Spectacle(39)

They’d gone to see Aunt Brigitte so they could help her pack and tidy up the room she rented from old Mme. Plouffe.

“Where’s Tante going?” Nathalie asked as they approached the white stone house with ivy in the front.

“To a place where they can help her,” Papa said.

“Why does she need help?”

“Because she has a sickness.”

Nathalie didn’t understand that. Aunt Brigitte was skinny, but she walked quickly, and she never coughed or said she had a bellyache. She didn’t look sick. “What’s wrong with her?”

Papa and Maman talked to each other with their eyes, as Nathalie thought of it, and then Papa answered. “She forgets things.”

“Like Mamie?”

“Somewhat.”

Nathalie wasn’t sure whether or not she could believe Papa. After all, Aunt Brigitte didn’t have wrinkles and her hair was brown, not gray. “Then how come Mamie doesn’t need help?”

“Your grandmother has Papi to take care of her,” Maman said, taking her by both mitten-covered hands and stooping down to make eye contact with her. “Tante is lonely. She wants to be with more people, and the nurses will help make her stronger.”

With that Maman kissed her hands (more properly, her mittens), a gesture Nathalie knew meant “no more questions.”

Aunt Brigitte never had an apartment, not that Nathalie remembered. She just rented a room from a kind elderly woman who “helped women like Brigitte,” as Papa described it. Mme. Plouffe had lots of rooms and lots of people living in her home—how could Tante possibly be lonely?—and she cooked for them. Sometimes she played the piano for them after dinner, Aunt Brigitte said. Whenever Nathalie visited, Mme. Plouffe gave her a cookie or biscuit. She was a very nice woman, Nathalie thought, and it was too bad Tante was leaving. Nathalie hoped the next place had a nice woman who gave out sweets, too.

Papa lifted her up so she could use the knocker (“only three times and not too hard,” Papa said). Mme. Plouffe opened the door, an unusually serious expression on her face, and let them in. She whispered something to Papa while Maman and Nathalie took the stairs to Aunt Brigitte’s room. Papa followed.

Aunt Brigitte sat at a small table playing solitaire. She got up to give each of them a hug and was all smiles, as though she were welcoming them to a party. The room, dark and smelling of flowers Maman called “gardenias,” was covered with papers. On the floor, on the bed, even on the gardenia plants. Papa asked Nathalie to sit at the table with Tante so he and Maman could organize the room and pack the bags.

“Do you want to learn how to play?” asked Aunt Brigitte.

Nathalie bobbed her head. For the next few minutes she watched as her aunt played solitaire while explaining the game. She stole glances at the papers Papa was gathering as Aunt Brigitte spoke. Then Nathalie couldn’t stand it anymore. Curiosity prodded her the way that toothy oaf Jacques poked her in class to try to get test answers.

“What are all the papers?”

“It’s my story,” said Aunt Brigitte, pride lighting up her face. “Let me show you.” As she leaned over to pick up one of the papers, her blouse lifted.

Nathalie gasped. “Your stomach!” she hissed.

Maman and Papa were talking; they didn’t hear anything.

“Just a few boo-boos. I’m okay.” Aunt Brigitte patted her belly with a flinch and handed Nathalie the paper she had picked up. “I know you’re a very good reader. Read my story.”

She took the paper but her eyes were still on her aunt’s stomach. Maybe that’s what her parents meant when they said Tante was sick, because those boo-boos must have hurt. Nathalie looked at Maman putting clothes into a valise and at Papa stacking papers. Did you see?

She placed the paper on the table and sat on her hands. At the top was one word, written in big letters. INSIGHT. Nathalie didn’t know that word, but she memorized it (she was very good at both memorization and spelling) and would look it up later. She tried to read the words below it and frowned. Aunt Brigitte’s handwriting was too hard to read, almost like scribbling. Not neat like Maman’s.

“Brigitte!” And like that Papa was at her side, his big hand flattened over the paper. “She’s only a child. This isn’t meant for her eyes.”

He snatched the paper off the table, and before Nathalie could blink twice Maman had her by the hand.

“Come,” Maman said. “Let’s go see Madame Plouffe. I think she has a cookie for you.”

Nathalie slipped off the too-tall chair. She waved to Aunt Brigitte, who smiled.

“Maman,” Nathalie whispered. “Tante’s belly.”

Her mother crossed the room, her hand clasping Nathalie firmer with each step.

Nathalie whispered even more softly. “It’s full of tiny red crosses, like someone pushed them on her and made her bleed.”

And then Nathalie felt it. Gloved hands around her throat. She turned enough to see Aunt Brigitte’s face hovering over her own and the grip growing stronger until … she tried to breathe—

Her eyes opened, and she saw a blue sky with leaves and branches around the edges. Nathalie blinked several times. It was all a memory, all save the very last part. Aunt Brigitte had never tried to choke her. Not ever. That must have been when she’d fallen asleep.