Page 71 of Flock
I can’t understand what she’s saying, but her displeasure at the sight of his car and his reply—in an endearing tone I’ve never heard—makes it clear.
“I’ve got it at the shop, Tatie. I told you this.”
Tatie. Aunt.
Her eyes find mine as she stands with Dominic’s help. Upon closer inspection, she looks aged well beyond her years. I’m guessing somewhere in her early forties. However, it’s apparent in her eyes and the pallor of her skin that she’s been through it. Possibly by her own hand or the unforgiving hand of sickness—maybe both.
“Who are you?” Her accent is thick, and I make it a point to brush up on my French.
“Hi, I’m Cecelia.”
She turns to Dominic. “Ta copine?” Your girlfriend?
This, I understand and I answer for myself. “Non.” No.
She harrumphs as Dominic helps her into the front seat.
“Comment ça va?”
“English, Tatie, and we aren’t talking about that tonight.” Dominic never speaks French, which is odd because of his ‘Frenchman’ nickname. Maybe it’s for lack of competent company.
He eyes me and shuts the door, rounding the car. Those few seconds alone with this woman intimidate the hell out of me. Though sickly, she commands an air of respect. I keep my mouth shut and am surprisingly relieved when Dominic is back behind the wheel. A few minutes of silence ensue as I study her and the resemblance between the two of them. It’s there, especially if I picture her a few years younger with more life in her eyes, her frame. When she speaks up, her question is directed to me.
“Why did you come?”
“She’s Sean’s girlfriend—I’m giving her a ride,” Dominic offers as we pull up to a pharmacy drive-thru. The cashier greets Dominic, her face lighting up like Christmas. Beneath her white jacket she sports a risqué dress, her face painted up like she’s going out for a night on the town, rather than working a respectable shift as a professional. He’s mildly pleasant with her which only pisses me off. He pays for the medications and asks for a water which the girl supplies, her ample breasts on display as she graces us all with a view.
“Salope,” Dominic’s aunt says with clear disdain. I know it’s an insult to the girl trying to give us something resembling a window pole dance. I try to hide my grin, but Dominic eyes me in the rearview and doesn’t miss it. I swear I see his lips twitch. He’s so impossible to read, this man. We pull up just a car length past the window and he opens the bag, palming some of the medication, handing her a dose with the water.
“I’m not a child.”
“Take it.” His voice is full of command.
Grumbling, she takes the pills and swallows. I see his lips tilt up again as he studies her, his eyes shining with the closest thing I’ve seen to affection from him. I feel that look pierce the surface of my skin—the warmth and respect he’s showing her satisfying some need inside me. Like I knew it was there and needed confirmation.
“How many more treatments?” she asks.
“We’ve been over this. Six.”
“Putain.” Fuck.
I laugh out loud because I know that one.
“Je ne veux plus de ce poison. Laisse-moi mourir.” I don’t want this poison anymore. Just let me die.
“English, Tatie.” He wants me privy to their exchange. Since when is Dominic so considerate?
“Put me in a box and forget me.”
“I would have when I was younger. You were a horrible parent.”
“That’s why I didn’t have children.” She turns to him, lifting her chin defiantly. “I was barely twenty when I took you in. You did not starve. You—”
“Hush, Tatie,” he gives her the side-eye, “let’s get you home and comfortable.”
“No such thing with this sickness. I don’t know why you take me.”
“Because my first murder attempts failed, and you’ve grown on me.”
