Page 87 of At the Ready

“Who is this stranger?” Even though she saw him the morning Micki left, Maman pretends she hasn’t seen him in years. She drops the cigarette on the deck and grinds it out with her foot. Yannick grins wide as he hugs her. Stepping back, she gives him a long look, then says, “Mon coco, what are you doing with this méchant?”

“Trying to put him back on the right path,” he teases.

I move in and give Maman a kiss on her left cheek, and then her right.

“So where is the Angel?” Yannick jumps right in.

I wince.

Maman is having none of that. “JL, what is going on with François?”

“He’s in Vancouver General. Withdrawal. On Thursday, he will enter a private rehab facility.”

“When can I visit him?”

“No visits for at least the first month.”

She gasps, then goes into a long coughing spell. “So long?”

“After that, there should be limited visits, if he improves.”

She latches on to the brochure I was given when Uncle Francois and I decided on the residential facility that looked most promising. “Like a country club or a resort. He’ll be living better than you.”

“And after?”

I thought I was prepared to give her my ultimatum. Now I’m not so sure.

“Whatever you’re making for dinner, Tante Louisette, smells wonderful.”

Trust Yannick to come up with the perfect distraction. Maman preens, smoothing her apron. “Bouilli.”

Yannick kisses his fingers. “Magnifique. You must have intuited I would be here. Bouilli is my favorite dish.”

“And Tart au Sucre for dessert.”

She turns to me. “The table is set, JL. Bring out the pot and ladle.”

“Do we need an extra setting? After all, you didn’t know Yannick would be here.”

“There are five place settings,” she says, her voice heavy with accusation and I wonder why Angélique hadn’t stayed. “And now we have a guest to use one.”

I feel her eyes burning into my neck. As I walk to the stove, Yannick says, “I’ll take the basket of bread and the butter. Do you need me to pour the water?”

“The water is already in the glasses. Do you want some wine? JL, get some wine and wine glasses.”

“Non, merci, Tante Louisette. Water is enough,” Yannick says.

I ladle stew into each bowl and set them back on the plates. Yannick passes around the bread, and we all take chunks of butter. The sounds in the room are chewing and slurping.

Then, always the instigator, Yannick breaks the mood. “This is so good, I hear an angel singing, Tante Louisette.”

Maman gasps. Her spoon clatters onto the plate and she presses her hand against her chest. I glower.

His expression is one of innocent confusion. “Did I say something wrong?”

Recovering her breath, Maman pats his hand. “You said nothing wrong, Yannick. Your words just reminded me of something sad.”

“Pardon, ma chère. I didn’t mean to cause you any distress.”

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