Mon amie américaine by Michèle Halberstadt

On the other hand, you remember perfectly the year you gave her the stuffed kangaroo. You ask me if I know the singer whose video is playing on the screen. It’s a sweet song about love and childhood, and you’re humming along, but halfheartedly. Suddenly you turn on your right side, shutting your eyes. “I’m going to rest before lunch.” By the time I leave the room you’re asleep.
    On the first floor is a very tall man, a bit stooped, busy in the living room with some bottles on a wheeled table. “Molly told me you liked your tomato juice very spicy. I’ve put some vodka in mine, should I do the same for yours?” I’ve seen photos of your father, but I never realized the extent to which he was a reference point for you. I think everyone you’ve been in love with is this same type: tall, lean, and dark.
    Your father studies me with his head tilted slightly to one side, as I’ve always seen you do when you’re concentrating. “You see, Molly remembers the kind of drinks you like, but she asked what day you were coming three times today. She has all her wits about her, but her short-term memory could be a lot better. Supposedly that can still be fixed.” He hands me my glass. “I’m not counting on the rest any more.” His voice is trembling a bit, as is his hand, and he pours another glass before going on, indicating the wheelchair. “That thing’s there for good. You can imagine all the consequences that entails.”
    Suddenly he raises his voice to call toward the kitchen, where a spoon has just fallen. “You need some help, sweetie?” He waits for an answer,which doesn’t come, and goes back to what he was saying. “Her mother doesn’t want to hear it, but Molly has adapted to it. Too quickly, in my opinion. The physiotherapist said that to me, too. She isn’t giving her all. And I don’t understand why. I know there’s not much chance she’ll recover, but they’ve already seen miracles with patients who refuse to consider their life in a wheelchair. They put everything they’ve got into trying and get results that go beyond all expectations.” He leans closer to me. “Do you understand why she’s given up so quickly?”
    The sound of a small bell makes him leap to his feet on his long legs, and he sets his glass down. “Ah! My princess wants to come downstairs! I’m going to get her.”
    I’m seated facing you. You’re propped up as best you can in your wheelchair by two cushions that are too limp. Lunch for you is carrot juice that you drink with a straw, some poached whitefish, and mashed potatoes. You mix all of it with a spoon, and the effort it takes you to eat is heartbreaking. You don’t make any attempt to wipe away the liquid trickling from the corner of your lips,and your parents pay no attention to it. At one moment you bang your cheek a little against your spoon without reacting. Obviously. That side of your face doesn’t feel anything. The liquid flows along your jaw beyond the edge of your turtleneck. I’m watching a clumsy, helpless little girl. You smile lovingly at me, despite the fact that I can’t manage to look at your face and your lifeless mouth. My Molly. My stomach is in knots. I ask blankly where the bathroom is and leave for the end of the hallway to shut myself up in it. For weeks I’ve been imagining you like a patient in a novel, languishing in a comfortable armchair with a shawl over your knees, sitting near a window and listening to music or busy writing on your laptop, your back straight against the pillows, your eyes looking lively beneath your long hair — but not these sagging shoulders, this face too heavy for your neck, this drained, snuffed-out expression.
    We spend the afternoon in your room, whose curtains I’ve closed to keep it cool. I think both of us fell asleep in front of the television,