9 June 1989, Afternoon

[noteful]

It’s like an absurd game of tag, that they play all afternoon. Alain is still unconscious and still in ICU. Which means both that he has no idea if he has any visitors, and that they’ve been asked now to please keep it to two people at a time.

Which means that when one of them comes in, another has to go out. And that most of the time, the two in the room are Alain’s parents, because neither Meg nor Luc seems especially inclined to ask them to leave. And because Meg doesn’t want to leave her own parents alone in the waiting room, either.

Her father suggests finding a hotel, somewhere near by, so Meg can get a few hours sleep. So they can all get a few hours sleep, Meg knows, and under other circumstances, she’d have agreed for her parents’ sake, even though she doesn’t think she’d sleep this afternoon any more than she had the night before. But under these circumstances, she needs to be here. Maybe later, she tells him, and John doesn’t bring it up again. (Meg doesn’t bother to suggest they go without her, because they won’t, and it seems insulting to even suggest they would.)

In the middle of the afternoon, she leaves Luc’s jacket with her parents and says she’s going to step outside for a minute, for some air. She wants five minutes of sunshine and being on her own.

At least she gets the sunshine.

Luc is outside the entrance, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. It’s almost gone, and he lights the next one with it before dropping it to the ground and grinding it out under his shoe. He looks over at her for a second, and then goes back to staring at the sky and smoking.

And Meg wants to know the right thing to say, except that she doesn’t think there is one. So she says the first thing that comes into her head, without even analyzing why it’s the first thing to come into her head. “He hates that you do that.”

It’s quiet and without judgment, just a statement of fact. Alain hates that his brother smokes.

Luc exhales a cloud of smoke and then turns to her. “Yes. He has told me that, a number of times.”

Meg moves closer, to stand next to him. “You always tell him you’re going to quit.”

“Yes. ‘Next month.’ I mean it, when I say it. But then it is not a good month to try, so it is something I will do next month.”

“Maybe next month, you actually will.”

Luc looks at the cigarette, and then back at her. “Maybe next month,” he says. “But not today.”

They stand in silence for a minute or two, and then Luc says, “You have a sister, yes?”

Meg nods. “Kim. She’s on her way. She lives in England.”

“And she is older than you are?”

“Nine years,” Meg says.

“You don’t talk about her very much.” Luc exhales another cloud of smoke. “You’re not close?”

Meg takes a second to think about how to answer that, and then decides on, “We were closer when I was younger.”

“That must be hard for both of you,” Luc says. “Alain is my best friend.” He lights another cigarette and stubs the other out with his foot. “But he’s still my little brother. I’m supposed to take care of him, I’m supposed to fix his problems, and I can’t do anything for him right now.”

Meg wishes, for both their sakes, that there were any way to tell him that everything will be all right.

But there’s not. Not with anything like honesty or certainty, because they just don’t know.

“You’ve been looking after me all afternoon,” Meg says. “That’s something you’re doing for him, right?”

“For both of you,” Luc says. And then smiles very, very slightly. “But a little more for him, yes. It’s not enough, though, Meg. If it was your sister in there, would giving her boyfriend a jacket make you feel any better?”

“No,” Meg says. Never mind the fact that she has no idea what Dave Martyniuk would do with one of her jackets, unless he needed a glove. (And she can’t think too much about its being Kim in there, not on top of knowing it’s Alain, it’s too much.) “No, it wouldn’t. But I still appreciate it. And it’s still something.”

Luc gives her another very small and faintly sad smile. It’s a very . . . older brother sort of smile, gently fond and a little indulgent. “My brother loves you. And I like you, for more reasons than that. I’m glad to do anything I can to help you. But it’s not enough. Your big sister would understand, I think.”

Luc drops his cigarette without lighting another one this time, steps on it, and sighs. “I should get back. Maman will be looking for me. Are you coming?”

“In a minute,” Meg says.

Luc nods, and goes back into the hospital.

Meg leans back against the wall, still surrounded by the smell of Luc’s cigarettes, with her eyes closed. It’s the first time she’s been alone since her parents arrived, and she feels, for a moment, close to tears again. She’s aware of how sore she is, and how tense, and how tired, now that there isn’t anything to distract her.

She opens her eyes and looks at her watch, with a vague notion that she’ll try to work out how long she’s been awake. Instead she finds herself trying to figure out how long it’s been since they called Kim, how long her flight would be, and when they can expect her. And it’s still a little too soon, but only a little, if Meg is doing all the math correctly, though she’d be the first to admit that she might not be, tired as she is. Which is good, because Meg suddenly rather desperately wants to see her sister.

“Meg?” her mother asks, coming out the front door.

Meg straightens, and tries to compose her expression into something less tired and tense and sore, so she won’t make her mother worry more than she already has. (It’s probably a wasted effort, but making it is still something, even if it’s not enough.)

“Are you all right?” Deirdre asks.

“I’m not any worse,” Meg says. It’s about all she can ask for right now.

Her mother comes over and hugs her, carefully, on the left. “You smell like smoke.”

“I was talking with Luc.”

“Ah,” her mother says. “Are you coming back in?”

“Just give me another minute or two, okay?” Meg asks.

“Of course. We’ll see you inside.”

Meg leans her head back against the wall again, and closes her eyes against the sun. She counts to sixty, slowly, twice, measuring out two minutes one second at a time. And then she counts to sixty again, and then one more time. And, having pushed a “minute or two” as far as she thinks she should, she takes a deep breath and heads back into the hospital.