Shut Your Eyes

December 21st

“Où est-elle?” (Where is she?)

A smile broke out on my face once I heard my father’s deep rich voice booming throughout the house. Will had left as soon as he’d finished his coffee, leaving me with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to return for dinner. My mother had then promptly shooed me out of the kitchen and up to my room, telling me that I needed to rest after being in and out of airplanes all morning.

I’d tried to protest, and offer my help cooking dinner (she was, after all, making my favorite food – boeuf bourguignon with a big pan of gratin dauphinois on the side) but she refused and said if I wanted to help, I’d go straight upstairs and relax. Reluctantly, I took her advice and proceeded to snuggle up in my bed with my worn copy of Wuthering Heights. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I’d underestimated how tired I actually was. After making it through a couple of chapters, I fell asleep with one arm trapped behind my head and the other curled against my chest.

When I woke up, the light outside had faded from a bright glow to a deep, cloudy grey. I’d been jilted from sleep by the banging of car doors and a familiar throaty chuckle coming from downstairs. Throwing on one of Max’s old Pens sweatshirts that I’d snuck into my luggage, I ran down the stairs two at a time and slid on my stocking feet into the kitchen where my father stood with my mother, beaming at me like he’d won the lottery.

“Elle est là!” (There she is!) He opened up his arms and gathered me up in a hug, crushing my body against his in a tight grip. Daddy smelled like he always did: a combination of musk and pipe tobacco. I’d committed the familiar smell to memory years ago, and whenever I’d walk through a cloud of cigar smoke downtown or catch a whiff of Max’s “special occasion” cologne I’d think of Daddy.

“Papa, tu l'accaparer.” (Dad, you’re hogging her.) A smile broke onto my face as I leaned up onto my tiptoes to spy Franck and Catherine walking into the kitchen through the side door. My father huffed in response to Franck’s accusation and released me so I could go say hi to my older brother.

Franck smiled at me like he always did – a small grin that made him look like he was hiding the world’s most wonderful secret. I grinned back at him and walked straight into his open, waiting arms. He squeezed me tight for a moment before looking down at me and placing a large hand on the top of my head and smiling softly. “C'est bon de te voir, Maggie.” (It’s good to see you, Maggie.)

Franck had always been the quietest of all my brothers. Where Max was a hurricane and Will a downpour, Franck was a ripple in the water. He was constant, steady; an ever-present preforming act in the circus that was my life. Growing up, Franck and I were never really close; after all, he was eight years older than me. He’d always had my back though, and I found that the few “special” moments we’d had over the years were some of my most cherished childhood memories; from the time he taught me how to ride a bike to the time I’d cried myself to sleep on the floor beside his bed, my head in his lap as he’d listened patiently to my incoherent blubbering about some boy.

Then before I knew it, he was twenty-one and out of the house, and our moments that had already been few and far between ceased altogether. He worked at a publishing company as a book editor, something he was impeccably suited for. Franck always had a way with words. He could twist and turn them into almost anything imaginable, and captured pictures with them as easily as I did with my camera. Then one Thanksgiving he’d brought a tall slender blonde to dinner with him. Catherine was a writer, a quite good one at that, and our family fell in love with her just as quickly as Franck had. They married in a small traditional ceremony during the spring, and the rest was history.

Franck released me from the hug, but I was suddenly pulled into another one by Catherine- a wide smile on her face and bright green eyes shining. “Margaux! Tu es magnifique! Nous avons tous m'as tellement manqué.” (Margaux! You look amazing! We’ve all missed you so much.)

I smiled back at her, amused at how different she was from Franck. In many ways, she reminded me of Vero – all sunshine and smiles. Looking around at the small crowd before me, I noticed someone was missing. “Où est Jeanne?” (Where’s Jeanne?)

Franck rolled his eyes good-naturedly and nodded in the direction of the living room. “Elle est là avec Will. Il est probablement enseigner à ses trie tous de mauvaises habitudes.” (She’s in there with Will. He’s probably teaching her all sorts of bad habits.)

I scrunched up my nose at Franck and gave him a small grin before turning around and wandering into the living room to find my niece. The sight that met my eyes was nothing less than amusing. Jeanne was crawling around on the floor in an adorable grey turtlenecked onesie with long sleeves and white polka dots. Fluffy white socks poked out at the bottom of her tiny little legs that were clad in black fleece leggings. Her hair was thick and dark, fitting for a Talbot, but her eyes were turning green just like her mother’s.

She was racing away from Will on her hands and knees, squeals of laughter pouring out of her mouth as he crawled after her making bear noises and nipping at her tiny little feet with his hands. It was a sight for sore eyes – a tiny bit of absolute normalcy that I’d been missing for the last few years. I turned around when I felt someone standing next to me. My father smiled down at me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders protectively.

“Tu nous avez manqué, ma chérie.” (We’ve missed you, my darling)

“Je vous ai manqué trop.” (I’ve missed you all too.) I admitted softly. Daddy pressed a kiss to my temple before walking back into the kitchen to help my mother with dinner. Leaning against the archway between the living room and the dining room, I kept watching Jeanne scuttle around on the floor. She was so young and so blissfully happy, and I was jealous.

Silently I wondered if I’d ever be that happy again, or if Gavin had completely used me up like an old well. He’d run me dry of everything, and now there was barely anything left. I could see it in my family’s eyes. Even though they were excited to see me, they watched me like I was going to crumble into a million pieces at any moment. They meant well, I know that, but it was still frustrating – wanting to get better and not knowing how to.

Jeanne’s high-pitched squeal broke me out of my thoughts. I plastered a smile on my face and shuffled over to her, snatching her off of the carpet with a laugh and planting kisses all over her face. She squealed even louder and wrapped a tiny hand into my hair. I nuzzled my face to hers and exhaled. What I wouldn’t give to be this happy again.

I woke up that night in a cold sweat, bed sheets tangled around me and a picture frame knocked off the bedside table. The nightmares had followed me home. Moonlight shone through my attic-bedroom window and cast an eerie silver light over the room. Glancing around, I grabbed my sweatshirt off of the desk chair and put it on over my pajamas. I reached under the bed and felt around for my slippers, before pulling them onto my feet and padding over to the door to the stairwell.

The few steps that connected the attic space to the second floor creaked when I walked over them, but the staircase down to the rest of the house only thudded quietly as my UGG slippers bounded down the steps. Just like my bedroom, the rest of the house was bathed in a slivery light. I snuck through the hallway on my way to the kitchen, but stopped when I noticed an amber glow radiating from the den. Poking my head in, I noticed my father sitting in his chair with the lamp turned on, but dimmed, beside him and a book in his hands. Daddy was always a night owl. When I was small, he would wake me up in the middle of the night so we could sit in the den and read poets like Robert Frost and W.H. Auden as a plate of cookies and two mugs of cocoa sat on the table beside us. Those nights were our little secret, father/daughter moments that were never made known to anyone else. He must have noticed my presence, because he glanced over in my direction and stared at me for a moment with his head cocked to the side.

“Margaux, que fais-tu éveillé à cette heure?” (Marguax, what’re you doing awake at this hour?) The words were whispered quietly into the darkness of the house, and I debated whether or not to tell him the truth. I weighed the options over and over in my mind before I sighed and leaned against the archway.

“J'ai fait un cauchemar.” (I had a nightmare.) Whispered words never seemed so loud, nor fell so heavy on my ears. Daddy stared at me for a moment, his face never flinching. He pulled his reading glasses off and set them on his lap, as well as his book. He furrowed his eyebrows – a surefire sign he was thinking heavily about something – then he sighed.

“A propos de lui?” (About him?) I glanced down at the floor for a moment before looking back up at my father and giving a small nod. He tilted his head over to the chair beside him – a silent invitation for me to join him. I shuffled over to the fluffy armchair and sank down into it, immediately beginning to pick at a few loose threads around the edge.

“Papa, je peux te poser une question?” (Daddy, can I ask you a question?) I didn’t look up; instead I focused on the black fabric beneath my fingers. One question had been rolling around in my mind since my plane landed in Quebec.

“Bien sûr.” (Of course.)

I thought about how to phrase the question carefully, knowing that if I didn’t ask now, all the courage I’d built up would be gone. “Ai-je te décevoir?” (Did I disappoint you?)

His breathing stilled and the room became deadly quiet. I knew he was looking at me with that look but I couldn’t bring myself to meet my eyes to his. I didn’t want him to look at me. I didn't want him looking at me because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if he spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.

“Qu'est-ce que tu racontes?” (What are you talking about?) His voice was quiet but firm, and held plenty of confusion. Glancing up at him from under my lashes, I inhaled shakily and bit my lip before continuing.

“Vous êtes et maman déçu de moi? En raison de Gavin?” (Are you and mama disappointed in me? Because of Gavin?) My father stared at me in disbelief for a moment before getting out of his chair and coming to sit on the coffee table in front of me. He pulled my hands away from the loose threads and held them tight in his own, using one hand to hold mine and the other to turn my face towards his.

“Oh ma chérie, bien sûr que non. Pourquoi voudriez-tu penser une chose pareille?” (Oh sweetheart, of course not. Why would you think such a thing?)

“Parce que je n'ai pas quitté. J'aurais dû partir, mais je n'ai pas.” (Because I didn’t leave. I should have left, but I didn’t.) The end of my sentence was undecipherable; sobs choked my speech as my thoughts became words. Thinking about your own faults was one thing, but admitting them out loud to someone else was another matter entirely.

Daddy shushed me softly, shaking his head and lifting my chin with one finger. “Mais vous n'avez partir.” (But you did leave.)

A dark chuckle leaked through my lips. “Ouais, je l'ai quitté. Il ne m'a fallu environ trois ans.” (Yeah, I left him. It only took me about three years.)

My father gave me a disapproving look before standing up and motioning for me to scoot over so he could sit down beside me. He made himself comfortable and then pulled me into his side, the two of us staring out the front window together at the thick blanket of snow glittering under the moonlight. “Permettez-moi de te raconter une histoire. J'ai acheté une bague de fiançailles de votre mère, après deux mois de sa date.” (Let me tell you a story. I bought your mother’s engagement ring after only two months of dating her.)

I looked up at him in confusion. “Mais toi et maman en date pour une année entière avant que tu proposé.” (But you and mama dated a whole year before you proposed.)

He nodded and looked down at me with wise brown eyes. “Cette bague était assis sur une étagère dans mon placard pendant onze mois. Que je voulais proposer à votre mère? Bien sûr. Je savais qu'elle était la femme que je voulais épouser.” (That ring sat on a shelf in my closet for eleven months. Did I want to propose to your mother? Of course. I knew she was the woman I wanted to marry.)

I looked back out at the snow for a moment, slightly confused. “Alors, pourquoi avez-vous attendu?” (Then why did you wait?)

“Parce que le moment était mal choisi. Il n'était pas question être sûr, il était sur le point d'être prêt. J'avais besoin de grandir un peu d'abord, assurez-vous que tous mes canards sont dans une rangée.” (Because the timing was wrong. It wasn’t about being sure, it was about being ready. I needed to grow up a bit first, make sure all my ducks were in a row.) He bopped the tip of my nose with his finger and smiled at me.

“C'est, ma fille douce, c'est pourquoi nous ne pourrions jamais être déçu. Nous savions que vous n'avez pas envie de rester. Tu étais-vous, vous n'étiez tout simplement pas encore prêts. Tu étais toujours obtenir tous vos canards dans une rangée.” (That, my sweet daughter, is why we could never be disappointed in you. We knew you didn’t want to stay. You were sure, you just weren’t ready yet. You were still getting all your ducks in a row.)

I don’t know how my father got so wise, but his little speech had caused my watery eyes to spill over and I wrapped my arms around him as best I could on the chair we were sharing. He rubbed my back soothingly until I pulled away slightly to wipe my eyes. “Donc vous ne pensez pas que je suis marchandises endommagées?” (So you don’t think I’m damaged goods?)

“Maggie, Vous êtes une créature incroyable. Tu mérites deêtre aimée jusqu'à ce que tes entrailles fondre. Ne pas renoncer à toutes les choses que vous voulez. Lorsque vous rencontrer la bonne personne, vous aurez zéro doute dans votre esprit. Zéro.” (Maggie, you are an amazing creature. You deserve to be loved until your insides melt. Don't give up on all the things you want. When you meet the right person you will have zero doubt in your mind. Zero.)

December 23rd

I woke up to someone sitting on my legs. Someone heavy was sitting on my legs.

“Maggie. Maggieeee. Tu es réveillé?” (Are you awake?)

“Quelle heure est-il?” (What time is it?) I grumbled into my pillow.

“Deux heures du matin.” (Two in the morning.) Max was much too cheery this time of night.

“Alors, non. Je ne suis pas réveillé.” (Then, no. I’m not awake.) He began to poke at the portion of my head that was sticking above the blankets.

“Oh allez, j'ai un cadeau pour toi!” (Oh come on, I have a gift for you!) This piqued my interest. I rolled over onto my back and peered up at him through the darkness.

“Quel genre de cadeau?” (What kind of present?) He chuckled and pulled a horrifically wrapped box out from behind him.

“C'est à partir des garçons.” (It’s from the boys.) I smiled slowly and reached out for the large box that had been covered in festive wrapping paper and taped all over. There were even a few bows on the top, none of which were alike or matched the wrapping paper. I peeled away the shimmery paper and popped open the top of the box only to see an assortment of golden numbers, all patched onto jerseys bearing the corresponding name. A letter sat on the top, scrawled in someone’s unfamiliar handwriting.

Maggie,

Max has been hogging you for too long. It’s about time you wore someone else’s name on your back. Luckily, you now have five more options. They might be a little big, but we’re sure you’ll look great anyway. Take good care of them, and have the best Christmas ever.

Love, Geno, Kris, Flower, Jordan, and Sidney.

PS: Max was supposed to give you this the second he got home, so we apologize in advance if he woke you up.

I couldn’t help but smile as I looked down into the box and saw all the names smiling back at me. Reaching in, I pulled out the one that was on top and held it up.

CROSBY

87

Max leaned in and kissed my forehead with a smile. “Tu m'as manqué, Mags. Retour à dormir, je vais te voir dans la matinée.” (I missed you, Mags. Now back to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.)

He exited my room with a quick grin and a wink, and closed the door behind him quietly before creaking down the stairs to his room. Once he was gone, I glanced back down at the box of jerseys on my lap; just looking at it made me smile. Matching the handwriting to the signature, I pinned Sid as the author of the note. For reasons unknown to me, this fact made me smile even wider.

Without even thinking about it, I pulled his jersey next to my face and inhaled. It smelled like Sid. He smelled like musk, lemons, and cedar wood. It was manly, and it was completely Sid. I stared at the jersey for what seemed like an eternity before throwing the covers off my body, stripping off my tank top, and pulling the black mesh over my torso. It was big, like they’d said, and hung off my frame like a dress. Crawling back into bed, I folded my arms up against my body and pressed the long arms of the jersey up near my face so the smell clouded my senses.

I cuddled my body back into the warm spot I’d been in before Max woke me up and fell asleep wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and cologne. I fell asleep fast and hard, even though I couldn’t get two things off my mind – the words my father had spoken to me only a couple of nights before, and a pair of haunting amber eyes.

“You deserve to be loved until your insides melt. Don't give up on all the things you want. When you meet the right person you will have zero doubt in your mind. Zero.”