Before boarding the train, I bought a disposable camera – the kind that was so common twenty years ago, but is now a vintage item. I took out of my purse the photograph that I always keep with me. In this faded snapshot, Louis is two years old. His face is smeared with chocolate and he’s roaring with laughter. It’s my favourite photo of my son. I held the camera up to the sky, placed the photo of Louis against my cheek, smiled and took a selfie.

The first of a series of 3,650 photos. An excellent idea to begin a last day, my son.

Excerpt from the Book of Wonders

In ten years . . .

– Write a letter to the person I’ll be in ten years’ time, imagining what my life will be like . . . to be opened and reread in ten years to the day – for a laugh.

– Take a photo of myself every day to make a photomontage of my development: ten years in one minute.

23

The Day When . . .

I went straight to the hospital, without letting anyone know I was coming. It would take me twenty minutes or so from the Gare du Nord.

On the way, I hugged tight the envelope containing my writings and Louis’s Book of Wonders. I had hot flushes. I was completely stressed out.

I’d had bouts of optimism during that London night. What if I’d misinterpreted my mother’s message, her grave tone and quavering voice? Could she have been crying for joy? Yes, of course she could. But then why not just say in her message that Louis had woken up? When you’ve got good news, you don’t beat about the bush. You leave an unambiguous message.

Yes, but she’d left three previous messages, which I hadn’t listened to.

Yes, but the hospital had called too, and my mother had ordered me not to listen to the messages.

Yes, but . . . Yes, but . . . Hope. Damned hope. Which never leaves its prey. I had been its willing victim for many long weeks.

I turned into the hospital’s gloomy fourth-floor corridor. The nurses greeted me. I hastened my step. Now I was there, I had to see my son right away.

A nurse intercepted me and barred my path, saying, ‘Wait a moment before you go in, please. Did you speak with Dr Beaugrand on the phone?’

She was blocking my access to the rest of the corridor. I looked at her, flabbergasted. I said no, I hadn’t spoken with Dr Beaugrand, and that of course I was going to go into Louis’s room, straight away. Charlotte came running up and grabbed my arm.

‘Thelma, wait. I have to speak to you first.’

I was gripped by a feeling of sheer dread. I had to know. Now. I freed my arm and ran to Louis’s room.

I opened the door.

I raced over to the bed.

Then, I saw.

24

His Eyes