I’m counting the days until Tante Marie’s arrival. I write B a letter. He lives up north so I haven’t seen him since we both left the rehabilitation hospital four years ago. He’s still a great fan of Tante Marie’s and will be happy for me that she’s coming. I also finish two more books from the pile to make the time pass quickly, but I read them in secret so my mother won’t know. Last year, the summer I turned eleven, we had a family reunion in Québec. My two aunts called me spoiled and self-centered, thinking I wouldn’t understand when they whispered gâtée in French. Maybe they’re right. I don’t care. I can’t wait to see Tante Marie. She never speaks a word against me, not in any language. My father brings Tante Marie and Grand-mère home from Union Station. My mother has welcoming hugs and kisses for Grand-mère, but when she turns to Tante Marie, she freezes and pulls herself back stiffly. She’s the ice queen. Tante Marie kisses her cheeks anyway and asks how she is.
