Free Silent Bird by Reina Lisa Menasche Page B

rest of his family too: his aunt and her kids and maybe even his Uncle Charles, who ran a vineyard on the outskirts of the village. “My uncle is a strong personality,” Jeannot said lightly, “but you will love his sister, my Aunt Carole, I promise. She is relaxed and comfortable with everyone.” He paused. “Please be patient with my parents, Chérie. They are more…traditional than you might expect.”
    “Traditional i n what way?”
    “ Oh, customs, beliefs. The wine business is a kind of religion to the family. So they are a little old-fashioned. If you do not mind, do you think you could dress up for our visit, Chérie ?”
    Jeannot had never made a fuss about my clothing. In fact, he’d spent the last three months kindly not making a fuss, though he did always compliment my hair and my smile and my skin and…well, everything else.
    “ Forgive me for asking,” he went on now, obviously embarrassed. “But this is Sunday and your first meeting. You do not mind?”
    Without answering I went to the closet and held up a blue sundress I’d worn only once. It was formal enough if a bit short.
    “ Er...too sexy, I think,” he said. “On you, anyway.”
    I dropped it and snatched a different dress: un-ironed silk, pink, three-quarter sleeves. Monique had given this particular item of fancy-wear her ultimate French insult: “The color is lovely, but the dress is not beautiful! It does not show your shape.”
    “ Ah yes, this works,” Jeannot said to my surprise. “ Merci. I will dress more formally too, and they will appreciate it. You understand, I hope?”
    Yes—kinda sorta . I waited till he had disappeared into the bathroom. Then I looked in the mirror.
    I disliked looking in mirrors—always had. Didn’t even like to see the good things: my shiny dark hair, the large blue eyes, the naturally arched eyebrows and cleft chin that everyone told me was so stunning. Maybe it’s hard to believe, but I disliked seeing my body too: the high overlarge breasts, my flat stomach and long legs that I did nothing to deserve. Looking at myself felt strangely dirty and a little off, somehow. I usually avoided it.
    Yet today I stood there, thinking. I draped the pink dress around my head and tied it under my chin: a big flopping babushka. Now I looked like an unlined, overly optimistic version of Grandma.
    “ How about if I meet them looking more like this?” I asked the mirror in my family’s old Spanish—in Grandma’s Ladino.
    The disused words tasted like betrayal in my mouth. Grandma was, after all, still sequestered in that Sephardic Home for the Aged in New York. Dying, while I wore silly dresses and visited Jeannot’s family in France.
    Maybe I should call Grandma too. Even if she couldn’t say much or wasn’t sure who I was, she might remember that I existed and cared. She might not recall that I’d abandoned her. And I needed to call Mom again. I’d been telling myself I was conserving money by avoiding the phone, but that was bullshit (merde de toro ?). If I could open my heart to Jeannot’s family then I could certainly open it to my own.
    An e ngagement is a serious thing. Mom would be thrilled with the news though she might get a little mopey that Jeannot wasn’t Jewish.
    I turned away from the mirror, adjusted my ring, put on and smoothed out the dress, knotted up my hair as primly as humanly possible, and applied enough makeup to look like no makeup at all.
    Time to meet the in-laws. I felt like I was facing a firing squad.

III
    We headed away from the city, shedding it almost instantly.
    Ah, the French countryside! Poplar trees lining narrow country roads. Funky street signs that still confused me after three months of looking at them. Villas with red-tiled roofs and private vineyards. As Jeannot drove I peppered him with questions about his family’s business, how long they’d had it, what the difference was between “ vin de table ”—plain wine that the Courbois clan made a lot