Dollhouse

I found my mother fainted on the hallway halfway through the distance between the drawing room and kitchen. I was expecting this ever since yesterday, the third day she went without eating. She became like a pet. I used to leave her food on the table and then find the plate empty. She was indeed much like a cat; a savage stray cat you kept in your house hoping that one day she’ll get used to you and let you pet her.

Since it wasn’t a surprise for me, I leaned over her, brushed the gray strands of what was left of her hair and took her pulse. My warm rosy fingers barely felt it. That was when I panicked. Suddenly I backed away and yelled; my face losing it’s composure; mutilated by fear of death.

“Gaspard!” I yelled so hard my lungs hurt.

I wasn’t expecting that, honestly.   I was expecting to yell “Help!” or something among those line. However, I yelled my boyfriend’s name and he came rushing down the stairs.

“Gaspard, call an ambulance!”

He didn’t own a car. He was too bohemian for that.

“Maman, please no! Maman, wake up!”

But she wasn’t waking up no matter how sweet and scared my words were. It’s natural that a person’s sense of duty to take over her feelings. It was her duty to faint. It was her duty to die. I went ahead to open the gate and lock Louie in the bathroom, otherwise he would have surely attacked one of the five men dressed in white who came to take my mother to the hospital. It was comforting to watch them pick her up and take her to the van while clutching onto Gaspard’s flannel shirt. They looked like angels. It was my duty to cry even though minutes ago I took her pulse with such natural calm.

“There, there, Lolita,” Gaspard whispered as he ran his fingers through my long black hair. “Would you like me to walk you to the hospital or should I call a car.”

“Call a car,” I replied feeling weak in the knees.

I waited on the sofa until the taxi arrived. I sat in the backseat and watched as we past by the trees of our petit village. It was twilight, late autumn and even though those magnificent beings have been stripped of their leaves, their strong branches still clung to the sky. Ever so unsure; ever so tense. Two hours later, my mother was stabilized and had an IV pumping vitamins in her system. I watched her from behind the glass window. She was dreamily starring at the neon ceiling. I was scared, truly scared. I didn’t want my mother to die, although I would have killed myself long time before now, maybe even the day she found out my biological father died. I am sure they loved each other. In my mind I imagine them hugged on the rusted leaves, my mother small and fragile crouched under his arm. I imagine him with that tonic smile and his round eyes gently stroking her hair. He looked truly sad.

The doctors say that this behaviour is not normal. They say that leaving her alone would be hazardous for her health. They say that I should send her to a mental facility. In my mind I knew it would be easier. Taking care of her was torture. She was deliberately torturing me. I clutched my chest and looked down the hallway. Gaspard was waiting on a chair. His elbows were propped against his knees. He rested his forehead on his hands. His red hair shun covering his wax like features. Even though Gaspard was not looking at me, I knew he felt my pain. That was comforting. Actually, maybe I was just imagining that he felt it. It was still comforting.

“Would you like a moment with her?” why do all doctors have to say that?

I smiled and went inside. “Ca va, maman?”  I sat on the bed and took her hand. -Look at me! Look at me!- my mind screamed. “So, le docteur said that trying to hurt yourself is not good and that I should send you away at a mental facility,” I bit my lower lip. She was not looking at me. Her ghostly blue eyes were concentrated on the light. “Look if you want to, I won’t. I can take care of you. I want to…” I grasped her fingers.

I felt my dry throat. I was going to cry. I never cried. I didn’t want this. I wanted my mother back; the one who took care of me like I was her little doll. Well as much as I wanted her, she was not here anymore.

“I love you so much. Why don’t you want to come back?!” I cried. “Please!” She was not listening. “Goodbye,” it was the last thing I ever said to her.

“Are you okay?” Gaspard asked as he put his arm around my shoulders.

“No,” I growled. “Let’s go.”

We walked. He put his jacket around me. It was exactly as it should be. Two lovers. She was hurting. He was poor. One foggy autumn night.France. Love. Running make-up on her pale cheeks. Could I demand for more?

No. But fate demanded tragedy.

He opened the door.

“I feel sick…” I looked at him over my shoulder.

He left me standing in the hallway.I heard him in the kitchen pouring me water. The light was bright. My fingers ran over the cabinet piano’s  keyboard.Gaspard returned. He was sitting right next to me. I was sobbing.

“She is not coming back…She is not coming back!” I angrily hit the keyboard.

“C’est bien, c’est bien,” he whispered and held me.

I continued crying. He walked me to my bed. He put the covers on me. The wind was fidgeting outside. Gaspard let Louie, shut the light and came back. He held me all night. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t help, but wonder how it would have been if the circumstances were different. Would I be with another? Would I be another?I fell asleep towards dusk. And it wasn’t for a long time, je suis sur. I woke up alone. The air felt cold and dense. I walked barefoot and felt each and every screech of the floor. I looked in the mirror and gently touched my bones. It felt hallow. I felt hallow. And then desperation. Everything was dark and cold from the bed’s iron bars to the white lace curtains. I became frightened.

Gaspard was nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere. The fear was overwhelming. Like that time when I tried to hand myself. This time I was genuinely scared. So I did the only sensible things which came to my mind. I went to the liquor cabinet, took the only bottle of vodka we had and threw it on the living room carpet. I took Gaspard’s lighter which was conveniently lying on the coffee table and set everything on fire. I rushed outside, took Louie in my arms and waited on the other side of the road. In less than a moment the white house was on fire. The flames were smothering it. Louie was barking and struggling in my arms. I was crying. I can’t remember a time when I cried so much.

“Lolita!”

I smiled. He was coming after me, my bohemian hero. I think I even laughed.

“Lolita!”

Before I knew it, I was in his arms again. I let Louie go. He was angrily scolding us. The neighbours were coming out. They were yelling. The firemen were being called. My rose garden was now dry. No more weeds to cut.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He held my face in his hands. “Lolita! Are you okay?!”

I nodded. He opened his arms and let me in. I cried, I yelled and I screamed.

The firemen didn’t manage to save much. It didn’t matter, though. I wasn’t planning on returning.  The last time I laid eyes on it was when I looked over my shoulder- Louie in my arms and Gaspard’s arm around me-. It was black and dead. My neighbours were floating on the street like ghosts.

“What am I going to do, Gaspard?” I asked.

“Lolita,” he carefully looked at me. “Did you deliberately set your house on fire?”

“Yes,” my voice was quiet. I couldn’t take my eyes off the black pavement.

I heard him gulp. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Gaspard lived with his mother and stepfather above their cafe. There was no one inside apart from them. His mother was a short plump lady who always wore a checked dress. Today it was reddish brown. Her hair was fiery red and she wore glasses. His stepfather was sitting in a chair smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper. I felt uncomfortable. Outside everything was hard black and white- digital colours- in here everything turned warm translucent orange. It felt simple. It felt home, a home I didn’t belong to.

“Hey, mom,” Gaspard said. I couldn’t take my eyes off the black and white tiles.

“Dolores is going to stay with us.”

“For how long?” his mother coolly asked.

That was when I met her beady black eyes. They showed no sympathy.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “For as long as she wants,” he cleared his voice.

“Georges!” she cried.

Her husband looked at me from above his newspaper. “Do keep the dog in your room, Gaspard,” he smiled.

I felt lucky. I wasn’t expecting they would let me keep my dog. His mother scoffed. Gaspard took me by the hand and up the stairs.

“Merci…” I whispered.

It was the first time I was in his loft. I let Louie down. It was exactly what I had expected: the books, the cassettes, the cigarette buds, the bohemian mattress and the faint light bulb. I was all Gaspard and I had never felt so happy- I fought the urge to cry. I am sure the my naive smile grew when he took my face in his hands and started kissing every inch of it. Hours later we were blissfully wrapped in each others arms so close that I could no longer tell where he began and where I ended. The only sound I could make out was Louie nibbling on Gaspard’s sneakers. I couldn’t even make out the sound of our breaths. We could well be dead or perhaps we weren’t us anymore. Perhaps we were two nameless lovers in a painting. However his inky black eyes were wide open looking at the ceiling. There was a warm autumnal light in the room. His bony arms were wrapped around me. That I knew. I sighed and snuggled closer. He kissed my head.

“Thank you…” I whispered clutching onto the sheets.

“Thank you for what?” he asked.

I propped my head against my elbow to look at him. His face didn’t betray any emotion.

“For this. For letting me in your life.”

His long fingers gently touched my cheeks.

“Why did you set your house on fire?” he asked.

I bit my lower lip.” i didn’t belong there. It felt strange and…so foreing. And you weren’t there…I was so frightened. ” It was all I could muster. A worried frown was shadowing his poetical forehead. “Je t’aime,” I kissed his palm.

He just looked at me. He was obviously tired. I understood how hard it was for him. The lines of his face were tense. His lovely red hair looked like a halo. My saviour.

“If I…” he started. “If I never leave you again, will you stop hurting yourself?”

I felt guilty. I nodded.

“Then,” he sighed. “Will you marry me?”

I stared at him.

“I don’t have a ring,” he shyly added.

“You want me to marry you?”

He nodded.

I wanted to cry again, but I couldn’t I owed Gaspard too much. In my moments of sanity I understood that he asked me to marry him because he needed me, because he was scared too. That was beyond love. That was more than a dammed like me could hope for.

“I do,” I hugged him. “I do!” I smothered him with kisses.

“Okay, okay,” he soothed me with his hoarse voice.

Two months later, Georges helped me sell the remains of the house to some ignorant English family and was had money to get marries and buy a new coffee machine for the diner.