Mona in Three Acts Read online

  When Granny came to wake us up, me and Alexander, the day before yesterday, in the middle of the night, I knew right away that something was wrong. We’re children, you don’t just wake children up at twelve minutes to five. Granny didn’t look at us, she just said we had to come downstairs, that Daddy would come soon, and then she went downstairs herself. Alexander and I followed her. Alexander said he was thirsty. My grandma went to get him a drink, and we had to sit on the sofa, Daddy would be here right away—those exact words, which I thought was strange. Alexander got Coke, and I immediately regretted not asking for anything myself. Coke’s only for special occasions. Now it was too late, I couldn’t send Granny back to the kitchen, it wouldn’t be polite.

  It seemed to take an eternity, Granny’s so-called right away. I looked at the photo on top of the television, the one of me and Alexander together in a kiddie pool in the garden. He was still a baby then and I was a little girl. I’m smiling awkwardly, posing for the photo. I look a little strange in it, I heard Mommy say once to Uncle Artie, and I think she’s right, “but Alexander looks scrumptious.” That’s what she said: “scrumptious.” It made me think of a big monster that eats children, and I quickly tried to think about something else.

  Suddenly Daddy was there. He’d come from the garden, I think. He was wearing his nice suit because they’d gone out for dinner that night. Now it was all dirty. Mommy wouldn’t be happy about that. There was a kind of massive Band-Aid on his forehead. I saw Daddy looking down at his shirt like he knew what I was thinking.

  “I’ll be with you right away,” he said before disappearing upstairs.

  Yes, yes, right away, whatever you say, I thought, then felt bad for being so mean. Daddy doesn’t just get us out of bed in the middle of the night for fun, so he must have a good reason for going upstairs first.

  Meanwhile Alexander had started driving his red toy car up and down the legs of the coffee table like they were roads. Doesn’t he realize something’s wrong? I thought. Maybe it’s good if he doesn’t, because he’s only six. I wasn’t such a baby when I was six, I don’t think, but Mommy says it’s because he’s the youngest. She says the youngest is allowed to stay small for longer.

  We’re never allowed to go with them to restaurants because restaurants are for grown-ups, Mommy says. When they go, they always put on their nicest clothes, and Mommy wears the earrings Granny gave her—white pearls shaped like big tears. And then she puts on makeup, and she sprays hairspray onto her hair, making the whole kitchen smell sour and soapy.

  When Daddy came back, he was wearing different clothes. These ones weren’t dirty. Daddy’s forehead was sweaty, which often happens in the summer, only now it was nighttime and not that hot. He sat down in between me and Alexander and said, “You have to listen carefully because Daddy has something to tell you.” And then he was silent. For a long time. Even Alexander had stopped playing and was watching Daddy carefully, like me. Neither of us dared to say anything or ask about the Band-Aid on his head. Daddy was just staring into space like he’d forgotten what to say. He balled one of his hands into a fist.

  Granny got a chair and joined us. “Go on,” she said. I looked at Granny. All of a sudden, her face looked gray. I think she’d been crying, because there were red blotches on her neck and face. Mommy gets them too if she cries, which she hardly ever does. Mommy is a woman who can cope with a lot—she says that to Daddy sometimes. “Oh, do what you have to, Vincent, I can cope with a lot.” It’s not easy for Mommy, with us and all that.

  I heard Daddy taking a deep breath. “Kids”—he always says that, “kids,” even though I’m big now—“I’ve got some bad news: there was an accident, earlier tonight, and it’s not good.” Then he stopped talking again. Granny began to sob loudly, with tears and snot. She walked out of the room, probably to get a tissue, because it’s not a pretty sight, snot running from your nose. Then Alexander started crying too, probably because he wasn’t used to Granny crying. I laid my hand on Daddy’s arm in case it would help him finish his story. He didn’t seem to notice. There was just silence and silence.

  Then Granny came back from the kitchen. She had stopped crying and she looked neat and tidy again, and finally she said, “Your Mommy didn’t make it.” Since no one reacted, she said, “She died.”

  Alexander sobbed and gasped for breath. “Is she dead? Is Mommy dead?”

  “Yes,” said Daddy. Just “yes,” nothing more. He went on staring at the wall next to the door like there was something to see there.

  I didn’t start to cry, which bothered me. I tried to send tears to my eyes, but they wouldn’t listen, so I looked down, like at my belly button, my chin almost on my chest, like sad people do. Granny didn’t move. Daddy stood up, walked into his office, and closed the door behind him.

  There we sat, Granny, Alexander, and me. Nothing moved outside, or inside either. It was quiet. I heard the sound of the fridge, a quiet buzzing. And the ticking of the clock. And Alexander’s sobs. I thought about Mommy and what she had said before she left. “Behave, won’t you, for Granny. If I hear you haven’t been good, you know what will happen.” She sounded a bit angry already, even though we were always good for Granny. Afterward I thought about the black outfit she’d been wearing: a black skirt with a red belt and a black blouse. It looked really nice. I’d told her that when she came down the stairs, and she’d smiled. Mommy liked getting compliments on her clothes, I knew that. When she’d smiled, it had made me happy. Was she still wearing that outfit now? Did it get dirty too? It probably did, just like Daddy’s suit. Would they wash it for the funeral, or would she get something else to wear in the coffin? I was certain she’d want to be dressed in black. Maybe I should tell Daddy that, I thought. Daddy didn’t know anything about clothes. Mommy always said so. I wondered what Alexander was thinking about. He was sitting on the rug with his knees pulled up, his tear-stained face turned away. I really wanted to say something to him but I didn’t know what. So I just stayed where I was. It seemed best.

  As I stand there, next to what was once our Citroën DS, I realize I never told Daddy about Mommy’s clothes. I have to go home. Soon it’ll be too late for the clothes.

  I can’t tell anybody what I’ve seen. Alexander is much too young and all the grown-ups will just get angry because I did something that wasn’t allowed.

  When I get home, everyone’s sitting more or less in the same place. No one noticed I was gone. Granny serves cups of coffee and beer, people are sitting around talking and drinking. If you didn’t know any better, you might think it was a birthday party.

  Uncle Olivier sees me and smiles. I go up to him.

  “Will you tell Daddy that Mommy would want her black outfit on, the one she was wearing on the night of the crash? They were her favorite clothes. If they’re dirty, we can wash them.”

  “All right,” Uncle Olivier says. He looks around the room. I wonder whether he heard me. “Why don’t you go and find Alexander? He’s playing outside with his cousins, I think.” They want to get rid of me.

  “Maybe I should tell Daddy myself.”

  “Leave him be for a while.” Uncle Olivier lays his hand on my back, gently at first, then he kind of pushes me toward the door. I go look for Daddy. He’s sitting on the sofa under the window, surrounded by two aunts and the neighbor, and he’s talking away. After being silent in the night, he’s turned into the opposite in the day. He’s talking the whole time, like a machine that doesn’t stop turning, but I’m not allowed to know what he’s saying. Whenever I get near him, there’s always someone who sends me away.

  Last night before I went to sleep, Daddy came into my bedroom. He hardly ever does that. He stood there, next to my bed. “Sleep well,” he said.

  I waited for more, stared at him with the sweetest expression possible. I wanted to ask something but I didn’t know what.

  He gave me a kiss on my left cheek. “Sleep well,” a bit quieter now.

  “Yes,” I replied. When he’d closed th
e door and everything was dark, I wondered if I’d be able to sleep. Or to cry, I thought, that would also be good.

  3

  First day of school. Yesterday Granny said it was good for us to go back to school, back to life as it used to be. I repeated the words inside my head: Life as it used to be.

  It’s not that I’d rather stay home, but I don’t feel like school. And certainly not the fourth grade, because I think it’s going to be boring. In fifth grade at least you get French, something new.

  It’s almost seven thirty. I’m lying in bed and the sheet is annoying me, it’s not spread out right beneath the blanket anymore, and the blanket is so prickly. Can I think of an excuse? I can’t pretend to be sick because Daddy would see through that right away.

  Suddenly my bedroom door opens—it’s Alexander. “We have to get up or we’ll be la-ate.”

  “That’s true,” I say. “I’m coming. Will you go get dressed?” It can’t be right for a boy as young as Alexander to have to keep an eye on the clock. So I start the day with a guilty conscience. I often have one. Uncle Artie explained the expression to me; I’d come across it in a book for older children. I like to read books for kids over ten and sometimes over twelve because I can understand them, even though the people who write them and the lady in the library with the big nose seem not to think so. Uncle Artie said it has to do with feeling sorry about doing something and thinking you should feel sorry. Then I thought, I know all about that.

  Daddy has more work than he used to. He’s often already in his office in the mornings when we go downstairs, and then it’s best if I don’t disturb him. It’s not Daddy’s fault that there are suddenly so many people with toothaches. He can’t just send home difficult patients with rotten molars. So I toast some slices of bread for Alexander and myself and give him a glass of milk. Actually, he can do it himself but he likes it better when someone does it for him—he’s a bit lazy.

  Sometimes my little brother is awfully dumb, like for example when he wants to join one of my games for big kids, or when he dropped the vase I made, or the time when Mommy said he was being too wild and that calamity would come of it; Mommy used that word a lot: calamity. But sometimes, once in a while, I think he’s sweet. Sweeter in any case than Berend, Sophie’s big brother. He smells just like his sister, plus he hits people when he gets angry, and he burps so loud you can hear it a long way away. It’s too bad for Sophie.

  When I’ve made our lunch and gotten two apples from the fridge for a snack, I call Alexander. “Coat on.” He thinks it’s much too warm, he doesn’t want to wear a coat, he makes a face. “It just seems too warm,” I say. “It’s cold in the mornings and I don’t want you getting sick.” Just like Mommy always said, I realize. He sits down on the ground in a grump, like he’s three years old. “Alexander, do I have to get angry?” He shrugs, gets up, and goes outside, without his coat. I don’t know what to do now. If it takes any longer, we’ll be late for the first day of school. He used to listen to Mommy. I carry his coat under my arm, pick up my satchel, and go outside. I throw the coat at his head—that way, he has to take it. He ties it around his waist and holds out his hand to me. He never used to do that.

  As we walk to school, neither of us speaks for three whole blocks. Maybe Alexander is wondering what on earth he’s going to tell his school friends. Ellen in my class knows about Mommy but the others don’t, as far as I know. Granny said that Daddy will inform the new teachers.

  “Look, a cat,” Alexander says. He’s wanted a cat for ages, but Mommy didn’t like them.

  “It’s a pretty one,” I say. “It’s got lovely white paws.”

  Alexander walks over to stroke the animal, but it darts off into the bushes. If I could choose, I’d get a dog. A little white one like Ellen’s, and then I’d call him Blackie because that’s a joke. But actually, I shouldn’t think about it, because I’m never going to get one.

  Once we arrive at the boys’ school, Alexander clings to my side. It’s his first day at big school, but before the long vacation he said he was looking forward to learning to write and count and read.

  “You know that your teacher’s heard about Mommy? She’ll look out for you, all right?” I just hope she really will.

  “All right,” my brother says, though he doesn’t sound very convinced.

  “Go find your friends. Look, there’s Jeremy. I have to go now or I’ll be late.” I push him into the playground. I can’t always be taking care of him.

  This year we’ve got Miss Van Gelderen. She’s not that nice or funny or whatever, but she’s also not a real witch like Mrs. Volderman, who teaches third grade, so I’m happy. Ellen comes and sits down next to me right away in the classroom because we were allowed to choose our places ourselves. “If there’s too much talking, I’ll move you around next week. But first you’re getting the chance to prove that you’re big girls.” Ooh, that’s going to be difficult, I think, Ellen and I love talking. And we always get so bored at school that it’s almost impossible not to.

  “But first an announcement before we start. Mona, sweetie, could you come forward?”

  Ellen squeezes my leg under the desk. Go to the front—me, now? The teacher keeps on talking as she gestures to me, waving her hand like a policewoman directing traffic.

  “Mona had a sad experience a couple of weeks ago. I don’t think all of you know about it yet. Come here, sweetie, come along.” Usually I like to stand up in front of the class, but right now I’d rather float up into the sky, far away from here. When I reach the teacher’s side, she rests her hand on my shoulder. “Go on, tell them.”

  Tell them? What should I tell them? That my mother’s dead, that she was killed in an accident I know nothing about? That I didn’t cry? Only briefly during the funeral, but actually that was because I’d never seen my dad cry before. Should I say that only people cry, and not animals, that I read that in a book? That I’m wondering how long it will be before the creepy crawlies get through the coffin and into Mommy’s body? That every evening I really try not to think about those creepy crawlies, but when I close my eyes, I see white things that look like worms? Should I say that my dad hasn’t said anything since the funeral, except for silly things? That my granny comes around a lot but she just starts dusting or cleaning the patio or ironing clothes, which we’ve already got Marcella for, and that she only wants to play cards with us because she doesn’t know any other games? That sometimes, like when I’m reading a book, I’m happy because it’s a funny story, but then I feel really bad afterward because that can’t be right, can it?

  “Or should I tell them?” the teacher asks.

  “Yes.” I look at the wall at the back of the classroom. There’s a bulletin board with a poster of a sunset in colors so ugly they can’t be real.

  “Mona’s mom and dad had a car accident. A truck drove into them. Mona’s dad is fine, but her mom was taken to the hospital and the doctors tried everything but it was to no avail. Her mom died there, didn’t she, Mona?”

  I nod, though all I can think of is—A truck? They took her to the hospital? That explains why the roof was off on Mommy’s side. Why did Daddy tell my teacher this and not me? Without asking permission, I go back to my desk. It was “to no avail.” That’s a strange way of saying something. Ellen gives me a sad look. She shouldn’t do that. If people are kind, it makes me weak. And it’s not good to be weak in life, Mommy always said. She said Uncle Artie was weak, his flesh was weak, that’s what she said, and that was why he kept getting into trouble.

  “So, now you’ve been informed, children. Let’s take out our math book.”

  I don’t want to think about math. I don’t want to think about trucks and hospitals. I can tell Daddy what my teacher said—who knows, maybe he’ll tell me even more things I don’t know. Or maybe I’d better not, there’s a chance Daddy might get upset, and he’s already finding things difficult. I try to concentrate on nice things. Like the extra-thick layer of chocolate I spread on my bread this mo
rning because nobody was looking. Or the friendship bracelet Ellen gave me at the end of vacation when I was allowed to play at her house for the afternoon. Or that time that Daddy almost tripped over the rolled-up carpet at Uncle Artie’s.

  Ellen nudges me. “You have to do these problems, this row here.” Luckily, Ellen’s there. She always knows what to do.

  4

  School’s out. We’d have to work hard today, the teacher said in the morning, but to me what we did was just as boring as the days before it. I’m waiting for Alexander at the gates to the boys’ school. He shuffles along, bent over slightly, a little boy with an oversized backpack.

  “How did it go?”

  “All right,” he says.

  “And did you learn something new?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I forgot.” Then he asks if I’ll play Sorry! with him at home. “Please, please, please.” I understand why Mommy found it difficult to say no to him. She was stricter with me. But that was all right because I needed it, otherwise nothing good would ever become of me.

  When we get home, there are two extra cars parked in front of the door, Granny’s and Auntie Rose’s. I wonder whether Daddy likes Granny coming by so much, because I’m not sure Daddy would be friends with her if she wasn’t a relative. On Sundays, when Mommy used to say we were going to visit her, Daddy would usually reply, “Can’t you say I had to deal with an emergency case?” And then of course Mommy would sigh. I understood. It’s not nice to have to do everything on your own with two children. And it’s not nice for Granny either; she’d usually bake a tart if we were coming, or a cake, and then she’d be stuck with it. While children are starving in Africa.

  I open the door and hear that the visitors are upstairs. They seem to be disagreeing about something. When I go into the bedroom, I see that they are putting Mommy’s clothes into gray garbage bags. A few of her skirts and blouses are lying on the bed.