Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 5

The first time you saw me, I was one hour old. You were old enough to have courage.

Fifty, maybe.

It was at St. Justine Hospital. I had just come into the world. I already had a big appetite. I drank her milk like I make love now, like it’s the last time.

My mother had just given birth to me. Her daughter, her firstborn.

I imagine you entering the room. Your face round like ours. Your dark eyes heavily lined in kohl.

You enter unapologetically. Walking confidently. Even though it has been twenty-seven years since you last saw my mother.

Even though twenty-seven years ago you ran away. Leaving her there, teetering on her three-year-old legs, the memory of your skirts lingering on her fingertips.

You walk calmly toward us. My mother’s cheeks are red. She is the most beautiful thing in the world.

How could you just walk away?

How did you not perish at the thought of missing her nursery rhymes, her little-girl lies, her loose teeth, her spelling mistakes, her laces tied all by herself, then her crushes, her nails painted then bitten, her first rum-and-Cokes?

Where did you hide to avoid thinking about it?

Now, there is her, there is you, and between you, there is me. You can’t hurt her anymore, because I’m here.

Does she hold me out to you, or do you reach your empty arms toward me?

I end up near your face. I fill the gaping hole in your arms. My newborn eyes search yours.

Who are you?

You leave. Again.