the doorway.