Page 13 of Closer

CHAPTER SIX

OFF WITH HER HEAD

BRIELLE

Iput the spoon backin the bowl and wipe the drool from my father’s chin. The doctor’s said his motor function should improve, but it’s been months since his stroke. The doctors can kiss my arse, because clearly they know nothing. The corner of his once proud mouth tips up in what the world might see as a grimace, but what I know is a smile. I smile back, and hope that none of the sadness in my heart is reflected in my eyes. Touma Kagawa was once a revered business man. Nothing held him back or got in the way of what he wanted, not boarders or foreign languages, or the word no. Now his mind and body both hold him back. And all because of a tiny blood clot in his brain.

My father purses his lips, as if he wants to tell me something but doesn’t know how to form the words. “What is it,Père?”

He pats the side of my face, and his eyes light up. Then he points to my mother who stands on tiptoes scrubbing the kitchen as she hums one of my original pieces. His mouth twists with his unusual smile when he looks at her.

“Maman?”

He nods resolutely, and I glance between my parents in confusion as he points to her and then to my face again. “I look like Maman?”

He smiles and rests his head back on the pillow, exhausted from his efforts to communicate.

“Merci, Père. Maman is very beautiful. If I shared only half her grace, I would consider myself a very lucky woman.”

He nods again, and I take the cloth and wipe away the drool on his chin, something that needs to be done constantly, or else his bedclothes will be soaked through.

“Get some rest now.” I lean forward and kiss his temple. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see you.”

Another resolute nod and he closes his eyes, but as I get up to leave, his hand brushes mine and I turn to look at him. He gives me a weak squeeze of my fingers and I squeeze his gently back, trying to hide how my heart plummets when I feel his frail, hollow-boned hand in mine.

I grab the half-eaten bowl of soup and join my mother in the kitchen.

“Sit down and eat,mon petit chou.”

“Non. I am not hungry, Maman.”

“At least take some home with you. I know you have no food in that tiny apartment.”

“I’m okay.”

“Brielle.”

“Fine. I will eat.” I don’t want to sit and eat my mother and father’s food, not because it isn’t good—Maman makes the bestTourinin all of France—but money is tighter here than it is for me. I give them as much as I can after my rent is taken out, but since Bastien had me fired from the orchestra, I no longer have a steady pay cheque. I have my students whom I teach, but those lessons are hardly enough to live on. Nowhere in this city will hire me, not without a lot of grovelling. And I refuse to get on my knees for a man who broke my heart.

I take the spoon Maman offers and dip it into the soup. The strong flavour of garlic rolls over my tongue and I smile because it’s just as I remembered from mygrand-mère. “It’s good.”

“Of course it’s good. It’s mine.” She shrugs and chuckles at herself. I laugh too. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I set my spoon down and glance at it.

“Brielle, what is our rule at the table?”

“I know, Maman. It’ll just be a moment. I’m waiting to hear from Piaf.”

My mother grimaces and nods as if giving her approval.

“Please tell me you have good news,” I say in French, because even though my father insisted we speak English in his home, I still consider French my first language.

“I have the best news, but first, I want to know when you’re next buying me dinner?”

“That depends on when you’re getting me my next big break?”

“How about next month?”

“For dinner, or a job?”

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