Part 24 (1/2)
”I wish you wouldn't call him that.”
”Why not?”
”It sounds-” I hesitated.
”s.e.xual?”
”Yes.”
”Too s.e.xual to be linked with your mother? I think you have a Madonna image of your mother. Part of you feels that this child is a testimonial of her true s.e.xuality. It's a child she conceived willingly. Maybe even she is not able to face that.”
”I just want her to be okay,” I said.
”Does her lover know that she doesn't want the baby?”
”The way my mother acts, he probably think it's the best thing that's ever happened to her. I don't think she's ever really explained to him about how I was born.”
”Do you think he would want her to have the baby?”
”Not if he knew what it was doing to her. I don't think so.”
”And you think she's aborting right now?”
”Before I came here, I called her and she wasn't there. I called her at work and she wasn't there.”
”So she's going to do this on her own. Without her lover.”
”I think she'll lose her mind if she doesn't.”
”I really think you should convince her to seek help.”
”I can't convince her,” I said. ”She's always thought that she was crazy already, that she had just fooled everybody.”
”It's very dangerous for her to go on like she is.”
”I know.”
I drove past Davina's house. She was at work, but I had my own key to our room. I went in and sat in the dark and drank some verbena tea by candlelight. The flame's shadows swayed across Erzulie's face in a way that made it seem as though she was crying.
On the way out, I saw Buki's balloon. It was in a tree, trapped between two high branches. It had deflated into a little ball the size of a green apple.
We thought it had floated into the clouds, even hoped that it had traveled to Africa, but there it was slowly dying in a tree right above my head.
Chapter 35.
Joseph was on the couch, rocking the baby, when I came home. She was sleeping in his arms, with her index and middle fingers in her mouth. Joseph took her to our room and put her down without saying a word. He came back and pulled me down on the sofa. He picked up the answering machine and played me a message from Marc.
”Sophie, je t'en prie, call me. It's about your mother.”
Marc's voice was quivering, yet cold. It seemed as though he was purposely forcing himself to be casual.
I grabbed Joseph's collar, almost choking him.
”Let's not jump to any wild conclusions,” he said.
”I am wondering why she is not calling me herself,” I said.
”Maybe she's had a complication with the pregnancy.”
”She was going to have an abortion today.”
”Keep calm and dial.”
The phone rang endlessly. Finally her answering machine picked up. ”S'il vous plait, laissez-moi un message. Please leave me a message.” Impeccable French and English, both painfully mastered, so that her voice would never betray the fact that she grew up without a father, that her mother was merely a peasant, that she was from the hills.
We sat by the phone all night, alternating between dialing and waiting.
Finally at six in the morning, Marc called.
His voice was laden with pain.
”Sophie. Je t'en prie. I am sorry.”
He was sobbing.
'What is it?” I asked.
'Calme-toi. Listen to me.”
'Listen to what?”
'I am sorry,” he said.
'Put my mother on the phone. What did you do?”
'It's not me.”
'Please, Marc. Put my mother on the phone. Where is she? Is she in the hospital?”
He was sobbing. Joseph pressed his face against mine. He was trying to listen.
”Is my mother in the hospital?”
”Non. She is rather in the morgue.”
I admired the elegance in the way he said it. Now he would have to say it to my grandmother, who had lost her daughter, and to my Tante Atie, who had lost her only sister.