opened her eyes, and sat up.
'Good morning, Mommy,' I said.
She raked the room with her eyes as if she had forgotten where she was. Before she responded, she rubbed her forehead vigorously as if to erase her lingering dreams. Then she took a deep breath and brushed back her hair. 'Good morning, honey. What time is it? Oh, dear,' she said, gazing at the clock on her nightstand. 'I hope your father isn't waiting for me before he has his breakfast.'
'No, he rose early and has already gone to work.'
'Work?' She thought a moment and nodded.
'Good. That's what he needs to do . . . keep himself busy. You too, honey. I want you to go back to work at the hospital.'
'Not yet, Mommy. I want to devote as much time as possible to Pierre.'
'Don't worry about Pierre. He's going to be fine,' she said with confidence and that strange half smile she had been wearing ever since Jean's funeral.
I returned to her bedside. 'What did you mean last night when you told me you knew what had to be done now, Mommy? What exactly are you planning on doing? What did that voodoo lady tell you?'
'Oh, it's just some harmless chants and rituals, Pearl. You need not worry. Let me indulge myself in my old beliefs. It doesn't do anyone any harm and who knows . . . As I always told you, you shouldn't discount any one else's faith.' She dropped her half smile and grew concerned. 'You didn't tell your father about last night, did you, Pearl?'
'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.
