In her columns, Nathalie Plaat calls on your stories. In “What Haunts Us”, she invited you to tell her what haunts you, whether they are symptoms or, why not, real ghosts. The “News from you” section provides excerpts from your responses.
Annie was my adopted Quebec mother. I came from France almost 20 years ago, and I found a second family here. She adopted me and integrated me into her large tribe of friends. Is it his presence that haunts my days? I’m wearing her winter boots. She had purchased them shortly before her death. I admired them, she even gave me the name of the store where I could find them. She wore them when I took her shopping, a timeless morning in December 2022. She wore her wig which gave her an air of Brigitte Bardot, she remained classy, whatever happened, even with this cursed cancer . She had lost so much weight in five months that she had gained 20 years, but she remained dignified.
When we emptied her apartment in April with her daughters, my best friends, the shoes reappeared. Everyone said, “They’re for you.” » I took them as precious objects. Usually, I never keep anything from the dead that they didn’t give me when they were alive.
I think I provoked her. When I gave Annie my goodbye hug in February 2023 (the day before she was assisted in dying), I whispered to her: “Will you come see me? » She smiled and said, “Of course.” » She left like one goes on vacation. So, at the time, it was less difficult. I didn’t shed a tear when I was told it was over. We’re going to see each other again anyway. His funeral sheet was a Ouija board that said: “We keep in touch. » She had planned everything.
The minute he died, I received a call for a family doctor. I had been battling chronic pain for four years without follow-up. I was taken care of by an incredible doctor. The very minute Annie took her last breath, I received this providential call.
The transmission of her daughters’ car failed right in front of Annie’s cabin. The car stopped without warning. Five minutes earlier, and it would have happened on the highway with potentially more dramatic consequences.
These are just two examples, but there have been several other stories since, and we often say, with a smile, in the gang, that it is Annie, for sure, who is behind all this! She’s not really gone, to anyone. My friend Lucie, for whom she was also an adoptive mother, still writes to him on her Facebook at least once a week.
Since it’s cold, I’ve been following in Annie’s footsteps. It’s been two, three weeks. I began my mourning for Annie by putting on her boots.
Before, I couldn’t be sad, it didn’t come out. The sadness fell with November, I heard him tell me that the floors were cold: “You have to put on ankle boots from the start, if you don’t want to get osteoarthritis. » She educated the little French girl in the harsh Quebec winters. She taught me everything. THE tipsraising children, surviving single parenthood, life.
One summer morning, we took my children, his grandson, and we went to the Central Station. We took the first train which left 10 minutes later. The children chose to stop. We ended up spending the day in Deux-Montagnes. Some will say there’s nothing to see there, but with Annie, the kids, and me, it was a magical day. I’m thinking of taking a train again soon, but alone. I will roll the destination on the dice.
I’ve been writing a novel for a year and a half. Annie told me, “I’m not leaving until you finish it.” I want to be your first reader. » We shared a love of books and we even had a joint short story project about books that have their own character. I told myself that until I finished writing my book, she was not going to die. Last winter, I was unable to write a line. She still died.
I got back into it after his death, with difficulty. I was too busy not feeling sad.
Since wearing these boots, I have returned to writing with the enthusiasm of the beginning. I’m on the second draft. Annie is there, behind my shoulder, like my muse. I think I write better since she’s by my side.