I get the feeling they’ve had this exact same conversation before. Martine’s hand flies off her eyes.
“Mon dieu. Does this mean you haven’t been—”
“Can we talk about this later.” He doesn’t say it like a question. I glance back at him and see a coldness I haven’t seen before. His face has closed up like a cardboard box. He won’t meet my eyes. On the stairs, Skunk’s aunt is shaking her head and muttering swear words in French.
Maybe a little mediation’s in order. I sit up.
“Sorry we woke you up, Martine. We were trying to be quiet.”
She glances at me, then raises her eyebrows at Skunk. Her jaw tightens.
“Who is this?”
I can feel the muscles in Skunk’s arms clench like he’s trying to bench-press a minivan.
“Kiri’s my girlfriend.”
Even though my presence here is obviously getting Skunk in trouble, I feel a pleasant tingle when he says that. Martine’s glance swoops over me.
“What’s she doing here at this time of night? Why isn’t she at home?”
I’m not sure why she keeps talking about me as if I’m not in the room. I clear my throat. “Actually, I don’t have a curfew.”
She ignores me.
“Did you tell her, Philippe? Does she know about your condition? Does she know you need to be careful?” I’m assuming she’s talking about Skunk’s paranoia thing, but I don’t know why she has to say it like that, like an accusation. Look, lady, people are gonna worry about your condition if you talk to my boyfriend like that.
Martine the Dangerous Dingo takes another step down the stairs and looks around with a brief, disapproving glare. I try to fend her off telepathically: Away, dingo! Out of our temple!
“Explain to me why I am seeing this, Philippe. Why did we have that long talk full of promises and today already you are not taking the medicine like you’re supposed to, like you promised Dr. Winterson you would?”
Martine has a bit of a Quebecois accent. You can hear it when she says “Philippe.” Which is Skunk’s other name. I reach down and squeeze his ankle. Hi, Philippe. He puts down the teacup.
“I am taking the medicine. I take it when I need it.”
“You need it every day, Philippe. It’s only been six months. You’re not better yet. Do you understand what could happen if you stop taking your meds now? C’est un problème, Philippe. Un grand problème.”
“I’ll decide when there’s a problem—”
Martine holds up her hand.
“No. Don’t interrupt. We’ve talked about this before, Philippe. We agreed that as a condition of you living here you would do everything Dr. Winterson said. You’re supposed to be taking your meds, seeing the counselor, going to the support group, and getting your life on track. If the doctor says meds at eleven, it’s meds at eleven. Every night. No four a.m. tea parties. And no overnight visitors in my house.”
Skunk’s aunt looks at me again, then lays into him in French.
“Vraiment, Philippe. T’es imbécile. C’est pas à toi de choisir si tu vas les prendre ou pas les prendre. C’est à Dr. Winterson à dire.”
“On peut parler plus tard, Martine? Ecoute. Ecoute-moi, là. S’il te plaît. On peut parler plus tard?”
They go back and forth like that in sharp bursts, as if they’ve both forgotten I’m here. I do the best I can to mentally translate: Martine’s general vibe right now is It’s not up to you to pick! It’s not up to you to pick it! Skunk keeps saying, We can talk later? Please. We can talk about this later?
I thought he was tensing up out of anger, but no. My poor dearest love-bison is quivering with humiliation. This has to stop. I have to stop it. She can’t be allowed to hurt him like that.
I wave my hand in the air.
“Martine?”
She looks at me like she can’t believe I’m still here.
“How did you get here, Kelly?”
“On my bike.”
“Bon. It’s time for you to ride home. Take all your things. Philippe and I have a few things to discuss in private.”
chapter thirty-two
When I get home from Skunk’s house, it’s almost five in the morning. I tiptoe in through the garage and slip upstairs to my bedroom. There’s no point going to sleep now, so instead I lie on my bed practicing Sesquipaedia in my head until I finally hear Denny get up, and then I go downstairs to start some coffee brewing and do my house-sitting chores, the garbage and the recycling and the azaleas.
When I take the mail in, there’s a