Page 377 of Phobia
So, maybe I was still technically a virgin, or at least according to the Bible. But I didn’t feel like Mother Mary. I had experienced too much, and something had shifted inside of me.A spark had ignited.
I liked this new Rosalie. I was a sexual deviant, just like my teacher. Stifling another giggle, I bit back my maniacal grinning before I went to aid Maman.
“There you are! Your father will be home in twenty minutes.” She looked flustered with her golden hair coming loose on the side of her bun and flour dotting her brow as she sawed into a loaf of freshly baked bread.
We looked alike. Same thick blonde hair, thin nose, and green eyes that were almost reptilian in color. Although we resembled each other, I would never be like my mother, nor lead her life. She tried so hard to please Papa, while every night was a crap shoot whether or not he’d appreciate her effort. I swore I’d never end up in a marriage like hers—always trying to please someone who never appreciated me.
“Where do you need me, Maman?”
“Come slice the bread so I can check the stew to make sure it doesn’t get too dry.”
I grasped the handle of the knife and cut into it just like Maman had been doing. My triceps ached from having had to hold myself up on my forearms for so long last night. Every shift of my body was a delicious reminder of what I could endure—how far I could be pushed by my official lover.
I wondered if Maman had felt this way about Papa when she first met him. Had they ever been obsessed with each other to the point where it felt like an addiction that they could never kick?
“What’s on your mind, dear?” I looked up to find Maman studying me.
There was no sense in hiding my thoughts. “Do you love Papa?”
She seemed taken aback by the question. She blinked furiously as she stirred the pot over the fire, wiping her brow like she was nervous. It seemed more like she didn’t know the answer to the question and was buying herself time to think. “Of course, I do.” She had settled for the easy way out.
“Then how come you let him treat you so poorly?”
The spoon in her hand scraped the side of the metal pot too loudly. She let out a big sigh before returning to my side. “It’s complicated and you shouldn’t worry yourself with such matters. You are the child, and it isn’t your place to ask these questions.”
I wasn’t going to let her drop the topic so easily. She wanted to know what I was thinking, well, here it was in all its un-glittery glory—honest and unfiltered. “It is my place when he slams your hard work off the table before punching you in the face.”
She jolted backward as if I had punched her myself. “Rosalie!” Her eyes darted around the house as if searching for anyone who might have overheard my troubling accusation, even though she knew perfectly well it was just the two of us. “Don’t speak like that.”
I dropped the knife down on the wooden board. “Maman, I’m tired of holding my tongue. Papa doesn’t respect you. If he loved either of us, he wouldn’t drink so much.”
My newfound temper startled her. “It’s not as simple as you think.” Of course, she would come to his defense. “He works very hard for us. It wasn’t easy for him to pick up his family and move us from France to this island where we had to start all over again.”
“It’s not like he had a choice,” I murmured. Papa had lost all our money spending it on booze and bad investments in France. Our family name was ruined. We’d had no choice but to leave our shitty reputations behind and start over in a new land. Neither Maman nor I had had a say in any of it. It had all been Papa’s doing...as fucking usual.
Maman wrapped her arm around me and rested her head on my shoulder. She smelled like yeast and wildflowers—a comforting mix. “My sweet Rosalie...so forward with her words. No, we didn’t have a choice. But we are a family, and we must trust each other.”
Trust was something that had always run sparse in my emotional vocabulary. I couldn’t trust either of my parents because they were both too unpredictable. Hence why I was so surprised that I had been quick to trust Bastien last night.
“Maman, he’s constantly making decisions for you like he owns you. You’re his servant, not his wife.”
I could feel her body stiffen against me. My bluntness had affected her yet again.
“I’m sorry,” I continued. “I just find it hard to believe that he loves you.”
She turned away to grab a bottle of wine and then returned to my side. We should probably stop serving wine at dinner, but Papa would most definitely throw a bigger fit if that happened.
“He does in his own way.” Her voice was small, like she was a shadow of a human being—broken beyond repair.
“Were things ever different between you two? Was there a time when he wasn’t always drunk?”
She smiled softly under the long blonde bangs that framed her face. “A long time ago. We were arranged to be married, but when he was courting me, he was a perfect gentleman. I thought he was the kindest man I had ever met. He used to bring me flowers every time we met and wrote me love letters. I saved all of them.”
I was in disbelief that Hugo Légaré was capable of romance. “Why did he change?”
Maman shrugged. “Societal pressures. It is hard keeping up with neighbors and trying to provide better than everyone else.”
From the way her head hung, I could see that she still had hope that Papa would become the man she had fallen in love with once again. However, I knew better. Maman was so lost in delusions that she was starting to believe the lies she conjured in her head just to give herself a purpose—to stay sane.
