Page 91 of His Sound
“It seems so stupid now, to think I could believe that getting you help would make things worse. We didn’t want you to feel like you needed help. We didn’t want to limit you. That’s why your father pushed you so hard. That’s why he wanted you to have a career like your siblings. He wanted you to believe you could do anything they could. He didn’t want you to think you were less than them.”
She should check the stove.
That’s all I can think. That’s all my brain can come up with to keep itself from having to process what she’s saying. The things she’s telling me don’t match up with the image I have of my father, and I don’t know if I can tear that image down.
“He was upset when you dropped out of your degree because he thought you were giving up. He thought you lost faith in yourself, and he wanted you to get it back. He’s only ever been critical of your music because he assumed it was your second choice, that you were settling for it. We never wanted you to settle, Jean-Paul. We wanted you to soar.” The laugh that follows her words is sad and small, but tinged with wonder. “You have, though, haven’t you? In spite of all our mistakes, you’ve grown up to do amazing things, things we never could have even imagined for you. We’re so proud.”
She places her hand on my leg. Its weight is heavy with regret. I know she means what she says, but the words don’t undo all the years of my life that led us to this moment.
“Why hasn’t he told me?” My voice comes out thick. “If he’s so proud, if he’s been stashing articles about me away for years, then why hasn’t he ever said anything about it? All he does is push and nag and make me feel like I’m a disappointment. Why can’t he show me that book himself?”
“Your father is...a tough man.” Her tone is strained. “He has to be. His job is to make other people believe in him, which means he has to believe in himself. He...has a hard time admitting he’s wrong. I think he still wants to believe that our choices were the best thing for you.”
“Well, they weren’t.”
“No,” she answers quietly, “they weren’t.”
We sit there in silence as a few minutes tick by. It’s almost suppertime now. It’s already been dark for a few hours.Papawill be home any minute, back from a long day of reading reports and making speeches and being too damn proud to say the one thing that could change his kid’s whole life.
“You should check the stove,” I say eventually. “I’ll fix the microwave in a few minutes.”
She nods and sits there tapping her fingers against her arms like she wants to say something else, but when she gets up, it’s only to bend down and kiss the top of my head. Once she’s back in the kitchen, I grab the binder from where she’s left it on the coffee table and start to flip through the pages again. She was telling the truth; the stuff in here goes back years. There’s an article about the very first show we played in Trois-Rivières, just after we released our first EP. It’s only a few sentences long, but I’m mentioned in the very first line. In fact, I’m the only band member who’s named. I don’t think that’s ever happened before; if anything, usually they just include Ace’s name.
I keep inspecting the pages, reliving a new set of memories with each one. Even Kay’s article about us is in here, the one that caused so much trouble and got her and Matt together in the end. We’ve all been so focused on the future of Sherbrooke Station that we don’t often take the time to think about our past, how much we’vedone. My dad even has articles printed out in other languages: German, Dutch, Swedish. There are pictures of us on stage at huge festivals in the UK.
I still have the binder in my lap when I hear the front door open. There’s no time to react before my father walks into the living room, pulling his tie off as he calls out toMaman. He spots me and starts to say hello, but freezes when he drops his eyes to the binder.Mamanappears in the kitchen doorway, and he looks between the two of us like he’s expecting this to be some kind of joke.
“I had to show him.”Mamansounds firmer than she usually does when she speaks to him. “He needed to know, Marc. This has gone on long enough.”
He gives me one final glance and turns back to her. “Can I speak with you in the kitchen?”
I drop the binder on the cushion beside me and get up from the couch. “I’m not a kid. You can talk in front of me.”
“This isn’t about you.” He doesn’t even face me to say it.
“Then what exactly is it about?” I demand. “Is it aboutyou? Is this all just about how it affectsyou?”
“Watch your tone, Jean-Paul.”
“Or what,Marc? You going to put me in time out? Because that always worked so well. Just another great parenting strategy from Marc Bouchard.Sacrement, you should write a book.”
That makes him whirl around to face me, tie still loose and dangling around his neck. “Don’t use that kind of language in front of your mother!”
I’m about to apologize to her when she steps forward with her hands on her hips and lets out an explosion of swear words that leaves both me andPapablinking in shock.
“Esti de tabarnak de câlice! Just tell him you’re proud of him, Marc. He is the child, not you. Grow up!” She whips off her apron and throws it down on the floor in front of her. “Six children! We raised six children together. You think we could have gotten it right the sixth time, but we made mistakes, Marc. We werewrong. We’re his parents. We were supposed to...to protect him...and wehurthim. We hurt our baby.”
She’s crying again.Papagoes to wrap his arms around her, but she pushes him away.
“Non! That is not what I want. I want you to tell Jean-Paul how you feel, and I want you to tell him you’re sorry. I will not let this go on anymore.Tell.Him.”
I almost laugh when she stomps her foot and marches back into the kitchen, but I wipe the amusement off my face whenPapaturns to me. I cross my arms over my chest. We stare each other down.
“She’s upset,” he says.
“She is,” I agree. “Is it true? That was you?” I nod at the binder.
“I...”
