CHARLOTTE
I wake too early, anxiety niggling at my subconscious. Obligations for the day swim into my mind. The Caleys are having a barbecue today to celebrate America winning its independence. I’ve never enjoyed the Fourth of July. It reminds me that this isn’t really my home, that American history isn’t my history. I guess I’m just feeling homesick. There are days when I do. Sometimes I think I was torn from my home before I was old enough to know what it really meant. It doesn’t mean I’m not happy here. How could I not be? The people are friendly, you can buy anything you need, and the quality of life is good. It’s just that there’s a yearning in my heart sometimes, for home, for my family, for my country.
There’s also something about the institutionalized need to celebrate that disturbs me. Maybe it’s the pressure to be so damned happy. Big wide smiles all around, burgers and ice cream, Coca-Cola and beer in abundance from noon till after dark. It’s exhausting, but no one is allowed to go home before the grand finale of fireworks. That wouldn’t be patriotic.
I suppose it reminds me of Bastille Day on July 14. It makes me remember how far I am from home. I can’t help wondering how Maman and Papa will celebrate. Maybe they’ll go to Champ de Mars and watch the fireworks light up the Eiffel Tower, or maybe they’ll wander along the banks of the Seine. I’d love to go back and visit them, but Jean-Luc isn’t keen. “This is our home now, Charlotte. Our life is here,” he says. “We have everything. Forget the past.”
Sometimes I think of telling him that my “everything” might not be the same as his, but I know it will only end in a pointless argument, and I hate confrontation. The past isn’t as easy to forget as that; you can’t just shove it into a corner and pretend it’s not there. It’s always there, a shadow wherever I go, reminding me of what we did.
I look over at the empty space in the bed next to me. He woke even earlier than me today. When I wander into the kitchen, he’s at the table, reading the paper, a large cup of coffee in his hand. I know it will be milky, like a kiddie’s version of the real thing—bigger and blander. For some reason, this riles me. Why can’t he drink proper black coffee, like a real adult?
“Jean-Luc, I don’t want to go to the Caleys’ today.”
He looks up, eyes widening in surprise “What’s the matter?”
“I just don’t feel like it.”
“But we always go. Sam loves it.”
“Well, you take him then. I’m not going. I’m not even sure I like them.”
“What do you mean?” His voice takes on a sharp edge. “They’ve been nothing but friendly to us.”
“Josh is creepy.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Charlotte. We should go.”
I glance out the window. “I’m too tired.”
He sighs loudly. “I’ll take Sam then. What shall I tell them?”
“That I hate the Fourth of July, all that eating and drinking. Why don’t we ever celebrate Bastille Day?”
“Why would we? We’re not in France.”
“Exactly!”
“Exactly what, Charlotte?”
Maybe I need a coffee. I pick up the coffeepot, then put it back down. Coffee will only aggravate me. In truth, I don’t know what I want. Maybe a glass of water will cool me down. I turn on the tap, but I don’t stop when the glass is full, letting the water flow over my hand. I stare at it, mesmerized, as I soak up its coolness.
I feel Jean-Luc next to me. He reaches over to turn the tap off, then takes the glass out of my hand. “Charlotte, please, what’s the matter?”
“I guess I’m just feeling homesick.”
I hear the breath leave his lungs, and I wish I hadn’t said anything. He’ll never understand. Turning my back on him, I walk out onto the porch, slumping onto the swing seat. Of course, I should be more constructive. There are the prospectuses for various translation courses that I’ve been meaning to go through. If I got trained and had a job, I might feel more settled, like Jean-Luc with his job at the station. He found it so easy to adapt to American ways: drinking beer with the guys, playing baseball with the kids, eating burgers with ketchup, and all with such damned relish. I would have liked to continue with my studies at one of the universities. I know they have courses on French literature, but the universities here are expensive, and it’s true, I can read on my own.
He’s come out to the porch now. I wish he’d just leave me alone.
“Charlotte,” he starts. My heart sinks even lower. I don’t need him to be oh so reasonable, and I don’t want his opinion. I already know it. “You know I’d like to go back too,” he continues. “One day, when we’ve saved up enough money and the war is further behind us, we could go for a visit. Go and see your parents. Mine too.”
My fingers fidget with the edge of the cushion. I don’t want this conversation—it always just goes around in circles. A wave of pity suddenly washes over me. He can’t help it. He’s just being practical—sensible and practical, like he’s always been.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” I pause, wondering why I can’t help antagonizing him this morning. I must have slept badly. “Doesn’t it bother you that Sam doesn’t have the same culture as us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’re French, and he’s never even seen France. He doesn’t speak the language. Don’t you worry sometimes that home for him is here?”
“No, I don’t. His home is with us, and that’s all that matters.”
I try to believe him, but I can’t help feeling that something’s missing; that we’ve missed something vital.
“I wish we’d spoken French to him when we came here. At least then we could have taken him back one day, and he’d have felt more at home. I wanted to read him the French classics in French!”
“Charlotte, we’ve been through this before. We needed to integrate and we had to learn the language too. If we’d carried on in French, we’d have set ourselves apart, become the little French family who escaped the war. We had to put that behind us, make a fresh start. You know what people are like. They’d have thought we were proud and stuck-up.”
“I know, I know, but it just seems like a high price to pay. To lose one’s culture. Sometimes it makes me feel so… I don’t know—just homesick.”
Jean-Luc pulls on his earlobe. “Maybe it was easier for me. I don’t think I was so attached to France. In fact, I was happy to throw off my culture, my nationality. It felt liberating.”
“But what about your family? Your parents?”
“They’re happy for me.” He pauses. “You’re my family now.” Reaching forward, he puts his arm around my neck. “You’re all I need. You and Sam.”