Free Mon amie américaine by Michèle Halberstadt

company” states: “We’ve advised her to take the time she needs to recover.” Enough time for everyone to forget you?
    I no longer know what to tell you about. Six weeks have passed since I went to see you.
    It feels as if I’m writing to your shadow. I’m writing to the Molly you seem not at all in a hurry to become again.
    You don’t really believe that I’m going to tell you about the vagaries of my days, my meetings, the films I’ve seen, the dinners I’ve gone to, the trips I’m planning to take, or other anecdotes that are even more trivial, like the one about my car breaking down in a tunnel today, when I know the ordeals you’re going through.
    I think about those ordeals all the time. I know that every morning, after the doctor’s visit, they come to get you out of bed so that you can try to move your left leg, arm, and hand. They makeyou work, first lying down and then standing on a treadmill. I know that you tire very easily, that your head spins, that the ground beneath your feet slips away, that you get nauseous and feel like crying. I imagine the conflicting emotions sweeping through you, the determination to get through this, your discouragement about the immense amount of work such a thing entails, your lack of understanding about what has happened to you, the lethargy into which your condition plunges you, the isolation of your room, the permanent presence of a mother you’ve never felt close to … I think of you, I visualize you, I imagine you, I feel you, and I experience a pang of anguish. Forgive me, I can’t seem to talk to you about anything else. Compared to what you endure each day, my daily life is so laughable …
    I’m also not going to vent my depressing story, tell you about the efforts I make every day not to ask Vincent any questions, the hate his cell phone inspires in me, my sleepless nights, the money I stupidly blow on lavish outfits that I’ll never have a chance to wear, just for the pleasure of feeling desirable when I slip into them. I’ve never spent so much on beauty products, treatments for the face,creams for the body, like a true geisha. Only Clara notices and registers all these details, which are new for her. The nail polish I put on. The skirts I’m suddenly more willing to wear than my jeans. The hats that, like you, I’ve begun collecting. My new glasses. Lipstick. She summed it up her way: “Mommy, you’re like Babar, you’re getting dolled up.” Her favorite book is the one in which the elephant has come to the city and buys green suits and patent leather shoes in the department stores. In her eyes, I’m like that pachyderm. She’s right. I feel as clumsy and out of place as he did. I’m fighting against the desire to chuck all of it, but I’m trying to put up a good front.
    Molly, you’ll be glad to learn that I’m following your advice to the letter. You’ve always claimed that wearing stiletto heels and a tight skirt was like putting on a battle dress that gave you a boost in facing a difficult situation. “It makes me take little steps, pull in my backside, and stand straight with my head high. It’s like armor. On five inches, you’re a warrior, believe me.”
    This morning, when I walked into the kitchen, teetering three inches above the floor (I can’t manage any higher), Clara studied me from topto bottom and winked at her father. “Daddy, are you jealous?” I opened the refrigerator door to put all that off track and pretended to be looking for the milk, which was already sitting right there on the table. Vincent shrugged indifferently. Clara insisted: “Well, Daddy?” Vincent stroked her head. “No, my princess. Jealousy doesn’t do any good.” He looked at me with a scoffing smile and added, “But you’re right, Mommy looks very stylish this morning.” I kept my eyes