JULY 1997
When his alarm goes off in the morning, James quickly slaps it off and checks to make sure Sarah is still asleep. He’s not in the mood for another conversation about how late he’s been working or how much time he’s been spending on the book. He got home at around three in the morning and did his damn best not to wake her. He grabbed a beer from the kitchen and drank it standing at the counter to calm his nerves. Upstairs, he stripped down to his boxers and quietly slipped into bed.
“It’s almost three,” Sarah said, her voice shooting out of the dark, startling him.
“I finished the first part of my book tonight.”
She didn’t say anything. Her back was to him. He didn’t mention seeing Véronique. Sarah must have told her where to find him, but she didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t probe.
“I’m sorry it’s so late,” he murmured.
Silence.
He rolled over, turning away from her. Still reeling from the shock of seeing Véronique.
Sarah let out a soft whimper. He looked over, and her back was quivering. She was crying. He knew that she wanted to be held and reassured. He didn’t move, though, just pretended to sleep.
He showers and dresses quickly, tiptoeing around the room. Downstairs, he chugs orange juice from the carton and scribbles a note for Sarah: Gone to Cowansville to see my mom. Back tomorrow.
In the car, he leaves a message for Damian. Working from home today. And then he takes off, eager to get his manuscript into his mother’s hands, and to get away from Sarah.
He thinks about Véronique the entire drive. How she looked, how she smelled (faintly of gasoline?). The moment he saw her standing there, he wanted to pull her into his arms. Let’s be honest, he wanted to take her into the alley and have sex with her against the side of the building.
Beyond that, he still wants to rescue her. She looked scared, agitated. She was withholding something—he could tell immediately. He wondered if it had to do with Louis. She took off before he could ask.
Does she miss him? Want him back? His head is swimming with unanswered questions. Should he call her?
He stops at one of the stands on the side of Route 139 and picks up two dozen ears of corn. It’s the end of July—not quite peak season, but they’ll be good enough. He tosses the paper bags into the passenger seat, missing his father. He always feels like a traitor, buying corn from another farm. Gabriel’s was the best in the region, his pride and joy.
James decides to stop at the cemetery.
“Salut, Pa,” he says, sitting down on the ground in front of Gabriel’s headstone. The sun feels good on his bare arms, the back of his neck. The air is filled with the scent of peonies, one of his mother’s favorites. What would his father say to him right now?
Don’t settle. Love is too goddamn precious.
His father believed in that kind of once-in-a-lifetime love. He liked the idea of having a soul mate. He’d found his, after all. It made him sentimental.
Not everyone is so fortunate. Then again, James did find the love of his life, but he screwed her over and lost her to a total loser, so it’s not really misfortune so much as egregious buffoonery. They probably wouldn’t have made it anyway. You can’t love someone without accepting who they are. Maybe the person you want to change that much isn’t really the person for you.
Which leaves him with Sarah, who has always felt to him like the consolation prize. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so black and white. Maybe there’s another woman out there for him. Still, he hasn’t been free of Véronique for a single moment since he saw her last night. She’s infiltrated his head, his body. And she’s not happy either—that was obvious. She was there last night for a reason. Why? What was that expression in her eyes? What do I do, Pa?
A plea. A prayer.
When he gets to his mother’s house, he finds Stephanie at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and a bowl of strawberries. She’s wearing a T-shirt and nothing else, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head. She still looks about eighteen, nothing close to her actual age, which is twenty-six. Maybe all older brothers feel that way about their baby sisters. Or maybe it’s because she still acts like a teenager—living at home, working for her mom, partying with friends on the weekend. Aimless.
“What’re you doing here on a Monday?” she asks him.
“I finished the first part of my manuscript,” he says, placing it on the table. “I want Mom to read it.”
“Born in Sin,” she reads, her lips stained red. “Congratulations. Has Elodie read it?”
“No. First I need Mom to make sure it’s okay.”
“Do you think it’ll get published?”
“I don’t know. I’m still at the beginning. I’ve only written up to where Mom gave her away.”
“Mom didn’t give her away,” Stephanie says defensively. “Our grandfather did.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I don’t get why you want to tell Elodie’s life story. Isn’t it going to be horribly depressing?”
“It’s an important story,” he says. “It has to be told, and I want to be the one to do it.”
“But she’s your sister,” Stephanie says. “It’s not like she’s a stranger. We already know enough about what she went through. Why put yourself through that?”
“Because it’s my job.”
“And you’re fine with the whole world knowing our family history?” she says. “Mom’s fine with it?”
“The ‘whole world’ is a stretch,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot his mother must have put on this morning. It’s still warm. “And yes, Mom wants Elodie’s story out there as much as Elodie and I do.”
“Well, for the record, I don’t.”
“Noted.”
Stephanie pops a strawberry in her mouth. “Where’s Sarah?” she asks him.
“Home.”
“Why didn’t she come today?”
“She had plans,” he says irritably. “We don’t have to do everything together, do we?”
“It was just a question.”
“Why aren’t you at work?” he asks her.
“Monday’s my day off.”
“Mom lets you have a day off?”
“Sunday and Monday. I had to campaign for two days off in a row.”
“Let’s go to Douglass Beach,” he says, suddenly inspired. “We haven’t been in years.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. It’s gorgeous out. You could use some sun.”
She frowns, examining her arms. She is quite pale; it looks as though she hasn’t been outdoors all summer. She probably hasn’t. She’s always been a homebody, preferring TV to nature.
“Go put on a bathing suit,” he tells her. “We’re going.”
Maggie is waiting for them at the kitchen table when they get back. “You guys are burnt to a crisp!” she says. “Where have you been?”
“Douglass Beach.”
“Did you use sunscreen?”
James’s manuscript pages are stacked in a neat pile on the table in front of Maggie. “I’m done with the first part,” he tells her. “I want you to read it.”
“It has the makings of a masterpiece, James. The writing is exquisite.”
“You’ve already read it?”
“I just finished.”
He sits down at the table.
“I’m going to shower,” Stephanie says, disappearing.
“James,” Maggie says, “it’s excellent.”
“Really? You’re okay with the material?”
“Of course. It’s all true. It has to be told.”
“Anything you’d change?”
“I made some notes,” she says. “But it’s very poignant. The hard part will be Elodie’s story.”
“I’ve already started interviewing her,” he says. “And I’ve got your notes, the first draft of your memoir. She also showed me her scrapbook.”
“That scrapbook.” Maggie sighs. “It’s hard to go through.”
“She’s documented everything in there.”
“I know. And her drawings. I’ve never gotten over them.”
“I’ve had a few sleepless nights since I started,” he admits. “But I think the timing is right for this.”
“I have no doubt you’ll find a publisher.”
“If she can’t get justice in the courts, I can at least help her get some with this book.”
“I hope those nuns are still alive to read it,” Maggie says, handing him the manuscript. “Your cheeks are flaming red, James. You have to be more careful in the sun.”
“Steph seems to be floundering. What’s she going to do with her life? Live here with you forever?”
“Tell me about it,” Maggie says, getting up and going to the fridge. “I made lasagna. Where’s Sarah? Didn’t she come with you?”
“No.”
Maggie turns around, gives him a concerned motherly look. “How is she?”
“Good.”
Her eyes narrow.
“What?”
“It’s strange to watch your children living your life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sarah. She’s your Roland.”
“Oh, please,” he says dismissively. Roland was his mother’s first husband. A decent guy, a banker. Not the love of her life.
“Listen, a lot of people marry their Roland or their Sarah and they’re perfectly happy,” she says, preheating the oven. “It’s not a bad thing to marry someone reliable and solid. Lust wears off anyway.”
“You weren’t happy with reliable and solid.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“I saw Véronique last night,” he confesses.
“You did? Where?”
“She showed up outside my office at two o’clock in the morning.”
“How did she know you’d be there?”
“Sarah must have told her, I guess. But Sarah didn’t mention it. I don’t know.”
“What did she want?”
“She wouldn’t say. She looked . . . kind of out of her mind. Not herself. She was agitated.”
“Drugs?”
“Maybe.”
He’d considered this, of course. She was selling them, last he heard. How big of a leap is it to become a user?
“Why don’t you call her?” Maggie says. “She’s made the first move.”
“I didn’t get a sense she was happy to see me last night. It was like I’d caught her off guard or something. Maybe she was just out in Old Montreal and it was a coincidence.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t know. She looked so distraught. Maybe I should stay away.”
“Your father came back for me.”
“But I’m the one who hurt her, M’ma. She’s never going to forgive me for what I did.”
“I thought the same thing about your father,” Maggie reminds him. “But he forgave me for doing far worse than you’ve done. I gave away his daughter.”
Later, he goes out onto the front porch to check in with Sarah. She doesn’t answer. His spirits are low. It’s muggy tonight, and he’s got a headache from too much sun. The mosquitoes are out in full force and he slaps one dead on his forearm, leaving a smudge of blood. He’s still thinking about Véronique.
He calls Elodie. “Véronique came to see me last night,” he blurts.
“What do you mean she came to see you? Where?”
“At work,” he says. “I was there till about two in the morning. When I got outside, she was standing in front of my building.”
He’s almost positive he can hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Elo? I need her number. She obviously wants to talk.”
“James, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Please, sis. I need to speak to her. We ended so badly.”
“She doesn’t want to speak to you, James.”
“How do you know? She came to see me.”
“Because she’s here.”
James paces up and down the length of the porch. “What did she say? She told you she doesn’t want to see me?”
“She didn’t mention you.”
“Then why was she at my office last night?”
“Leave it alone,” Elodie says.
“How did she know I’d be working late? Did she speak to Sarah? Elo, is she okay?”
“I don’t know if she’s okay,” Elodie says, sounding upset. “I don’t think so.”
“Is it Louis?”
“She’s not herself. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Is it drugs?”
“You need to forget last night,” Elodie says, dropping her voice to a whisper. “For your own good. She’s in a bad place and it’s not about you and you can’t fix it.”
“I was moving on,” he says. “But when I saw her last night . . .”
“She shouldn’t have been there.”
“Why are you being so cryptic? I want to come over. I can be there in an hour and a half.”
“That’s a mistake,” Elodie tells him. “She’s still with Louis. They’re together. You’re reading too much into last night and you shouldn’t.”
Before he can answer, Maggie sticks her head outside and says, “Supper’s on the table.”
James is bone-tired. He grunts a brusque goodbye to Elodie and hangs up.
“Who was that?” Maggie asks him. “Did you call Véronique?”
“No,” he says, not elaborating.
He follows his mother inside, the screen door slapping shut behind him. He can smell the lasagna from the kitchen, and he remembers how famished he is.
Maggie scoops a massive helping onto his plate. Stephanie pours them each a glass of milk. Gabriel used to love a glass of milk with spaghetti and lasagna; now it’s tradition. Only Elodie thinks it’s disgusting. “Oh, M’ma,” he moans, inhaling a forkful before she’s even sitting down. “This is delicious.”
“Does Sarah cook?”
“Not like this. No one cooks like you.”
She tousles his hair and bends down to kiss the top of his head. “My boy,” she murmurs, her lips against his hair.
“What about me?” Stephanie says.
Maggie goes around the table and kisses Stephanie on her damp hair. “I see you every day,” she teases. “I’d like to see you a bit less.”
They laugh, and James feels a little better. The melodrama of moments ago begins to recede.
I’m better without V.
It’s the first glimmer of lucidity he’s had since last night. He has no idea why she showed up outside his work. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. There is something fundamentally broken between them, irreparable. He knows that. He doesn’t want to go backwards, doesn’t want to join her in that bad place. His heart just hasn’t quite gotten there yet.
“Leave it alone,” Elodie said, echoing his own inner wisdom. He’s lost his way before, but his pragmatism always leads him home.
“Pass me the bread,” Stephanie says, and James rips off a piece of baguette and tosses it across the table.
“Should we open a bottle of wine?” Maggie says.
“Have we ever said no?”
Maggie jumps up and goes to the pantry.
“One glass and I’m going to pass out,” Stephanie says. “I got so much sun today. Look at me.”
Her chest and arms are an angry purplish red. Her face is puffy. She’s definitely worse off than James, whose complexion is more olive and tends to burn less.
“That’s going to blister tomorrow,” Maggie says, retrieving a bottle of Chianti. “You have to be more careful in the sun these days.”
James and Stephanie look at each other. Maggie sets three glasses on the table and pours the wine. James can hardly wait to crawl into his old bed tonight. Between the sun and the wine, he’s going to sleep hard.
Maggie holds up her glass in a toast. “To my children,” she says, flushed and ebullient. “And to your book, James. It’s going to be big.”
As the warm wine slides down his throat, James feels suddenly expansive. A surge of energy, a tingle of inspiration. Maggie’s validation has reinvigorated him; he can’t wait to get back to writing.