The Secret of the Blue Trunk

The Secret
of the Blue Trunk

Lise Dion

Translated by Liedewy Hawke

To Claudie and Hugo, so that you will always remember.

I have intentionally changed the names of certain people and places out of respect for those who have lived through that unthinkable killing frenzy, in particular for my mother.

F
or
two days I had been trying to get hold of my mother by telephone. But she never answered. Although I knew she was often out, I was worried. I called the superintendent of her building and asked him to check if she was home. I wanted to be reassured at all costs. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

Half an hour later, he still hadn’t called back. I was sick with worry, like a mother who can’t find her child. Finally, after forty minutes, the telephone rang. The superintendent asked me to come immediately, but I wanted to know before I left if my mother was all right or if she was ill. He repeated urgently, “Come right away!”

On the way over, I imagined the worst. I pictured her lying on the floor, flat on her stomach. She was trying to drag herself to the phone to call me and ask me to help her. I felt sick, distraught, I couldn’t stop crying, and barely managed to keep my mind on the road.

When I drove up to her building, I saw police and paramedics bustling about. I don’t have a clear recollection of what happened next. I remember the superintendent hugging me to stop me from going inside. Choosing his words with infinite care, he explained that my mother had been dead for several hours. It was better for me not to see her in that condition.

A fellow tenant who lived on the same floor as my mother and knew her well invited me in while I waited for the father of my children to arrive and to take control of the situation because I was unable to.

Then a policeman and a paramedic came to reassure me. They explained that my mother had died of a pulmonary embolism and had already lost consciousness at the moment of her death. When they entered her apartment, she was simply sitting in her armchair. So she hadn’t had time to try to call me, as I had pictured in my mind.

Their explanations made me feel better. They also told me there was no indication whatsoever that she had suffered before she died. I was relieved. But when they mentioned that her death might have occurred two days earlier, a tremendous feeling of guilt overcame me. And that feeling haunts me to this day.

A few hours later, morgue employees took my mother’s body away. Only then could I bring myself to go into her apartment.

The first thing I caught sight of was her nightgown. It lay on the floor near the chair in which she died. I shrank back. It was too much for me. I asked the superintendent and my husband to get rid of any traces that might remind me of my mother’s last moments.

When I finally stepped into her small furnished place, a strong smell of decomposition hit me. It was a distinctive odour. Even if you’ve never smelled it before, something tells you it is the smell of death. It’s like the scent of cheap face powder that turns your stomach, but at the same time there’s the stench of something cold decaying.

I thought I would never be able to get rid of that smell. It clung to my nostrils and my clothes. But worse were the fathomless silence and the great emptiness pervading her apartment. My only thought was: I must gather together all the necessary documents as quickly as possible and get out of here.

When I think back on the days I spent at the funeral parlour, I realize I was in a trance. All I wanted to do was sit on the floor and cry my eyes out. Yet I struggled to keep calm. I must have been afraid my behaviour might seem a little excessive because of my grief, but we all mourn in our own way.

Before they closed the casket, I wanted to make sure my mother had everything she needed for her great journey. I lifted the satin cloth covering her body and checked if they had put on the wool socks I had brought. My mother always had cold feet. I would have liked to wrap her in a warm blanket but restrained myself.

To me, my mother was still alive. It hadn’t sunk in that all life had left her body. This lasted a few hours. That’s why I insisted she wear her glasses. I wanted her to be able to recognize the people waiting for her on the other side, should there be another side.

My children and I put all kinds of objects in her last bed. My children gave her drawings and wrote her affectionate notes, whereas I wrote her a long letter in which I asked her among other things to send me a sign from time to time. Especially when I needed her advice.

Around her, in the casket, we placed a few pictures of Maurice, her husband, and of their marriage. Maurice was the love of her life and, according to her wish, she would be buried by his side. Next to her, near her head, we placed a photo of her beloved brother Rosaire.

I also laid a few
Salix iona
stems in the casket. They were her favourite flowers, members of the willow family. She called them simply her “little pussycats.” Every summer, she would search high and low for them, gathering them into bouquets.

My children and I wanted her to take along all her familiar things. It was our way of delaying the final closing of the casket. The funeral director didn’t seem too happy about our activities and kept giving us odd looks, but we just couldn’t resign ourselves to seeing her leave forever.

At the cemetery, I noticed there was water at the bottom of the grave. I became hysterical, I started screaming that the casket wasn’t watertight, that the water could seep into it. I even asked that they pump that water out before lowering my mother’s casket.

The gravediggers, who had seen worse, didn’t budge, and forced us to leave before they proceeded with the burial. My children thought I had been acting rather strangely since my mother’s death. I think I scared them a little. They were eleven and thirteen and had never seen me in such a state.

Barely twenty-four hours after my mother’s funeral, the superintendent of the building where she had lived notified me that the apartment urgently needed to be “cleared out.” Apparently, a new tenant was eager to move in.

“Cleared out,” he said. What a dreadful, coarse expression! He was trying to make it plain to me that life went on and a mere coat of paint would get rid of any trace of the admirable woman she had been.

I almost shouted at him, “You can’t possibly have known her well, or you would be mourning her death and not pressing me to throw out her soul!” When we experience great sorrow, other people’s everyday concerns become intolerable to us.

I plucked up whatever courage I had left and could at last bring myself to open the door to her home. If I had gone there with brothers and sisters, I think it would have been easier. Even though I know that often in large families people quarrel over an insignificant scrap of fabric that isn’t listed in the will, I found it very difficult not to be able to share these dramatic moments with anyone.

When I went in, the smell of death was still just as noticeable. I opened the windows to air out the place. Inside, everything was stagnant, as if time had stood still since she died. After a quick survey, I realized that the task would be very hard: In a few short hours, I needed to get rid forever of all traces of her presence in these rooms where she had lived for nearly eight years.

Before I began, I sat down on her bed. I felt utterly bewildered. I stroked the blankets, which still held the imprint of her body.

I wondered how I would manage to live without her. Although I was thirty-seven years old, I was still her child, a child who had suddenly lost the security, the consolation, and the sympathetic ear of her adored mother. Never again would there be someone looking at me as if I were still a little girl and say, “When you were small, you were like
this
, you delighted in doing
that
, your father and I loved you so much,” and so on. Never again would I be able to take refuge with her.

Whenever I visited her and she was in the kitchen preparing a meal, I felt as though I were coming home from school and was a child again who no longer had to face her adult responsibilities. No matter what problems I discussed with her, she always found solutions or gave me advice on how to deal with them. Of course, we had our disagreements, but how sweet it was to make peace with each other afterwards.

With tear-filled eyes I searched every nook and cranny of her bedroom. Her perfume still had the place of honour on her dresser. I opened the bottle and threw a few drops into the air to make the room smell good, as if to tell myself that she was still there. “I’ll use it sparingly,” I thought, “a little daub once in a while, on days when I’m depressed, to make myself feel better.” Also on her dresser stood her beige, gold-patterned, leather jewellery box. As a little girl, and even as a teenager, I used to spend hours emptying it and playing with her jewellery, carefully examining the pieces one by one. Then I would put them gently back in the velvet-lined compartments. I discovered, hidden in a corner, two baby teeth of mine she had kept. I couldn’t help bursting into tears. A splendid photograph of my father was prominently displayed on the desk. In that photo he looks steadily at the camera with a loving smile. My mother and I always found that smile irresistible. My father had remained ever present in my mother’s life, though she survived him by twenty-seven years. She often said she would never again live such a love story. That’s why she had chosen to stay on her own.

Very early on, I realized that my parents formed a special couple. When my bedtime came around, for example, they became two childless adults again. It was out of the question that I would disturb their privacy. Yet I certainly tried. My parents were ahead of their time. In the first place, my mother, Armande, was ten years older than my father. Secondly, they lived together for several years before getting married, which wasn’t done in those days. It created a scandal in the family.

They shared a tremendously strong bond and talked to each other a lot. That, too, was rare in those days. I so much would have liked her to tell me more about that great love affair, to help me understand why she broke down so completely when my father died.

Still sitting on her bed, my mind adrift, I pictured my mother walking into the bedroom to take her nap, as she did every afternoon. I so much would have liked to lie down beside her and take her in my arms for that final rest. I would have thanked her, then, for her generosity of spirit and, especially, for her extreme unselfishness to have looked after a child of which she wasn’t even the biological mother.

I would have liked to thank her once more for all those hours she spent hunched over her sewing machine making clothes for people who were better off, not to mention the housecleaning she did in private homes, so that the widow she had become too soon could make ends meet.

I would have wanted to tell her, too, how grateful I was for all the sacrifices she made for me. How many times did she offer me half of her meal, pretending she wasn’t hungry anymore, so I could eat my fill?

She also tightened her belt to be able to afford presents for me at Christmastime. I remember a ring she once gave me. She’d bought it on credit, paying five dollars a week for it. I’ve never been able to part from that ring and wore it until it practically fell to pieces.

And more than anything else, I would have wanted to say to her, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m here, I’ll stay with you until you close your eyes. I’ll hold your hand until you see that beautiful light they promise us, and until the hand of the one you loved so much takes over from mine …”

I just couldn’t make up my mind to pack up the objects in her bedroom. I was so overwhelmed with grief, all I did was cry.

Finally I decided to start with the kitchen. I didn’t feel like lingering, it was too difficult. There was no more time to waste, anyway, because the people from her neighbourhood to whom I wanted to give her things would be arriving in a few hours. I am sure my mother would have agreed with that.

On the table I spotted her handbag and slowly emptied it of its contents. I hated doing this; it was like accepting that my mother was gone for good. Much to my surprise and half-laughing, half crying, I found things she had stolen from me. Over the past few years I’ve often been the victim of her little burglaries. Thus I retrieved, from a small pocket, my silver earrings, which I thought I’d lost, and a multicoloured glass pendant that caught her eye whenever I wore it. While sorting clothes in her chest of drawers, I actually found a sweater, a nightgown, and even a pair of shoes that belonged to me.

In her wallet I discovered an old picture of the two of us, taken in a photo booth during Expo 67. I was twelve. We were both laughing. I started crying again. My mother’s smile was joyful. There was nothing forced about it, as in an official photograph.

I can honestly say that my mother and I had a wonderful relationship, although sometimes she would have liked to have me all to herself, and then sparks flew. Strangely enough, we began to feel very close to each other when I was a teenager, but that bond was, in fact, an expression of her possessiveness. She was jealous of the time I spent with my friends.

My mother also had a fiercely protective side. She could easily have become violent if someone had tried to attack me. Whenever I was sad, she moved heaven and earth to cheer me up. I remember how one day, when she couldn’t bear to see me cry over my weight problems anymore, she suggested we buy a miracle product that could make me lose weight. But the sale of that product was illegal in Quebec. So she was capable of putting aside her integrity to find a solution to my distress. On the other hand, she had a strong tendency to bear grudges. I dreaded her fits of rage more than anything. When she was angry at me, days could go by without her speaking to me. I detested that because, after my father died, there were just the two of us in the house. Her silence and indifference would quickly become intolerable.