Page 33 of Hushed

The living room is to the right of the entryway. I don’t go up the stairs, because there’s nothing up there but a mattress and more boxes. I collapse on the sofa and call my brother.

“Ti-cul!” Michel says when he picks up. Little shit. “You’re in the doghouse,” he proclaims in French.

“How am I in the doghouse?”

“We’ve been waiting to hear from you since Wednesday about the hearing!”

“Sorry,” I say. “Something came up.”

“Something or someone?” Michel asks.

“Fuck you,” I say, but there’s no heat in it.

“Mmmhmm. How did it go?”

“Exactly as everybody predicted it would go. Badly. You have a second to talk?” I click the video option and my older brother’s face fills the screen.

“Wait a second. I hear that voice. This needs another beer. Please tell me they have Molson Ex there.” I watch him go to the fridge and pull out a bottle.

“They have Molson,” I reassure him.

“But not Labatt Bleue,” he points out, showing the label to me.

“No, they don’t. Or good bagels. You remember that place in Montréal we used to go to? I would kill for some right now.” I stretch out on the sofa. I can handle this conversation. My brother talks about the US like it’s some kind of lawless no-man’s-land where you’re never sure if the water is safe.

“St-Viateur?” He smiles and sits down in his favorite chair, and suddenly, it’s like I’m back home in Québec. “Are you homesick?”

“I suppose. I might wind up home sooner than later. Maybe for Christmas.” Maybe to stay, if they rule against me.

“That would be great!” Michel says. “Lisette and the kids would love to see you. Maybe we could tempt you to move back home. We miss you.”

“And do what? It’s easy for you. You have a job people want,” I point out.

“We can apprentice you to be an electrician. Saint-Jacques et fils,” he says, gesturing as if he’s reading it on a sign. “Papa would be delighted to have you join us.”

“Yes, Michel. I did an entire doctorate so that I could become an electrician and live in Maman’s basement.”

“Oh, come on. We’ll find a nice French boy to marry you off to,” he says.

“Oh, no.” I cringe. “And tell me what my future husband will be like, since you have clearly picked him out in advance. Does he read Le Devoir?”

“Religiously. But only online,” Michel reassures me. “But he’s very deeply involved in the Movement. Vive le Québec libre!”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Is he at least handsome? Because honestly, if I am going to betray my ideals, my education, and my country, he needs to be either rich or hung like a mule.”

Michel scratches the stubble on his chin. “Okay. So not Raoul. I’ve got another one. Friend of Lisette’s. Actually. Brother of a friend of Lisette’s.”

“This was a real person?”

My brother takes a swig of his beer. “Well, we can’t all be picky. And frankly, my dear brother, maybe you should start thinking about lowering your standards.”

I laugh. “Asshole,” I say.

He grins at me and takes another swig, eyeing me through the phone. “Okay, Séb. You didn’t call me to reminisce about bagels, beer, and boyfriends. What’s going on?”

“I…I just really wanted to talk to somebody who loves me.”

And that does it. I break down crying. Somewhere, I can hear Michel’s voice as I try to pull myself together. “Séb! What happened?”