Celine
My dad stays and watches me during figure skating practice, and when I'm done I find that I'm so extremely tired that I can hardly walk.
I sit beside him as I pull my skates off, clean the ice off the blades and then but my soakers on. I shove them into my bag, then put my shoes on.
"You have fun?" He asks me.
I nod silently, standing. I get a bit dizzy as I lean down to grab my bag. I start walking, and he walks beside me, shortening his long strides so our paces match.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
"You sure?"
"Mhm."
He opens my car door for me, and I glance at him before sliding in, putting my bag in. I mutter a thanks, closing my eyes for a moment.
I feel my dad buckle me in, but I don't open my eyes, one second of resting them turning into another, then another until I fall asleep.
•
I look up when I'm lifted into strong arms. My dad carries me into the house, then up the stairs. I lean my head on his shoulder, and his eyes soften as he looks down at me.
"Go back to sleep, baby. You're okay." He assures me, his tone gentle.
So I do.
•
My dad wakes me up the next morning, saying that the hospital called. That I'd be able to miss school since the appointment is in the middle of the day, so there'd be no point in me going in.
He tells me to go back to bed, and that's when I get a sinking feeling in my gut, like I know something is terribly wrong. But I don't say anything, just turn over and go back to sleep.
He wakes me up again at eleven.
"Come on, sweetheart, get changed and I'll make you some breakfast before we go."
"Okay." I mutter.
He smiles before leaving. I drag myself out of bed, change out of the clothes I fell asleep wearing, then grab my phone off my nightstand and make my way downstairs.
I eat breakfast.
He takes me out to the car. Brings me a water. But I still don't get the feeling out of my stomach that something is horribly, incredibly wrong.
We drive to the hospital. We don't have to wait for long, a nurse comes to get us within a few minutes of us sitting down.
I walk in front of my dad, but behind the nurse. My dad sits down only when I do, sending me a reassuring smile as we look back at the doctor, who has a gentle, sad smile on her face.
"Celine's test results came back." She says. She continues talking, but I don't understand any of it. Blah, blah, (medical term goes here) blah, blah, blah. "And we found that she has stage one breast cancer."
I remember when I was little I used to always hide under my bed. When mum got a bit too drunk and I became afraid, that was where I'd go. When I'd had a bad day at school and nobody to talk to, I'd bring all my stuffed animals in the small space between my bed and the floor and confide in them.
I have the urge to that now. But there's no bed in here.
There's just my father, and a doctor telling me I have stage one breast cancer.
My dads eyes water, and I wonder if he feels like hiding under a bed, away from the world, too. Does he want to burrow himself beneath his covers and stay there for the rest of his life like I want to, too?
He suddenly clasps my hand, and I notice him squeeze my fingers in reassurance however I don't feel anything.
"Right." My dad whispers, "and—what do we do now, then?"
"There's chemotherapy. I'd suggest a surgery, but it's highly unlikely that the tumour would be able to be removed since it's grown bigger."
He nods, but the simple movement seems to be done idly.
"I'll give you a leaflet with all the options you can choose from. Then you can email me, and let me know what Celine wants to do."
"Okay." He says.
She explains more things. I'm unable to listen to them, that hole in my chest growing until it could fit the world into it.
"Celine."
I stare down at the floor.
Celine has stage one breast cancer.
Stage one breast cancer.
Stage
One
Breast
Cancer
I think I'm gonna be sick.
I must say the words aloud, because my dad grabs a bin and holds it beneath me. I lean forward and throw up into the bin, my head and chest ringing with a horrific ache at the same time.
His heavy hand comes to rest on my back, rubbing it in small circles.
Stageonebreastcancer.
Stageonebreastcancer.
I throw up again.
Stage
One
Breast
Cancer
"Celine." He whispers again.
I have cancer.
I look up at him, eyes glassy.
Stageonebreastcancer.
Stage one
breast cancer
"Baby." He says softly. He doesn't say anything else—only my name. I used to think it had only one syllable, but it really has two. Cel-ine. Cel-ine Mo-net.
That's four syllables all together.
How many syllables does my dads name have? Ad-ri-en Mo-net. That's six. That's two more than I have.
"Sweetheart." He whispers, "we have to go."
That sentence has six syllables too. Just like his name. Does he know that?
"Your name has six syllables in it." I whisper.
His eyebrows knit together. Slowly, he takes my hand again, pulling me up.
Somehow, I make it to the car.
That sentence had eight syllables in it.
My next words have six, too, just like his full name does. "I want to see my mum."
I expect him to shake his head. To say no. But he just nods, and that pit in my stomach worsens. It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all so very wrong.
We pull up to my mothers house ten minutes later. My dad looks like he wants to say something, but he just slides out of his seat and meets me at the front of the car. I don't know how I'm able to keep my legs up when my strongest urge is to crumple to the concrete beneath me that makes up my mothers driveway and start sobbing.
I walk to the front door. I knock. She doesn't answer. I knock again. There's no answer.
I turn the doorknob, finding that it opens. I shout, "mum!" in a voice that doesn't sound like my own. There's no response, so I walk up the stairs, checking each room as I go.
The bathroom is the last one. The door is open slightly, so I gently push it the rest of the way, a scream tearing out of my throat at the sight before me.
My mother sits on the floor, leaning against the bottom of the sink. Her eyes are peeled open, but her face is dead. There's blood, so much blood around her, coming from the slit in her neck. And in her hand is a bloody blade.
I'm not able to see anymore, because my dad pulls me back and hides my face against his hard stomach.
I start sobbing, screaming, feeling like I'll throw up again. My knees buckle out from beneath me, but my dad quickly lifts me up into his arms, saying things that go in one ear and out the other.
I try to look over his shoulder, to catch a glimpse of my mother, but he sets his hand on the back of my head again, holding it against his shoulder again. "Don't look, sweetheart." He tells me.
I start kicking my legs, despite how tired I am. He rubs my back in attempt to calm me down. "Celine, I'm gonna call an ambulance, okay?"
"Put me down! Put me down!" I scream.
He walks down the stairs with me in his arms quickly, placing me on the couch. I try to stand, but he's quick to pull me back down. "You don't need to see that, Celine." He whispers, then puts the phone up to his ear. He starts talking into it, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close to him.
"Mum, mum, mum." I whisper, voice breaking. Maybe if I say it enough times, she'll appear. She'll admit that it was a sick joke. She'll be okay; she'll be alive.
He ends the call. "They're coming." He tells me.
Adrien
I can hear Celine's sobs from the kitchen. She's been in her bedroom ever since I brought her back. I had to pick her up again because she wouldn't move, and the police had to come to tape everything off.
I tried to stay with her, but she kept yelling at me to get out, so I did. Even though I wish that I couldn't stayed, and she would've let me hold her. Consoled her.
Léo and Camilo get back from school at three. All of my sons are here now, seated at the kitchen counter.
Julien furrows his eyebrows. "Why are we here?"
I inhale a sharp breath. "Isabel is dead."
Julien raises his eyebrows in surprise. But then he leans down into the cupboard, grabs a bottle of champagne in there and pops the cork.
"Time to celebrate!" He exclaims.
Nicolas rolls his eyes. "That's so insensitive, Julien."
Julien offers it to everyone, and in response they shake their heads. He shrugs and leans his head back, taking a swig of it.
Léo, though, is the only one showing sadness. His lips are tilted downwards in a frown, and he's wringing his hands together.
"Aw, baby, don't be sad." Julien claps a hand on his younger brothers back. "She was a bitch anyway."
"Julien." I warn.
I glance at Camilo, but he's busy playing Temple Run on his phone.
"What? She was." He says. "She was a horrible, nasty old crone. She's probably disintegrated into thin air already."
"Stop, Julien." Matteo says.
He only grins in response, then tilts his head. "She should be cremated, since she's a witch."
Matteo nudges him, then shakes his head as he nods to Léo, who looks like he wants to cry.
Julien sighs. "It's fine, Léo."
"I know." He responds, his voice shaking a little bit. He stands, then walks out. "I'm going to my room." He mutters over his shoulder.
Nicolas shoves Julien. "Good going."
"Don't ruin my happiness." Julien says, narrowing his eyes into a glare. He takes another swig of the bottle, then smiles as he walks out, whistling to himself.
Léo
Isabel is dead.
My mum is dead. I never got to know here, nor was she able to get to know me. She didn't even like me, despite my—pathetic, now that I think about it—attempts.
I wrap my arms around myself, locking my door before going over to my bed. I lay on my stomach on top of the duvet, setting my hands on the back of my head, digging my face into the pillow. The pillowcase is quick to absorb my tears, like they were never there anyway.
Isabel is dead.
She's dead. She's really, actually dead.
Celine's house shaking sobs reach my ears, and it makes the tears roll down my cheeks faster. I don't make any sound, though, only listen to Celine.
I hear her door open. Hear my fathers low, soft voice. I hear her scream and shout at him to get out, to leave her alone.
I hear her door shut a few moments later. Then he's knocking at my door, saying my name.
Isabel is dead.
"Léo." He says, "open the door for me, please."
"I'm getting changed." I say, loud enough for him to hear.
He's silent for a moment before replying, "okay. Come down when you're done, alright?"
I nod, even though he's not in the room and can't see me. He must interpret my silence for a yes, because the sound of his retreating footsteps travels to my ears.