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When I first see Angélique, heat rises from my belly through to the top of my head, not with desire, with anger. Furious, I can’t bear to look at the ex-fiancée who threw me over for a more available, and richer, guy.
When I see Maman’s complacent expression, my fists clench. “Seconde chance,” she mouths.As if. Why Maman thinks Angélique would appeal now is beyond me.I’ve forgiven, but not forgotten.One look at Micki should have disabused her of that idea.
At the same time, Angélique smooths her bobbed hair, then touches her fingers to lips quirked into a small smile. Her stick-thin, angular body is unappealing compared to Micki’s lush curves. She assumes a meek expression, but I notice something feral in her eyes, as if she is the predator and I am the prey.
For years I have been telling Maman to stop trying to find me the perfect woman. And my former fiancée. Give me a break. Now we’re here—my choice and hers facing off.
I love my mother. But her concerns are not the ones that matter to me. Religion and nationality are not markers to ensure my happiness. And she’s found someone who can give her ready-made grandchildren. Somehow I must convince her Micki is the perfect daughter-in-law.
My chest loosens when Angélique leaves, although I know the reprieve will be temporary. She’ll soon return, with her sons.
“Vous voulez un café?” Maman asks.
“Anglais, s’il te plais.”
Maman frowns.
“I’ll have café au lait. Micki?”
“Just a glass of water, please.” The brightness I love about her dims, but there is nothing I can say, at least with an audience.
“Angélique helped me make the poutine and tourtière for dinner.” Maman’s cat-who-got-the cream voice projects satisfaction. “These are two of JL’s favorites. Perfect for his return.”
“Visit, Maman, not return. Micki is very excited to try real French-Canadian food.”
“Especially poutine.” Micki regains some animation with the promise of dinner.
A fruitless glance toward the front door yields no sign of my uncle. “By the way, is Uncle François here?”
“He said he would be home for dinner.” Her answer is offhand, but I can’t help wonder. Is he out drinking, or buying drugs?
“What does he do with his time? He must be at loose ends now that he has left Montreal.”
“He has some new friends here,” she says. “Introductions from his pals in Quebec.”
Knowing what his Montreal friends get up to, this isn’t a promising start.
“I’ve taken him to some events at Maison de la Francophonie as well. And last month we went to the Festival du Bois.”
“Is he interested in French-Canadian culture?” I’m dubious. In my remembrance, Uncle François saw cultural events as a way to boost his nefarious activities.
She shrugs. “He goes. Maybe not enthusiastically, but when I ask him, he’s agreeable.”
“And this doesn’t worry you?” I ask.
“He hasn’t caused any trouble.”
How do you know? I wonder. Maman always tended to turn a blind eye. “Why did you let him come?” I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice.
“When he was released, I invited him. He has no one except us, mon chou. Who will help him if not family?”
“But, but …” I sputter.
“But what?” she says sharply.
“He’s no blood relation to you.” I start pacing the small living room.
“He is your father’s brother.”
