“If Maëlle dies while we’re in Majorca, Clara, it will be on your conscience.”
Mireille had said this in the entryway of her house in Tours, in front of the new suitcases, the sunglasses perched on her head, and the smile of a woman who had finally rid herself of a burdensome package.
Clara remained motionless, her hand still resting on the handle of her bag. She was 28 years old, worked as an advisor in a bank branch in Orléans, and sometimes she wondered exactly when her life had ceased to be her own. Before her marriage, she sang in small bars downtown. She dreamed of stages, microphones, faces turned towards her. Then there had been the bills, the student loans, her mother’s remarks, and finally, Antoine.
Antoine had seemed sweet at first. Impeccable suit, serious position at a consulting firm in Paris, tender words slipped into text messages sent late at night. He brought her croissants, listened to her talk about music, and said that he too had dreamed of the theater before becoming “sensible.” Clara thought she recognized in him someone who understood sacrifices.
After the wedding, he became cold. Dinners at his parents’ house were held without her. The nights smelled of whiskey. When Clara asked a question, Antoine rolled his eyes.
“You’re making a big deal out of everything.”
In this family, only Maëlle, Antoine’s younger sister, looked at Clara with tenderness. Officially, Maëlle hadn’t spoken since a neurological illness in her childhood. Officially, she couldn’t walk. She lived in an armchair, her hair always carefully brushed, her eyes downcast, like a sad image being moved from room to room.
