Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

while. “No pressure. And if you don’t want to discuss François, then don’t.”

“I’ve been having the strangest dreams since I moved here,” she said finally, because she knew she had to say something, and Toby was waiting. “I think they are interfering with how I feel.”

“What kind of dreams? Do you want to talk about them?”

Toby’s voice was at its kindest. He was a good listener, she knew. But was he ready for what she had to say? She was going to open up the door to sorrow; she was going to shine a light along the black path of grief that had led to the end of their marriage. And she couldn’t help thinking back to that heart-wrenching instant when he had admitted to her, forlornly, that he could no longer bear her sorrow, that she was drowning in it, that it was pulling her down, and him, too, and that ten years after the birth of their daughter, she still had not been able to find joy within the miracle of Jordan’s arrival. No, she had turned her back to it; she had remained trapped in the tragedy of their son’s death; she had decided to go on grieving, while he wanted to smile at life, to give it a chance, to move on, without her. Without her.

“I’ve been dreaming about the hospital over and over again.”

She heard him breathe.

“Tell me.”

Toby knew exactly which hospital she was referring to. There was only one hospital, engraved forever in their minds. She told him the dreams were taking her back there, against her will, every night, and that she fell asleep with dread because she knew what was in store. She was back there; she could smell that awful hospital smell; she could hear the squealing noise the rubber wheels of the gurney made on the linoleum when they rolled her out of the birthing room; she could hear the sound of Toby crying. But the dreams did more than that, focusing on the moment they had put the baby in her arms, gently, respectfully, as if he had been alive, as if all had been well. They said she could hold him for as long as she wanted.

With extraordinary vividness, the dream revealed the perfectly formed little face, and it had seemed so peaceful, so charming. She had put her mouth on the crown of the tiny head, and she had felt there was no warmth there, no life at all. The dream allowed her to feel the fuzz of the baby’s head under her lips. In her arms, she clasped their dead son while Toby cried at her side. They never knew what had happened, exactly. When she arrived at the hospital to give birth, she quickly understood something was wrong by the way the medical staff reacted. They were obviously alarmed. Yet her pregnancy had been normal all along. The doctor (she would never forget the man’s serious face, the earnestness of his gaze) had told them the heart was no longer beating. The baby had died. Her womb had become a sepulcher. They were told she was going to have to go through the birth. She had glanced at the small suitcase at Toby’s feet. She had carefully packed the brand-new baby clothes. They knew it was going to be a boy, ever since the second ultrasound. They had chosen his name. They had been using it all along.

She’d had to give birth to a dead child. During the long, grueling hours of the ordeal it had been, Toby had never left her side, her hand in his. She had pushed, pushed with all her might, to expel a small corpse. It was indescribable.

This had happened years and years ago. Clarissa had learned to fight against the void it had left behind. She thought she had been able to make peace with it. But no, ever since she had moved in, the dreams forced her to go back to the blackest moment of her life. The pain was excruciating. And then her voice broke and the tears came.

“My darling Blue,” said Toby. “My sweet, sweet Blue.”

He said he wished he could be there right now, with her, and take her into his arms. He said she had to feel he was there. He was there. Hearing him consoled her. She felt better, wiped her eyes. She told him not to mention this to their daughter. He promised he wouldn’t. She said she didn’t know why this was happening.

All of a sudden, she remembered what Jim Perrier had told her. He had warned her. “They” were listening to every word. All the time. She stiffened. She couldn’t tell Toby she was convinced the dreams were induced by something, somebody. But she longed to. She longed to get it all out, to convey her misgivings, to describe the C.A.S.A. residence, Dr. Dewinter, Mrs. Dalloway. She shut up.

“Why don’t you come and stay for a couple of days?” said Toby. “I have a very nice guest room; ask Andy about it. It will do you good. The sea is clean at the moment, not like in summer. I’ll cook for you, and we can go for long walks. What do you think?”

She felt tempted.

“What about your lady friend?”

“What lady friend?”

“Andy says there’s a new one.”

He chuckled, and it felt good to hear him laugh.

“She doesn’t live with me.”

“Maybe she won’t appreciate the idea of your ex-wife coming to stay.”

“Blue, I haven’t seen you in such a long time. Just get on that train and come.”

She told him she’d think about it. A change of air was no doubt a good idea. She talked about her work, the bilingual notes she took each day. She didn’t tell Toby that in order to write, she hid from the cameras filming her around the clock, often in the toilet, where she felt safe, and where there was no surveillance; she didn’t tell him, either, that she no longer used her computer, but