Page 46 of Oyster

Bless him, my dad had made an effort, though it would take a hell of a lot more than his best shirt and a squirt of aftershave to detract from misty eyes above cheeks hollowed out by sadness. He’d dredged up a colourful tablecloth too, spread out across the dining room table, which Max and I dragged alongside the sofa, so my mum didn’t have to get up. Far too big, the checked cloth hung down on all sides, prompting my mum to joke she could wear it as a cape.

With a flourish, my dad produced an iced platter of shucked oysters, interspersed with our neighbouring farm’s glorious fatcrevettes, piled high and spread in a fan. With another theatrical gesture, he produced a little dish of the piquantmignonette sauce my mum swore he made better than anyone. As us kids pulled up dining room chairs, he sank next to her on the sofa.

“Tuck in,” he said brightly, leading the way.

La Forge oysters. The creamiest, most succulent, and best on the island. Award-winning, served at some of the finest seafood restaurants in France.

Maybe so, but you’d have had a hard time convincing me tonight. Their sharp saltiness stung my lips; my dad’s fiery sauce burned my tongue; the smooth meat snagged in my throat. With my eyes fixed on my plate, I attempted to eat. On my right, Zoë fought her own battle, while Max hunched over his plate like a savage, shovelling them down as fast as possible, sending the shells clattering into a bowl. His slurps cut through the silence, turning my stomach over. None of us dared raise our eyes from our plates as my dad tenderly fussed over my mum.

“All right, my love?” He wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Some bread to follow? Shall I butter it for you?”

I couldn’t imagine having a childhood sweetheart. I had been one of the disruptive boys at the back of class, chewing illicit gum and shredding erasers in pencil sharpeners. The kind of boy swotty girls delighted in telling tales on, not holding hands with. At least until they hit puberty, anyhow. But my mum and dad had been glued to each other since sharing a desk on their first day of school. And, as the teenage years hit, they had gone from making sandcastles to making a home and then making babies.

Their marriage hadn’t all been a bed of roses, of course. At best, my dad was a grumpy sod and, at worst, a bit of a loner. Everyone said I was a chip off the old block, and I daresay they weren’t wrong. Unlike me, though, he was stuck in a time warp; he liked his dinner on the table after a day at work and his wife to keep a tidy house and bring up the kids. Lucky for him, my mum had been on the same page. Mind you, like any other couple navigating a long-term relationship, they knew how to argue. Until my mum’s illness, they’d had some right humdingers. The walls of the house had shaken. When he was particularly obtuse, she threw things.

But when childhood sweethearts bickered, they didn’t need to bring up old photo albums or go on date nights to rekindle the love. They simply chuntered about the other under their breath for half an hour, then swallowed their pride.

What they didn’t know how to do, of course, was carry on alone.

Silent tears trickled down Zoë’s face, and an empty shell dropped from her hand. I slipped my arm around her back. With grim determination, Max sawed slice after slice from a baguette before starting on a second loaf, far more than any of us could eat.

My mum cleared her throat, triggering a breathless cough, and held out a hand for Zoë to take.

“It’s okay. I’m okay, Zoë. Don’t be upset.”

Guaranteed to make my sister cry even more. I slipped from the table, returning with a box of tissues. Another stilted silence, except for Zoë’s sniffs.

“So, anyone got any good news?” My mum attempted a bright smile. “Any joy to share? Nico?”

Her yellowed eyes implored me to say something. Anything to keep my siblings and me in her presence for a little longer. To sprinkle a tiny piece of joy into her own evening, to distract her from her pain. Any second, Max would shuffle his chair back and have some urgent oyster sacks to toss, and Zoë would dash back to the fortress of her bedroom. My dad would open a can of beer and turn on the telly, and my mum would doze on the sofa next to him, waiting for death.

I remembered the conversation about settling down. And I remembered, too, the last time I’d shucked a few oysters, sprawled next to Éti on a checked blanket, salty water dribbling down her chin. I recalled her carefree laughter, a sound I’d grown to love. The sound of pure and unadulterated joy.

“I’m heading up to Paris for a night tomorrow.” I smiled at her. “Does that count? To see Éti.” I hesitated. “If that’s okay. Unless, I’ll stay if…”

“Of course it’s okay. You haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks, have you?”

“No. She’s been busy with work.”

“Oh. Well, that will be nice.”

The exchange petered out. The mound of oysters lay mostly untouched. Pink-bellied crevettesstared at us out ofcloudy,deadeyes. Another stilted silence threatened. My headache beat an ugly tattoo against my skull. Zoë sniffled.

“We’re serious about each other,” I said.

Max smirked. Heat rose from under my collar. I ploughed forward anyhow, because… fuck it. She’d asked for some joy; the least any of us could do was fucking give her some.

“I’m going to bring her over soon, for you all to meet. Perhaps after the football season ends—she works for PSG and doesn’t have a lot of time.”

“What does she do for them?” asked my dad, buttering a piece of baguette. He offered it to Zoë and then prepared another for himself. “Big clubs these days are massive money-spinners, aren’t they? Is she in the marketing side of things?"

“Humm… sort of.” Éti would decide when she came out and to whom, not me. Buying myself thinking time, I tipped my head back and swallowed an oyster. The meaty morsel slipped down much more easily. “She does play an important part in club promotion, but most of her time, she’s involved with the matches themselves.” I pictured Éti, arms open and perfectly balanced, jinking between defenders with the grace of a ballerina. “Making sure PSG win.”

“Have you asked her yet about getting your hands on some more free tickets?” Max questioned around a mouthful of cheese. “In the VIP stand again would be great.”

Cheeky bugger. I could have ten tickets to every single match and my choice of seats, but Max didn’t need to know that. “I’m working on it,” I promised.

“Well, you need to get her over here soon,” said my dad. “It’s only fair she meets the good-looking men in the family.”

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