I had sent lawyers walking. Some made a plea that I did not agree with at all. Others resigned themselves. The hearing was postponed several times. I knew that my neurologist and other experts wanted to testify on my behalf.
At a certain point, in my opinion, Charles stayed away too long, it all didn't add up. I wasn't allowed to see him, they wouldn't tell me what was going on.
Professionally, Charles's son and I could occasionally find ourselves at odds – but I thought this was just a matter of respect?
Where was Charles? Where was my friend?
He wouldn't come back. When the bad news was announced to everyone, I was also told:
“Charles has an incurable tumor.”
The ground fell from beneath my feet. Why did I only know this now? Why wasn't this said directly or ear-lier? Why? We have worked together in the non-profit organization for years – why are they working against me? I did not get it. Even after the bad news, I was not allowed to see him. I heard excuses and excuses all the time. One Saturday, in June 2016, I received a phone call.
“You can come and visit him.”
I bought several plants – Charles loved plants – and I went to the hospital. I prepared myself for the worst. It was worse than that. I entered his room – and the man I saw was not the Charles I had always known. This was a sick, dying man in a couch - not Kevin, not my comrade Kevin, not the man who believed in me, not - His wife was there too. She nodded at me.
I walked over to Charles and hugged him. I grabbed him as softly and hard as I could. I realized it would be a matter of days, maybe hours. He didn't speak, but he smiled at me. All the time. He kept laughing – and he blinked his right eye all the time. Just like André always did.
Everywhere I walked in the room, Charles's eyes followed me. He kept looking at me. I looked back at him.
Charles knew he was going to die. I'm still certain of that. Charles's children and children-in-law entered.
“Dad is going to be transferred to the palliative unit,” they told me.
He kept looking at me. I showed that I understood. I was happy and sad at the same time.
Charles was allowed to go, but it broke my heart that he had to go.
He had to be moved. They prepared him to leave. I walked towards him. I gave him a hug.
“Thank you for everything, dear Charles,” I whispered softly. “
Thanks for everything".
I pulled back and saw tears appear in his eyes. He really recognized me. It was time for me to move on and leave the family, in mourning and intimacy, alone with Charles. I fully understood that. We said good-bye to each other. They wheeled Charles out of the room in a wheelchair. He looked back at me one last time. He raised his hand. I had to get out of there. I walked outside and cried like I hadn't cried in years. Screaming, because of such a loss that can only be caused by love and friendship.
Charles died on June 18, 2016. Two years later I officially stopped volunteering at Brussels Jazz Club.
The forensics hadn't even read my medical records.
The forensic investigation took place a long time after the discovery of the ammonia poisoning. My trial followed in September 2016. At that point I was no longer as sick as I had been. The cause of my confu-sion had been discovered and addressed. As far as they were concerned, I never even was. Doctors and specialists independently testified in my case – but for
to them it was old, cold news that had nothing to do with the facts. Even though of course it has every-thing to do with it.A month after the trial, the verdict came: I was given 8 months probation, was banned from my rights for 5 years and also had to remain available for the House of Justice for 5 years and
the social assistants of the CAW. In other words, I had to be watched
to protect both myself and others from my “tendencies”. There are none of those tendencies: it's not right, it's not true – I'm not like that. But the court ruled yes, as if, somewhere, I knew what I was doing. We could have appealed. I decided, out of respect for my parents, not to do that and to accept the ver-dict. They had already suffered enough.
53.
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