Lying in a hospital bed, Eileen had just finished reading one of two books that were on his knees. She named Sabine who owned them. She had never had the opportunity to return them, so it was now or never. The young woman was tall, dark, and at the moment rather pale. The disease did not spare His eyes were identified, his lips pale and very dry. His breathing was slow, difficult, sometimes painful, and fatigue made itself felt with each effort. She had just finished "Concerto in memory of an angel" by Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt, and his reading had not only tired but also a little depressed: the themes in this collection of short stories were not very happy, and were not made to boost morale. However, Eileen was funny to read, taking it for what it was: pure entertainment. In other circumstances, it would probably have taken a lot of fun with this collection. Sabine entered the room, both happy and sad to see her again whether such an opportunity. She was a young woman with a little red over thirty years, as his friend. They had been colleagues and experience the same dreams of fascinating careers, husbands loving and caring, beautiful children and healthy. Nothing happened to spoil the happiness, for one as for the other, until Eileen's disease. They had always been complicit since they met in the company where Sabine was still working. Although Eileen has decided to resign to pursue other possibilities, they remained in close contact and lost no opportunity to see, to call, despite the lack of time and the speed at which it passes. They had so much to say, so much to live! The two women looked at each other and smiled. They knew the words unnecessary, superfluous. The friendship was there, and was sufficient in itself. Sabine approached the bed, and sat silently in the chair. From there she could touch it, they could be closer to each other.
"Hello Sabine! I have two books to make you.
- Yes, you have them completed?
- That one, yes, but not the other.
- And what did you think?
Sabine designated Eileen the book came to him. It showed a picture on the cover, depicting a man and a woman asleep in one another's arms, flying over the sea, flying over a village in the starry sky of night.
- New cool, but I find that Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt is less inspired than it was time to "Oscar and the Pink Lady", as if success had made a typewriter who no longer need his name to sell a book. It's a shame, because I felt like reading news Gentillet, but have not the strength which had been her first stories ...
- Yes, I was also somewhat disappointed by this book ... Well, something else just now, I made a trip to downtown Colmar, and I could admire the pretty Alsatian houses of the Place de l'Ancienne Douane in Colmar.
- You know, "said Eileen, that is inhabited by my aunts.
- Yes, I thought about it, and I wanted to go see them in your hand, give them your news. I rang three times, but nobody answered.
- That they are not crazy. In summer, they disconnect the bell if they would have all the time visitors. And they are old and keep their peace and independence! I do not think they will one day leave this house, although it is far from suitable to their health problems. In fact, I think if they were to leave, they die.
- And the other book?
- I have a few pages. "
The two women talked for a while, talking about everything and nothing. The tone was light, almost playful. Suddenly, Sabine was silent, unable to utter a word. She laid her head on the blanket covering the body emaciated and legs of his girlfriend, who caught her and laid her hand on her hair in a gesture of comfort and consolation.
Words were useless now. Despite all the help he had given Sabine visiting him, one and one knew it could not last.
"I can not leave until I will not get it done. And I do not finish your presence is impossible.
- Then I'll stay like that you will not go.
- You know it's inevitable. And you have your family, your husband, your children ... "
Sabine said no more. The tears rose And soon they passed slowly and silently. It does not always fall within the head, trying to delay the deadline. Yet she must goes home. His presence was a real comfort, but it was now almost indecent. Sabine rose, kissed his girlfriend and walked slowly out of the room, book in hand.
They had said goodbye. One and one knew the near term, and Eileen also knew he could make the choice. The choice to finish what she started. This book was the symbol, but not all. And anyway, she had to finish alone. Death is too intimate, personal, to have witnesses.
After the departure of his girlfriend, Eileen felt the tears flow again as silent and painful. Despite the friendship of Sabine and others, despite the love of Sam and children, in the end, one is always alone. It was a test of no return she had to face. But she would not leave without seeing her children one last time, her husband. She knew she was doomed, but she wanted to go with his face in memory, love in memory. It had been his companion all these years, his support during his illness. It was a wonderful father, and she knew she could count on him to take care of children. It would be difficult moments, but he would find help. Sat
entered the room, accompanied by children. Eileen looked at each in turn, Mary, Sean and Kate, the little girl. She took each one in his arms, kissed her long, their smiles, and Sam accompanied her to the door. He confided to the nurse and turned back to accompany his wife. Everything had been said. He sat on the chair occupied by Sabine few moments before, and took the hand of his wife.
"I will pray for you, darling, every day God will give me.
- Me too. I continue to pray for children and for you I'll always be there. "
Silence settled, peaceful, serene. The sadness would come later, when the absence would be when the paper recalls the days of his presence. For now, she had no place temporarily. The sadness is for the living. Sat was holding his wife's hand in hers, and looked as if to burn her face in her memory as she had wanted to do a little forward.
She opened the book. A few more pages to read and she would be there.
Amelie Platz, October 2010
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