Why I Didn't Write This Week

Fakarava Lagoon on Bora Bora. This is where I was, mentally, on the evening of June 27. Photo: Grégoire Le Bacon

I was actually sitting right where I am now, on my living room sofa in Avon-sur-Seine, watching a YouTube video about Bora Bora, when I heard the thunk. It was nearly 7 p.m., and the street below our apartment was streaming with rush-hour traffic.

   The thunk was followed by dead silence and then a shout.

   That thunk, I thought, was a car hitting an object that was not very solid. Possibly a bicyclist or a pedestrian.

   My husband had gone down the street to Le Smile, the neighborhood pub, to have a beer with his friend Pascal.

   I thought, Patrick should be almost home by now.

   I thought, maybe I should investigate.

   I thought, but maybe I’ll just sit here and watch this Bora Bora video instead. Because if something bad is happening down there, it’s really not my business. There is nothing I can do. And Patrick will be home soon. So I’ll just finish watching this video and then we’ll have dinner.

   And then the phone rang. And I thought oh, shit.

   A man’s voice said in heavily accented English: “Your husband has been in an accident. He is in the street. He is okay. The doctor is here.”

   There was some muffled discussion and my husband’s voice came on the line.

   “Hello, darling. I’ve been hit by a car. I’m just across the street from the Carrefour Market.”

   “I’m coming.”

   Eight days later, Patrick came home from l’hopital de Fontainebleau with a broken pelvis and some spectacular bruises. His arms were wrapped in gauze, and there was a big bandage on his head. I went to the pharmacy for a wheelchair, a walker, pain medicine, sleeping pills, bandages, and compression socks.
   That is the number one reason why I didn’t write this week. Or last week. Or the week before. The accident happened 25 days ago.