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“Do we really need to wait a month before she can come to Chicago?”
“Four to six weeks for air travel.” His statement is uncompromising.
“I need to get home, and Maman lives alone. If I had access to a private plane with a nurse and all the medical facilities you recommend, would she be able to travel sooner? We could have a medical team ready to work with her in rehab immediately.”
“Mr. Martin, I…”
A nurse pushes past us with a cart. I can tell the tray is Maman’s breakfast. She closes the door behind her. Vital signs, then food.
“Well?” I am unable to keep my impatience from breaking out.
His fingers whiten as they grip the clipboard. “Even in those circumstances, I wouldn’t advise it. But let’s talk with your mother and see how she feels.”
When we reenter her room, Maman has whole wheat toast without butter, fat-free yogurt, and fruit. I’m surprised to see tea, but I can see from the color that it is herbal. She puts down her toast and holds out her arms. “JL, mon chou, I’m so glad you’re here.”
I kiss her cheeks, then sit in the guest chair. The doctor looks at her chart.
“How do you feel, Madame Martin?” he asks.
“Much better. Do I get to go home today?”
“We’ll do a few tests and if they go well, your son can take you home.” He shuffles a bit. “You understand you will need to have someone there?”
“Of course, that is why JL has come home.”
“Maman,” I interrupt, “I can’t stay here too long. I need to get back to Chicago.”
She frowns. “I thought you would move home now. Angélique was such a darling, getting me to the hospital.”
I shake my head. “I want you to move near me.”
Her pallid face looks like wallpaper paste. “Don’t be silly. I can’t move. And neither can Angélique.”
I want to shout, but I keep myself in check. “Angélique has nothing to do with this,” I say through clenched teeth.
“She saved my life. We owe her.”
My stubborn side clicks into gear. “We don’t owe her.”
A nurse runs in. “Mr. Martin. Keep your voice down or you will have to leave.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was shouting.”
Her soft-soled shoes shush along the floor as she leaves.
I grit my teeth. “Maman, make a choice. I would like you to move to Chicago. But if you refuse to go, the other choices are to move into a senior citizen complex or move in with Angélique and her boys. I am not moving back to Vancouver or marrying Angélique.” I pace back and forth. “You can have Angélique, or you can have me.”
“I can’t move in with Angélique,” she huffs.
“Do you want Angélique to move in with you?”
“You would stay?”
“No, Maman. My life is in Chicago.”
“Because of Micki?”
The room temperature shoots up to 150 degrees. “I’ll be back.” I choke and walk out to cool off.
