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Rule number thirty-eight - Respect your elders.
I thought this was going to be the easiest rule of them all. Respecting my elders was a critical aspect of my upbringing, whether it was parents, grandparents, aunties, uncles, persons of authority. And while I’m doing my best to reinvent myself in this country, anything to show I can make it on my own, some things I’m just not willing to compromise. Gram never had to demand that I respect her, she earned it.
However, Grandmama puts this rule to a whole new test.
Nothing I do is good enough. I pull up the blankets. They’re too far up. I tuck them in at the sides. They’re now too tight. I pull them loose. It’s making wrinkles around her feet. Wrinkly blankets around her feet is a mortal mistake. She glares at me with light green eyes that burn like an interstellar laser.
The good news is, she’s run out of teacups to throw, and Andrée refuses to give her any new ones. I told Olivier he should pick her up one of those squishy stress balls, but apparently those aren’t good for aging wrists. Who knew?
Regardless, it has now been seven days of waiting on Madame Dubois morning, midday, afternoon, and night, and I’m having to dig deep to find the patience to not throw my own temper tantrum.
Making it on my own was never supposed to look like this, drawing deep to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret to an old lady who’s suffering.
Yet every day there’s something to make her extra sour, bitter, and cantankerous. That glimmer of kindness I saw in her, however briefly, has not made a return.
Madame has asked me to read to her from a French periodical this morning, so I’m prepping in advance as I stroll in the garden. A few minutes of peace before heading back into the intensity that is Grandmama.
“Underwater welding,” Sebastien pulls up in a cart, “unusual for late morning reading, but to each her own.” He winks, and the boyish charm oozes out of him. His arms are covered in dirt, his clothes too.”
“Madame has diverse interests.”
“You can say that again.” He relaxes in the cart. “Are you hanging in?”
“One week down, and I have only a few scars to show for it. Mostly tea stains from flying teacups.”
“You’re always welcome in the vineyard if you need to make a quick escape.”
“Noted.” I point to a patch of garden where vegetables are overflowing from the ground. “Is that your handiwork?”
“No, that’s all Olivier. Miracle they survive given how little he comes. But he’s the green thumb, and I’m more the management type.” He’s still smiling, but his eyes aren’t. “It’s thanks to Olivier’s patch that I had the idea to make the Bouchon Noir a locally-grown restaurant.” He waves his hand around like it’s old news. “I presented it to Father, but that went down like a sinking ship.”
“That’s a great idea. Restaurants who buy local are huge back home.”
“Well, Dorothy, you’re not in Texas anymore.” He sighs and looks away from me. “Around here people have their ideas, and anything departs from tradition is a very hard sell. Even if it’s the only thing that could save us…”
His voice trails off, and we stand among the chirping birds while I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.
What I thought was a chat about a veggie patch has opened up something much bigger. And he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“I’d better get back to Madame,” I say when the silence goes on for too long.
“Indeed. We should be celebrating that you made it through a week without any major catastrophe. You haven’t jumped out of a single window.”
“I’m quite proud of that fact.”
He chuckles.
“Have you seen Olivier?” I ask it innocently, even though a morning without seeing him feels emptier than I like.
“I have not.”
“Right,” glossing right over that, “then I’d better get back to underwater welding.” I hold up the magazine as a goodbye and march myself back inside.
* * *
What on Earth possessed Madame Dubois to have a sudden interest in underwater welding is beyond me. The vocabulary is challenging, but I’m doing my utmost to read it to her in my best-possible French accent.
It’s not going very well.
