I Am Not Emmanuelle by Carine Tardieu

Author:Carine Tardieu
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: JUV039050
Publisher: Annick Press
Published: 2010-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

Sister Emmanuelle died two years after my sister died—two years to the day. “The Sister has died.” “Our Sister has died.” The night of her death, I felt like the television, the radio, all the newspapers were talking directly to me. “Your sister Emmanuelle is dead” is all I heard, like a nasty reminder that I had to stop acting like nothing was wrong, that it wasn’t normal that I had to force myself to cry the day of her funeral because the tears wouldn’t come. That there’s an insensitive monster inside me, and that it’s time that I confront it, that I go to battle with it, that I smack the mouth of this sick beast that spits nothing but ice water into my veins.

The problem is, I don’t remember what I was like before the truck. How did my ice cream cone taste then? Before, was it perfectly crunchy and so melt-in-my-mouth good that I would close my eyes and feel shivers in my body, that I would become, when I ate a mouthful, like those girls in late-night movies who roll around on satin sheets, overcome by pleasure? I can’t remember if there was a time when I liked life. When I liked my life. All I know is that I never asked myself all these questions before, and that if everything wasn’t necessarily sweeter, gentler, and more beautiful, at least everything was a lot simpler. Before, I lived, and now I watch myself living, as if I were outside of myself. I constantly judge myself, but in my personal court of law, I play the prosecution and the defense at the same time. The verdict is always the same—guilty—and my punishment is life itself, in perpetuity. All the misery of the world is on my shoulders. Yeah, go ahead, bring out the violins.

Really, I never complain. I hate it when people complain. Let’s just say that I’ve had my fill of sympathy. “Poor little one”—how many times have I heard that? And all those greasy hands caressing my head. I’ve never understood this need that grown-ups have to pull me toward them, to kiss me, to pinch my cheek with that idiotic air of compassion, as if my need for comfort was a postulate. I learned that word at school: a postulate is something you accept as the foundation of a proof, even if it isn’t obvious or demonstrated to be true. See, I’m not poor or little, and I don’t need comforting. Anyway, they shouldn’t delude themselves: when they take me in their arms, these grown-ups, it’s mostly themselves that they’re reassuring; it’s them getting comfort from me and not the reverse. When Mom holds me in her arms, I know that it’s not my body she’s clasping, but my sister’s. She closes her eyes, buries her nose in my hair as if my smell could remind her a bit of Emmanuelle’s, but she’s always disappointed and finally lets go of me, touches my cheek with a sad smile, and leaves me there, my arms aching from being hugged too tightly.

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