Free After by Francis Chalifour Page A

wasn’t about to unlock a genie all by myself, so I carried it down to the living room, where my mother was watching the fire. I held the album out to her.
    “Do you want to look at it?” Her voice was tentative. “I think this calls for a cup of coffee.”
    I went to put the kettle on. When I came back, I saw a tissue box close to her. The album was blue satin with
Our Baby Francis
neatly embroidered on the cover. That used to mortify me. We sat side by side as she turned the pages.
    “Oh, Lord! I was so big when I was pregnant. I gained forty pounds, can you believe it? I thought I was so ugly, but look how gorgeous you were! You weighed ten pounds. Look at this photo. It was your baptism. Grandma wanted to carry you, but you were so heavy. I was afraid she would drop you. And that one: you, and your father on Uncle Ted’s Ski-Doo. The sound didn’t bother you at all. You could sleep anywhere. That year, there was so much snow that we had to crawl out of the house from the second-floor balcony.”
    I leaned over her shoulder. There was Papa roaring with laughter, tossing me into the air. Baby me peeking out of Papa’s backpack as he rested on his ski poles. With Maman in a bathing suit asleep on a dock somewhere in the Laurentians. There was a picture of me, younger than Luc, with my face buried in Papa’s ski-jacketed shoulder because a street corner Santa’s ho-ho-ing scared me, and another of me at about twelve. With a finger I reached out and touched Papa’s face. He was squinting into the winter sun in front of the house on that Christmas day, with a wiggling puppy Sputnik in his arms. I realized I was smiling.
    “Maman?”
    “Yes, darling.”
    “I think it’s over between Jul and me.” It was a huge relief to say it.
    “Talk to me.” She took a sip of her coffee.

    I got the idea from Aunt Sophie. She had bustled into the kitchen one Sunday after mass, dressed up in a fringed Mexican poncho, high heels, and a beret, her outfit of choice for taking Luc for the afternoon.
    “Coffee?” Maman was sitting cross-legged on the floor, cutting mats out of Sputnik’s fur with her manicure scissors. She nodded toward the kettle.
    “Of course!” Aunt Sophie settled into a chair with her mug while I gathered together the juice boxes, the pieces of Lego, the miniature cars, the extra sweater, and all the other gear that Luc needed. And no, they weren’t out to scale Everest. They were taking the métro to the Biodôme to look at a display on the rain forest.
    Aunt Sophie rummaged in her bag and held out a pink teddy bear wearing a knit sweater covered in hearts for Maman to admire. “Isn’t he adorable?” she said, giving its black plastic nose a loud kiss.
    “Is that yours? Why do you have a bear? Bears are for babies.” Luc was suspicious.
    “Ah, yes,
mon cher.
It was a gift. Let me tell you, you can keep your diamonds. There’s nothing more romantic than a stuffed animal.” She gave Maman a knowing look and let loose a volley of laughter.
    That’s how I came to buy Jul a stuffed monkey, Curious George. I gave it to her on the last night of Group. She seemed pleased about it at the time, almost as pleased as I was for being so utterly smooth.
    It didn’t actually make a difference. At lunch she handed me a pink envelope with scalloped edges. Inside was a card with a kitten playing with a piece of string. In purple ink, she had written:
    Thanks for being such a good friend. You’re like a brother to me.
    I felt sick.

    “Poor Francis! I’m so sorry.”
    Maman hugged me. I could feel her delicate bones and I realized how skinny she’d become.
    “I told her all kinds of things that really mattered and now she thinks of me as a brother.”
    “Maybe you could tell her how you feel.”
    Sure, and maybe I can also take her for a ride in my Ferrari.
What’s worse, I had already tried, but it hadn’t worked out very well.
    Maman said, “Poor baby.” I hated it when she called me a poor baby.