Page 120 of The Stranger

“You cannot cook?” I’m not sure if that’s dismay or judgement one her face as she half-peels her attention from the TV.

“Well, I’ll never starve,” I reason, trying not to laugh. “I can do noodles and toast. And eggs on toast.” And eggs on noodles, I suppose. I eat a lot of takeaway salads and pizza. To put it another way, if Uber Eats had a loyalty program, I’d be in the top tier. Lavender, who is by no means a domestic goddess herself, just gifted me an air fryer, so I suppose I should learn how to use that. Though I probably won’t.

“Maman could not cook.” So not dismay or judgement but… I’m not sure what that is on her face. “I heard Madeline said so,” she says as her mouth turns down.

“Cooking is overrated,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I’m sure your mum was too busy doing other things.”

“Like what?”

Like being glamorous and beautiful and loved. “Like reading you both stories and giving squeezy cuddles.” I tuck a loose strand of Sylvie’s hair behind her ear. “I’m sure she was very good at giving those.”

“She was,” Felix says quietly from my left.

“There you go.” I straighten the monogrammed blanket, then give a quick pat to his arm. “Who needs to learn to cook when you give the best cuddles?”

“I do not remember her very much, and sometimes that makes me sad.”

“She was just a baby,” Felix says, plucking at the blanket’s fringe. “I was also very small. Only seven years.”

“Sometimes I don’t remember her face,” Sylvie says quietly. “Even with her picture in my room.”

“That’s okay.”

“But what if that makes her sad in heaven?”

“I promise it won’t.” My heart pinches for these motherless children. “Heaven isn’t a place where people get sad. I know, let’s try something,” I suggest. The little girl nods. “So sit back and close your eyes.”

“Like this?”

“Exactly.” I pause the movie, and keep my attention focussed on Sylvie, though something tells me Felix is doing the same. I don’t look. Somehow, it would feel like invading his privacy. “Now slow your breathing.” I inhale and exhale a few times audibly myself. “And think of you mother—you don’t have to see the picture of her in your head, just think of her. You doing that?”

“Oui,” she whispers, and then she smiles.

“Good?” I ask softly.

“It feels nice,” she says.

“Warm,” whispers Felix from behind me. “Like sunshine.”

I can’t resist reaching back to clasp Felix’s hand. Just briefly. “That’s your heart filling with love. Sometimes our heads forget, but our hearts remember long after memories fade. You can do this anytime, anytime you want to remember.” Thanks, Mum, I think to myself, recalling a similar conversation from a long time ago.

Family. It might sometimes feel like the other F word, but I would never be without them.

I restart the movie and the soundtrack changes, heralding an important scene. Sylvie’s attention is rapt once again.

“I remember her perfume.” I turn to Felix’s quietly spoken words as he concentrates on his thumb as though suddenly discovering a hangnail. “And she would dance when she drank a glass of wine and cover my face with kisses.” He suddenly looks so vulnerable, his whole heart in his eyes.

“Bisou!” His sister enthusiastically kisses the air, though her attention doesn’t move.

For once he doesn’t complain, but smiles.

“What did she sing?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his expression a complicated thing. But I can almost see his mind slipping back, see the resistance and the bitter-sweet ache in the way he bunches the blanket around his fist.

“Old songs. I don’t know them. But she would always sing. At breakfast. When she tucked me into bed. And when she would get dressed to go out with Papa.” His voice gets thinner at the end as though the words use more breath than they should. “I sometimes hear Papa playing one song on the piano. Maman used to sing it to Sylvie when she was a baby.”

“Really? I will ask him to play it for me,” Sylvie asserts.