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MICKI: Nothing to say. Better if we just go our separate ways.
ME: We can make things work.
MICKI: With you married in Vancouver and me fighting for a partnership in Chicago. Unlikely.
ME: But...
MICKI: I know how important family is to you. Au revoir.
Frantically, I text, call, leave a message, all the while cursing Angélique and Maman. Micki’s angry, scared, overwhelmed. I need to talk to her, but she’s cut me off and out.
I call Max in Venice.
“Pronto.” He’s going all Italian.
“Max, what’s going on?”
“That’s what we want to know.” The noise from wherever they are makes him difficult to understand.
“Where are you?”
“Finishing dinner. Why are you calling so late? I texted you hours ago.”
“Stayed up too late, overslept,” I mumble.
All I hear is crowd noise. Then a sudden silence.
“Had to find somewhere quiet. The owner is letting me use the office.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on. Micki’s gone and everything else is in an uproar.”
“What do you expect when you bring her home to meet your mother, then immediately get engaged to someone else?”
The explosion of profanities I produce has Maman and Angélique staring at me. I have no intention of apologizing either. “Max, I need to have a conversation with my mother. But if you speak to Micki, please tell her I am not engaged. She’s not answering her phone, or I’d tell her myself.”
“She’s blocked you, mate. I’ll have Cress pass on the message.”
I put down the phone and mentally rain fire and ice down on the two women standing in front of me.
“Did you tell Micki I was engaged?” My bellow can probably be heard down the street.
“You gave Angélique my engagement ring,” Maman says decisively. “Last night. I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me when you got home.”
Angélique holds out her hand, turning it back and forth so light from the diamond careens around the room, bouncing off the stainless-steel appliances.
This is ridiculous. I wasn’t drunk. Engaged. No way that happened. The ring should still be in the jewelry box in Maman’s top dresser drawer. But I have no time to unravel this mess. I ask just one question. “Is my uncle in the house?”
Maman nods. “Yes, he is sleeping off a bender in the attic room.” She gives me a curious glance. “I found this on the kitchen table. Did you lock him in his room?”
“He came in drunk and was trashing the living room. I persuaded him to go upstairs and locked him in. Glad you didn’t release him.”
I look up the social services number. If I’m going to get back to Chicago, I need to take care of this. Moving Uncle François out of the house is the main reason I’m here. As angry as I am with Maman, I can’t let him stay with her. When someone answers, I say, “Bonjour, Madame. My name is Jean-Louis Martin, and I would like to find out about getting my uncle on a public housing list and find him temporary accommodation in the meantime.”
She asks me some questions.
“He moved here from Montreal last year, is sixty-five, alcoholic, takes drugs, and can’t find work. I am willing to try to convince him to go into rehab.”
She asks more.
