Amandine by Marlena de Blasi Page B

outstretched, and waits to be embraced by the sisters, by Philippe. When Paul is anywhere near, Amandine scuttles to her, tries to hug her about the ankles, is fascinated by her headdress, I think, holds up her arms to the old nun, quietly beseeching her, but Paul, barely breaking stride, consents only
“Bonjour,
Amandine.” Amandine lets her arms drop, looks up at Paul, inclines her head, nods, barely nods, just enough to tell her
, I understand. I know.
Somehow she knows
.
    Ah, how you grow, little one. One hundred twenty grams this month, nearly a year old and plump as a dove you are. A small dove, perhaps. Jean-Baptiste, dear Jean-Baptiste, so devoted to you. Friday
mornings at ten, he listens to your heart, thumps his fingers about your chest, looks at the color of your skin under his lamp, takes you to the window, all the better to see its tone, feels the flesh of your legs for swelling, the pulsing mound of your abdomen. He looks into your eyes with his light. Holds you to him then, tells you how lovely you are, passes you to me to tie the strings of your undershirt, slip on your long pink knitted stockings, all the while repeating his instructions
.
    “Keep her warm. Keep her away from anyone who is sick. Even with a simple cold, keep her away. Feed her as she is hungry, as often as she wants, but never force her to eat or drink. Fresh air two hours a day, three when possible. Any sign that her breathing is labored, call for me immediately. Mater knows how and where to find me.”
    “Her surgery? When?”
    “I don’t know yet, Solange. We’ll take her again soon to be seen by Lucien Nitchmann. He’ll be seeing patients in Montpellier next month. We’ll know more then.”
    Our exchanges are always the same. But I can see that he is less troubled now when he looks at her, listens to her. The muscles in his jaw not so prominent. As I dress Amandine, I watch the form his brown ink scratching makes across the page in her folder.
Apparent compensation of congenital myocardial insufficiency; atrial septal defect closing; weight progress within low-normal limits
.
    I say the words over and over again all the way back to our rooms, and Amandine giggles, thinks it’s a new song I sing to her. I put her down in the cradle, sit at the desk, and write the words as best as I can remember them, as best as I can spell them. When I go to the village, I will stop by the
bibliothèque communale,
riffle through the medical encyclopedias. How often have I done this? I always swear it will be the last time, since I manage to increase only my fear and not my understanding. Better to look in Jean-Baptiste’s eyes than to stare at the menacing script in the books. Better still, to look in Amandine’s eyes. Yes, into your eyes, my love. Happy birthday, sweet child. Happy first birthday, Amandine
.

    I like it that most of the sisters spend their evening recreation time in what has come to be known as Philippe’s parlor. Even in summer, he keeps a fire. After vespers and supper, after the convent girls and the teaching sisters have returned to their dormitory, there seems almost a rush among the rest of us—like a family whose company has finally gone home—to get to the next part part of the evening. Some go to take a book, others their work bags, then settle down in the candlelit place. Philippe is already established in his black velvet, high-back chair when I carry in Amandine. Holding out her arms to him or flailing her hands as though fanning a flame, so anxious is she to go to him, she holds her breath until she’s in his arms. Paul, too, draws up to the fire. Not in the spirit of the gathering family come to soothe the hurts of the day, she comes to assure that our happiness be flawed. Less and less does she triumph as Philippe makes you laugh aloud and you flail your feet and arms when he hoists you, tummy down, a squirming lamb upon his shoulder. He dances you about. Cheek to cheek then, he nuzzles you—your soft to