Chapter 11
Emma
I raise my hand to knock and then lower it, suddenly shy in the vestibule of Stella Swanson’s penthouse.
The door swings open and for a breathless moment, I assume Stella sensed me standing here.
“Madame,” I start, but it isn’t her. Matthew stands in front of me. His mouth is set in a grim line.
“Bon-bonjour,” I stammer.
“Come in, come in,” he says, looking distracted. He’s barefoot, in a pair of loose-fitting joggers and a cashmere sweater, as if he’d been interrupted on his way to a very formal session at the gym.
“Where’s Stella?” I ask. There’s no sign of her in the living room.
“The hospital. I didn’t know you were scheduled to come today, or I would have called you to let you know. She’s in hospital.”
“What happened?” I gasp, quickly spiraling and worrying that whatever happened to her is all my fault. I took her out of the house, gave her more than usual to drink, took a priceless painting out of her secret dressing room.
“She was out of sorts when she woke up this morning. More disoriented than usual. The doctors think it may have been what they refer to as a petite stroke. I didn’t know strokes could come in different sizes.
” He turns his palms over in disbelief. “But better than a big one, I suppose. I was just on my way back to the hospital. I came to pick up some things to make her more comfortable. Perhaps you could help. You know where everything is better than I do.”
“What are you looking for?”
“She asked for her favorite throw, a photo of her and my grandfather, and some soft socks. I’ve found everything but the socks.”
I follow him into the bedroom, which is in a state of disarray. Drawers are flung open and a part of me doesn’t entirely believe that a mess like this was made searching for socks. What else could Matthew have been looking for in here?
“I can get the socks,” I tell him. He seems relieved and pads down the hallway.
Once he’s gone, I try the knob of Stella’s dressing room, the one where she keeps all her secrets.
Relief floods through me when it doesn’t turn.
I gather two pairs of soft socks, also underwear, which is always what my mom wanted when she was in the hospital.
In the bathroom I select a few of Stella’s favorite lotions and some of her makeup.
Once she feels like herself, she’ll want to put on her face.
Everything else of hers, the wigs and jewelry, is behind the locked door.
I select a buttery yellow Hermès overnight bag and stuff it all inside.
As I leave, I glance back at the unmade bed and notice an empty space on the wall above it. Someone has taken Stella’s precious sword.
Matthew is pacing in front of the windows in the sitting room when I return.
“Here you go. She seemed all right when I left her last night.”
“When did you leave her?”
“Around midnight.” That’s close enough to the truth.
“She’s always been a night owl.”
“I took her out,” I admit. “We went to the Pompidou.”
“That’s wonderful,” he says, instead of chastising me. “I’ve been wanting her to get out more. Did she enjoy it?”
“Very much. But you don’t think that caused…whatever happened to her?”
“Unlikely. I don’t think a visit to a museum is going to be the thing that ends a woman like her.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes. But still confused. I’m going there now. Do you want to come?”
I nod and sling her overnight bag onto my shoulder. If Stella is awake, I have to ask her the rest of her plan, what she needs from us, what I should do with the painting if, god forbid, something were to happen to her. I’m invested now. All of us are.
Matthew’s car is waiting outside and we’re at the hospital in less than ten minutes.
A private elevator takes us up to the tenth floor, a ward reserved for people who pay a premium to get fast and exceptional care.
I can’t help but remember all the times I waited for hours in the emergency room with my mother, watching addicts shake with withdrawal, seeing children groan in pain and men bleeding out from stab wounds, all stuck in a painful limbo because they couldn’t afford to cut the line.
Stella is so tiny in the hospital bed. The doctors have removed her wig, and I fear that’s what will upset her most when she is lucid again.
“She’s asleep,” a nurse says. “And sedated, but that is just so her brain can heal.”
I place Stella’s hand in mine. It’s soft, the skin crinkly and thin like tissue paper, but the fingernails are perfect little bell curves with pearly pink nail polish on them. She twitches at my touch.
Matthew is next to me, staring down at his grandmother. When I look up at him, I see real tears in his eyes. I reach over to grab his hand too. “She’s going to be okay,” I say.
“I hope so. I’m not ready…”
“No one is ever ready.”
The nurse clears her throat. “A doctor will be in shortly if you can wait. She will have an update.”
I start unpacking things from Stella’s bag, rub some moisturizer on her hands and her face.
“I can do that,” Matthew says.
“I really don’t mind. I want to help.” It’s true.
“I feel useless,” he admits softly.
“That’s normal. My mom was in the hospital a lot when I was a kid. I used to sleep over in her room even though technically it wasn’t allowed. I think the doctors knew I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I wanted to be able to do something for her, but I couldn’t. It always just took time.”
“How is your mom now?” Matthew asks.
“Still alive,” I say with a wan smile.
The doctor strides in, imperious and no-nonsense. She’s about my mother’s age but has clearly taken better care of herself over the years. And despite the weariness in her eyes from a long shift, her makeup, including a dash of red lipstick, is incredibly chic.
“Monsieur Swanson,” she addresses Matthew in French. I’m able to follow along at the start, but I begin to lose her. There are some words I do recognize, and one of them is surgery. At that Matthew shakes his head in disbelief.
“They said it was a small stroke,” he murmurs in English. The doctor elegantly switches languages.
“There is blood building up in her cerebral cortex and we need to drain it, I’m afraid. The sooner, the better.”
“She’s so weak. How will she do under anesthesia?”
“I do not want to lie to you. We cannot predict that. There is a chance, a real one, that she will not wake back up once we put her under.”
Matthew slumps into the chair as if all his muscles have gone slack. “I can’t let you do it.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have a choice. If we don’t operate, we will lose her anyway. And we must make the decision very soon. Within the next five minutes would be preferable.”
This is all too personal. I shouldn’t be here, but I am, so I place an arm on Matthew’s shoulder to comfort him as he presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids to hide his tears.
“Can you give us a minute?” I ask her. She must assume I’m a family member, perhaps even a girlfriend.
I want to tell him everything that’s rushing through my mind.
That I truly believe it’s impossible for Stella to die on that operating table.
I don’t know why or how I believe it, but I do with every single cell in my body.
She’s not finished here yet. She has plans, I want to scream.
But that won’t help. So I rub his shoulders, and I say the only thing that does make sense.
“She’s strong. Let them do their job.”
Sometimes we just need to be told what to do.
We just need permission. When I applied for the art school scholarship and got it, that validation gave me both.
It made me believe that I had talent, that I was worthy of more than the shitty life I’d been given.
I know it did the same for Lucie and for Colette.
Stella had chosen wisely when it came to us.
All of us needed the approval, would have languished without it, and now we’ll probably do anything to keep it. Anything for her.
He goes to find the doctor. When he returns he tells me the surgery will take four hours. She’ll be prepped and brought in within the next fifteen minutes; he just has to sign a ton of paperwork. I squeeze Stella’s hand and whisper in her ear, so quietly that I know Matthew can’t hear me.
“I’m here for all of it when you wake up. Whatever you need.”
When I kiss her forehead, her eyelids flutter slightly, her lips twitch nearly into a smile, but she doesn’t wake up.
“I’ve got you.”