Paris by the Book(59)

Ellie was speaking. French, English. She was speaking to me.

“The doctors have to do this thing called a spinal—a ‘spinal tap’?” Ellie said.

“Is that your translation or theirs?” Would the hospital have a translator? Daphne was our best translator.

“It’s not a translation,” Ellie said. “It’s what they said, those exact two words, in English. In French they said something about the lower back, and poking. ‘Ponction’?”

“How did you know to come here? Did Madame send you here? It’s miles from the store.”

“I knocked on her door, she didn’t answer. I didn’t try long. Daphne woke me up. She’d gone looking for you in your room—she was—you could tell right away it wasn’t good. She wasn’t making sense, she fell and wouldn’t get up. I called les pompiers, and when they came, they said this place was best for someone like Daphne,” Ellie said. “Or I think they did. They asked me about you, I said I didn’t know, then I said you were on your way, and by then we were here. At a children’s hospital. It’s like, only for kids.”

“It’s for kids?” I said. Because my fifteen-year-old couldn’t have figured this out. Because I was ignoring what Ellie had figured out: how to get emergency services to come to a bedroom above a bookstore, how to get the paramedics to ignore the fact that the mother was not present, how to ensure that she (unlike me) stayed at her sister’s side—at least until she had to fetch her mother from a police car at the curb.

“I think so,” Ellie said, her voice going higher, starting to wobble. “They gave me an English brochure. It said they invented the stethoscope.”

The first entrance we passed gave every evidence that this might be true—a spiky gate, wrought iron, towering, furred with rust. What had this hospital invested in since that first stethoscope?

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Ellie: where’s Daphne?”

She led me through one lumpily cobbled court and then another, past the smokers, the cryers, lonely faces lit gray by the screens of their phones. We finally reached a modern wing with glass walls, aggressively stylish furniture. A towering cartoon dog with a loud thatch of orange hair stood nearby. He had to have terrorized more than one child.

“Daphne, nom de famille, Ea—” I said to the woman at the desk, before Ellie pulled me away.

“We’ve already done that,” Ellie said, walking ahead. “But you need to come back later with our carte Vitale.”

“You can’t just march right in,” I said, as we did.

“You can’t just leave your kids to go out—what were you doing?” Ellie said.

“Ellie.”

“I’m fine being in charge, all right? When things are normal. But what—what was I supposed to do?” said Ellie. “I wasn’t even sure which number to dial—Asif said 112.”

It was confusing: 911 came in different flavors here, people had preferences.

But none of this mattered. Where was Daphne? Did they really want to do a spinal tap? I didn’t know where we were going, but I had started half jogging, which now put me ahead of Ellie, which allowed her to see—

“What are you wearing?” she said.

I pulled the skirt down and waved her on. We rushed down one long turquoise hallway and then a yellow one. The color, the design, everything was turned up way too loud, and felt even more so, given that the hospital was way too quiet otherwise. A scream, or two? A cry? It seemed a bitter thing to wish for, but I did. Because where was everyone? Where was Daphne? We walked faster and faster. Daphne! For a minute, we followed a thick red line painted on the floor, and for another minute, orange paw prints. Ellie had mentioned needing our family’s health card, but I knew that wouldn’t cover the full cost being tallied here. The nonmonetary cost. What do you want, Paris? I thought. Give me Daphne back and I will give you my life. I heard Paris snort. I’ll give up the store. Paris waited. I’ll give up Paris. A massive pair of doors parted and we entered a vast space, teeming with people and lights and sounds. It was like we’d stumbled onto the bridge of a starship. Little podlike spaces sealed behind glass ran around the circumference of the room.

Ellie led me to Daphne’s.

I reached for the handle to her sliding glass door and yanked. Ellie yelled and grabbed me—I shook her off and went for the door again. Ellie yelled again; a nurse arrived. She put a hand on Ellie’s arm and a hand on mine. She looked us each in the eye in turn. Then she closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Do this, she said, without saying a word. Breathe. Ellie did, I did, and the nurse, whom I would now do anything for, pointed to a sticker on the door. INTERDIT, it said in French. “Forbidden,” this means.

“But I’m her mother,” I said to the nurse, who was now pointing back the way we’d come. And here I’d loved her. I opened my mouth to yell. Ellie stepped between us and, tears in her eyes, apologized a dozen times, a dozen ways, to the nurse. Excusez-nous de vous déranger. The nurse replied to Ellie at length in French, then turned to me, said one word in English, wait, and left.

Ellie turned to me. “We can go in—they don’t want me to go in, at all, but they will let me go in if you’re ‘okay’ with it, which you better be. My cough is gone.” She coughed.