Mon amie américaine by Michèle Halberstadt Page B

back leaning against a shelf. I know how much you love to steep your smoked Lapsang Souchong in a red stoneware teapot that you brought back from Paris, and Iwait for you to reproach her for her offhand way of throwing together my tea, but you say nothing. You seem resigned, or else you’re too tired to notice anything at all. Dinah’s presence doesn’t seem to weigh on you, any more than the sound of the television whose volume I end up lowering with the remote, although I don’t dare turn it off completely. You seem happy to see me, and as usual you ask me a thousand questions about the children, my parents, our friends in common; but you still seem to have trouble concentrating on my answers. Your voice sounds steadier to me this morning than it did that evening in the Hamptons, but your eyes look more extinguished.
    At any rate, it’s so warm that my head starts spinning, and I’m sure you’re suffering from it as well. I suggest we open the glass door leading to the terrace. “She’s going to expose us to a draft,” comments Dinah in a reproving tone. “She made me catch cold less than two weeks ago.”
    That way of talking about you as if you weren’t there immediately irks me. “You know, fresh air gets rid of germs,” I say in a decisive tone.
    It makes you smile. “I see you’ve kept your fighting spirit, unlike me.”
    I take hold of your chair and push it onto the terrace, nimbly shutting the door before Dinah has the time to venture outside with us.
    I let out a loud sigh. “Say, does she stick to you that much all the time?”
    You merely lift your eyebrows. “It’s complicated, you know. Dad has a lot of trouble finding honest girls!” You start to tell me a sleazy tale of the previous nurse stealing a wallet. You admit that you suspect the one before her had a copy of your keys made; and besides that, you recently had the door to your apartment reinforced, which seemed way too expensive to you. “The worst are on the weekends, when three girls take turns. But you know, it’s kind of them to spend their time with me. I wouldn’t have that job for all the money in the world.”
    I roll my eyes. “Sure, Molly, OK, but you don’t have their brain, either.”
    Sadly, you gaze off into the distance. “You know, if you have to live in a wheelchair all day, it’s better to be mindless and think of nothing. I’m practicing, see, I live with the television on all day, that’ll make my gray matter go to pot, don’t you think?”
    No, I don’t think so, but your sadness breaks my heart.
    You point toward Dinah with your chin. “You know, I like the two of us alone together more, but I think it would entertain her having company, too. I’m so shitty to live with that I really owe her that.”
    I tell myself that I’m going to have a hard time resisting your gloominess and that a change in mood is vital. I suggest improvising a lunch on your terrace.
    Your face lights up and comes to life immediately. “We can go to the Italian supermarket, they’ve got some delicious products. I’ve been dreaming of your mozzarella and tomatoes. Remember you made some for me in Paris? Dinah will go with us because I’ve totally lost my sense of direction.”
    I help Dinah move you to another wheelchair, one that can be folded, less comfortable but better adapted to the size of the elevator. It takes us a good five minutes, and already you’ve gone pale and are winded. I go to get you a glass of water. You drink it in one gulp. You close your eyes. There. You’re breathing better.
    Now we’ve got to get your coat on, your scarf. The idea of coming out of your cocoon has you flushed and sweating. Dinah, who is obviously used to it, is caressing your hand. She begins listing things you’d better buy. Then you decide that the list should be written down,