Girl in the Dark (24 page)

Walking to work at three fifteen that morning, I was exhausted. Rosita's house was dark. The kitchen curtain was drawn, which only reminded me of the day before, when Rosita had yanked the curtain shut in my face so that she wouldn't have to look at me anymore.

I bit down hard on my lip. I had La Souche waiting for me, not to mention the four hundred croissants I had to bake, the twelve kinds of bread, and the
tartelettes.
I decided to forget about the madeleines. I was never going to bake a madeleine for anybody ever again.

First I switched on the lights and heated the ovens. Then I took La Souche out of her warming cupboard. Normally I'd do it while murmuring to her. “Did you sleep well,
ma chérie
? Are you still comfortable?” The way she smelled, and the sponginess of her structure, always gave me the answer. But I wasn't in any state to make conversation. I started mixing the ingredients for the twelve different kinds of bread: the
pain au céréales,
the
galette,
the
pain de seigle,
the
baguette,
and all the rest. Next came the proofing and the baking. All through the early hours of the morning, fresh loaves of bread went into the oven. Soon the heady, slightly sour and
slightly sweet smell of fresh-baked bread came wafting through the kitchen. I realized the routine actions and familiar smell of my own bread were making me feel calmer.

At half past six, when the owner came in, I was right on schedule. The first hundred croissants were ready, and I'd spend a couple more hours baking the rest of the day's product. After that, I'd switch to preparing for the next day.

The owner and I didn't talk much. It wasn't like it used to be with Margaret, who hardly ever stopped talking even when nobody was listening. The owner and I said good morning to each other, and through the glass wall I could see him stocking the shelves and refilling the cash register with change.

The first customers came in for their fresh croissants and
pains au chocolat
and I wondered if Rosita would stop in at the bakery. I thought that maybe she'd come and have a coffee with me, and everything would be normal again. Even though I was angry, I was hopeful. As hopeful as I'd been all the days, months, and years I spent in the Mason Home, that my mother would show up and take me home. I should have known hoping was pointless.

Since I'd been watching the window from the minute the store was open, I was having a hard time concentrating on the bread baking. I left the next batch of croissants in the oven too long. When the buzzer went off, I did hear it somewhere in the back of my head, but it didn't register that I was supposed to take the croissants out.

It wasn't until the owner came running into the kitchen that I realized the place was blue with smoke. “Ray! What's going on in here?” He pulled the oven door open and exclaimed, “Shit! Didn't you set the timer?” What he pulled out was a tray of blackened croissants.

My legs began to shake.

“What's the matter with you? Are you ill or something? Do you need to go home?”

I splashed some cold water on my face and took a deep breath. Concentrate, I told myself. Concentrate on your daily routine. I thought about what Pierre used to say: “It's just like making wine. Time and temperature. Time and temperature.”

I managed to bake another fifty croissants and twenty baguettes. They didn't look as perfect as usual. A bit too pale, not uniform in shape. The owner raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything.

At around ten
A.M.
I was ready to start on the dough for the next day's croissants. I took La Souche out of the warming cupboard. She looked tired. I'd fed her earlier in the day, but it hadn't perked her up. She was pale and compact, and smelled sour. Not a nice sourdough smell, but an unpleasant one.

“What's the matter with you?” I whispered. “
Ma chérie,
what on earth's the matter with you?”

I closed my eyes and waited for the answer to come. Had I set the temperature of the warming cupboard wrong? Was she still hungry? Did I need to lower the pH? I opened my eyes and studied the dough intently. Sugar, I suddenly thought. She needs to be sweetened. I gave her two tablespoons of sugar and returned her to the warming cupboard.

For the next hour I couldn't do anything except hope she'd get better. I couldn't make the croissant dough with La Souche in this state. Meanwhile I was keeping a constant eye on the store, in case Rosita came in.

Rosita still hadn't appeared by eleven, and La Souche was worse off than before. She had shrunk even more and seemed to be having trouble breathing. I peered into the store, where my boss and one of the girls were busily serving the people from the fancy
neighborhood. They didn't seem to have any inkling of the drama that was playing out in the kitchen.

“
Ma chérie,
” I pleaded. “Don't abandon me. Stay with me.” A tear came rolling down my cheek. I felt it happen but didn't have the presence of mind to wipe it away. The mixture of water, protein, sodium, potassium, lysozyme, and all the rest dripped into the mother dough. She bravely resisted for a few seconds. “
No!
” I shouted. “No! No!” The tears kept falling, and as I looked on helplessly she collapsed, slowly but surely. I could neither stop crying nor try to save La Souche. I was paralyzed. I might have saved her if I'd come to my senses in time. But I just couldn't. I just let it happen.

I was calm by the time I took off my apron and threaded my way through the line of customers to the exit. I heard my boss shout, “Where do you think you're going?” I had nothing to say to him.

It was quiet on my street. Everyone was at the market, which came to town once a week. The sky was cloudy and the wind was cold, even though it was May. I realized I'd left my coat hanging in the bakery, but didn't feel like going back for it.

When I turned onto our street I saw that Rosita and Anna's front door had been left open. I tried to think of all the wise lessons I'd ever learned from the Mason Home shrink. For example: If you're not seeing eye to eye with someone, it's best to stay out of their way.

I shouldn't have walked up to Rosita's front door. I was still hoping it had all been a misunderstanding. That Rosita would take me back and we'd be almost a family once more. Walking up to her door, I snapped off a few dead twigs in her bushes. Now
that La Souche was dead, I had all the time in the world to get her garden into shape.

“Rosita?” I called. She didn't answer. She was refusing to answer me again. My hope promptly turned back into anger. She'd lied to me, and she was acting as if I didn't even exist. But I did exist. I did very much exist. She wouldn't get rid of me that easily.

Slowly I pushed the door open.

The days my mother agreed to babysit Aaron had always been a welcome break for me. I'd walk in to find them sitting on the sofa reading a book together, or playing a game called Little Polar Bear Wants to Fly. My mother would have dinner ready, and all I had to do was hang up my coat and sit down to eat. Mealtimes were always a time for pleasant chitchat, and then at around seven o'clock, Aaron and I would get in the car and drive home. But ever since I had found out about Ray, small talk had gone out the window. I just couldn't talk about the weather when there was so much I needed to know.

“I had an interesting week,” I said over the meal of roast pork, fries, carrots, and peas.

“Here we go again,” said my mother, and started sawing furiously at her meat.

“Do you know Ray hasn't been doing well at all? The social worker is afraid he isn't cut out for life in the institution.”

“And do
you
know I went to the doctor yesterday about that nail infection?” my mother responded in a loud voice. “He gave me a prescription for a salve I'm supposed to apply to it twice a day.”

“He's being transferred to another ward soon. There he'll
finally be getting the structure he needs. Was he always like that, Mother?”

My mother just continued. “So I went to the pharmacy. With Aaron. The woman at the register says to me, ‘You do know how you're supposed to treat that nail fungus, don't you?' I told her, ‘Excuse me, Miss, this is an
infection
. And I should very much appreciate it if you would lower your voice, and not trumpet confidential information to the whole world.' ”

“Mother, I was trying to tell you something.”

“And
I
am trying to tell
you
something.” If it weren't for the fact that she was my mother, I'd have sworn she was looking at me with contempt.

“I want more,” said Aaron.

My mother put some more carrots and fries on his plate, and then mashed everything together.

“How come with you he's such a good eater?” I asked. “I have to talk him into taking every bite.”

“So there you have it, the irony of being a mother in a nutshell. By the time you've mastered this child-rearing business, your children are grown up and out of the house, and you're left with all that knowledge and expertise and nothing to use it on.”

“That's why in many cultures it's normal for the grandmothers to raise the kids. Just tell me when you want to start.”

“Ha! In your dreams.”

“But having a partner must make a difference, don't you think? Not always having to do everything by yourself, and having someone to talk things over with? Someone who'll let you sleep in once in a while, or watch the kid so you can get to the gym, so that you're not constantly stressed and can keep your figure, too. You're the perfect example, having tried it both ways. With me you had Daddy, and with Ray you were on your own, weren't you? Or weren't you? Who
was
Ray's father, anyway?”

My mother pursed her lips.

“Not a good subject?”

My mother picked up a napkin and started wiping Aaron's mouth. “What a good boy. You finished your plate, sweetie pie. You may leave the table.”

Aaron clambered off his chair. “Can I sit on your lap, Grandma?”

“You may.” She opened her arms and let Aaron climb onto her knees. She hugged him close.

I had mixed feelings watching them together. She had sent her first child away and pretended he didn't exist. She had raised her second child with icy perfection. But her grandchild was her everything. I had never seen her come up short with Aaron. I was glad, yet at the same time it was unfair.

“So who is Ray's father, and where is he?” I asked sharply.

Instead of answering me, she stroked Aaron's head and said, “You need a haircut, young man.”

I started clearing the dishes, peeved.

“Will you please bring in the vanilla pudding?” my mother called after me.

“Bitch,” I snarled at the refrigerator.

“What kind of job did you have before you met Dad?” I tried again as we were doing the dishes together in the kitchen.

“I worked as a secretary for a while.” The answer was grudging.

“Do you know you've never told me that before? What kind of office were you working in then?”

“What
difference
does it make?” My mother started scrubbing fanatically at the tiles with a rag and green soap. “You know, I can't even remember the last time we had a normal conversation. Everything is an interrogation with you these days. I
guess I should be grateful I don't have a spotlight shining in my face.”

“You've got it all wrong, Mother.
This
is a normal conversation—what a normal conversation should be like, anyway—about us, you and me. About the stuff that matters. The ones we're always having about supermarket coupons and Lina's eyelid surgery,
that's
what isn't normal.”

“Excuse me?”

“You're never willing to discuss anything. Not even now, now that I've been finding out all kinds of things about your life that are important to
me
as well. Who are you really, Mother? I haven't got the slightest idea.”

My mother pushed the rag into my hands and walked away. “Right. You do the rest.”

I looked around. The kitchen was already spotlessly clean.

“I've got some good news for you.”

I braced myself. What other people considered good news was often the worst news you could imagine. But Mo's eyes were so shiny that I figured it might actually be true this time.

“You're moving to a new ward very soon. One where you'll fit in better. Doctor Römerman wants you to come see him, to talk it over with you. I'll be there, too.”

I nodded. You had to have someone you could trust, and I had Mo.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Mo leaned forward until his face was close to mine. It made me feel uncomfortable. “On the new ward you'll be given a bigger suite. And you have three guesses what you'll have room for in there.”

I didn't dare guess the thing I wanted most in the whole wide world.

Mo started making swimming-fish movements with his hands. “But I haven't breathed a word to you, all right?”

He walked out of the common room on his way to the social workers' office, and I was left alone, standing by the window as usual.
My fish!
Did he really mean I was going to get my fish back?

I raised my hands over my head and started running through the common room like a soccer player who's just scored a goal. I kept cheering and running up and down. I kept it up until Richard put his hands to his ears and started moaning, “Stop it! Stop it!” Then Mo poked his head out of the office and said, “Ray, I know you're happy, but take it down a notch, okay?”

“I'm doing my best,” I answered.

“You won't tell a soul yet, all right?”

“Okay.”

Dr. Römerman explained to me what being placed in the new unit would mean. It was the “autism unit” and was meant for people who weren't good at feelings. Like me.

I would have to stick to a strict daily schedule and would have to keep going to therapy.

“Fine!” I wanted to shout. “Now tell me about my fish!” But Mo, sitting beside me, was watching me, so I tried to control myself.

“During the intake session, you made a request,” said Dr. Römerman. “You asked if you could have your aquarium in your suite.”

I leaned forward. “Yes? Yes?”

“We have decided to grant your request.”

“That means you're getting your fish,” said Mo, with a meaningful wink.

“But,” said Dr. Römerman, “first we'll have to take the dimensions of the tank into account. If it's too large, we'll give you permission for a smaller one. Would that be a problem?”

I shook my head. “François! Maria! Hannibal! King Kong! Saturn! Venus! Peanut! Raisin! Margie!”

“I see,” said Römerman. He put on his horn-rimmed glasses and started writing something on his notepad. “I think we'll move you next Tuesday. If you want, you may visit the new unit today with Mo. Would you like to do that?”

“Then we can take a look and decide where your aquarium would go in your new suite,” Mo added.

Again I was overwhelmed with an indescribable sense of happiness. On an impulse I threw my arms around Mo and rested my head on his shoulder.

“Well, well,” said Dr. Römerman, smiling.

Mo patted me on the back. “I'm delighted you're so happy, Ray.”

The autism unit didn't look any different from the orientation unit. It had the same sofa and chairs upholstered in blue with thin red stripes, the blond oak coffee table, the yellow polyester carpet . . . even the plants were in the exact same places.

Most of the residents were out, at therapy or at work, the autism social worker told me. He was an older man with a beard and a deep, calm, and clear voice. There were only two of the residents in the common room. They were on a break between activities.

They didn't say hello. They didn't even seem aware of our presence. One of them sat on the couch reading a book about ferns. The other was working on a 1,500-piece puzzle.

I was going to like it there.

“You'll have more freedom here,” the new therapist told me. “But we'll start you off slow. The first few weeks you'll remain under close observation. If all goes well, you'll be given increased independence. Such as being allowed to go to the library on your own, or the canteen.”

“Can I see my cell?”

“Your suite. I must warn you, it isn't in the greatest shape. We're having it painted, and you'll be getting new furniture.”

We walked into a corridor lined with steel doors fitted with little shutters. My cell was at the very end. The social worker tapped in a code and the door swung open.

I stepped into the bare room. There was a stench of sweat, and one wall had a huge damp spot on it. “It hasn't been cleaned yet,” said the social worker. “But I warned you.”

I started pacing. From one wall to the opposite wall I was able to take exactly eight steps. So I'd have three more feet than before, a definite improvement. The new cell was also wider, and it had a window that looked out on an empty wall.

“What do you think?” asked Mo.

“Very nice,” I said.

“We're going to clean it up for you, naturally.
That
won't be there anymore, either.” The social worker was pointing at the huge stain on the wall, as if it had escaped my notice.

“Great,” said Mo. “If we place your bed here, you'll have room over there for your aquarium.”

“Oh, yes, I'd heard about that,” said the new social worker. “A saltwater aquarium, right? What kind of fish do you have?”

“All kinds. Angelfish, surgeonfish, clownfish, blennies . . .”

“We have another a resident here who also keeps fish. Only in his case it's just two goldfish in a bowl.”

Mo glanced at his watch. “We have to get back, Ray. It's almost the end of my shift.”

I looked around the empty space one last time.

Not too bad, I decided.