OMG. The last I knew, it was Saturday, 7 January. What had happened in the meantime? Now, I was beginning to seriously imagine what state Mum and Granny Odette must be in and I only wanted one thing: to tell them that I could hear again, that everything was going to be fine, that I would no doubt be able to speak to them soon.

I waited all day. I slept a little, thought a lot, listened a lot. I waited for Mum, I waited for Granny Odette.

When I heard someone say goodnight, in the corridor, I understood the day was over. No one had come to see me. I was on my own.

I began to cry.

Inwardly, of course; externally, I was poker-faced.

7

26 Days

Willpower

It was another few days before I could face up to going into Louis’s room. Not the one in the Robert Debré Hospital, the other one. His real room. Since 7 January, I hadn’t been able to cross the threshold. I’d closed the door and hadn’t opened it again. My mother had understood the importance of this room for my psychological healing, and hadn’t set foot inside either, letting me take things at my own pace – for once.

One day, I felt ready. Ready to face the posters of his heroes, his drawings of his favourite idols, his unmade bed, his pyjamas scrunched into a ball and tossed on the desk, his homework book open at the page for Monday, 9 January. I stayed in his room for a long time. I tidied it slowly, carefully, and decided to wash his dirty bed linen. As I lifted the mattress to remove the sky-blue fitted sheet, I heard a thud. An object had just fallen out on to the wooden floor. I pulled the mattress towards me again, to see if there was anything else, but that was all. Then I knelt down and reached under the bed to pick up whatever it was that had dropped out.

It was a paperback A5 notebook, the cover of which was plastered with stickers of football stars. I smiled and opened it. On the flyleaf was written:

My Book of Wonders

The author of those words was my son. I recognized his cramped script, still awkward despite his age. A common trait in some bright children, I’d been told: their thoughts run ahead of their hand; their writing is often careless and rushed. Holding my breath, I turned the page and began reading.

My dearest Book of Wonders,

I’m making a list of all the things I’d like to experience before I die: my wonders. It’s a sort of bucket list, except not really, because I’ve put things that I think are do-able.