* * *
Thirty minutes later.
I set down my phone at the sound of knocking at my door.
“Yes?”
The door squeaks open and Madame Duguay’s head appears.
“Would you like to come and help me in the kitchen, Sarah?”
No. I don’t want to help you in the kitchen, Madame Duguay.
“I don’t know.”
She smiles and eases her way into my bedroom.
“You know, my dad - his name was Emile. He was a hard man. He made us do three hours of chores every morning. Even on school days. We had to get up at five in the morning to milk the cows, brush the horses, and wash the windows. We’d go to school with blackened fingers from sweeping the chimney. Holes in our pants from scrubbing floors. Things were different back then. We didn’t have the luxuries you kids do today.”
“This isn’t making me feel better,” I mumble.
Madame Duguay laughs. “Oh, child, I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m trying to make you see things in a different light.” She pads across the floor and takes a seat on the edge of my bed. “Sometimes, Sarah, in life, we just have to work. There’s no other way. The ability to work isn’t something that comes naturally to us - it’s something we acquire. It’s something we grow up with. It’s something we’re taught. Our Pierre,” she stops and touches her heart and takes in a bit of air through her mouth, a short little gasp - that thing old ladies do when in place of a sigh, “before he passed away, we had to fight with him,” she shakes her head. “We couldn’t get him to put down his books or come away from the television.”
“Did your son...die?”
I feel bad for asking, but I have to know.
She nods and takes in a bit more air, making a little sound as she does so. “He did. He was twenty three when he passed away. Cancer.”
“Oh my god, Madame Duguay.” I feel like crying now and I sit up and look her in the eye. “I’m so sorry.”
She purses her lips and looks at me, nodding, a single tear sliding down one cheek.
“Madame Duguay!” I’m about to cry - I can feel the tears start to come. “You’re making me cry!”
She smiles (the tear’s reached her upper lip now and it’s left a wet trail down her face). “It’s okay.”
“Oh.” I feel my face. Tears. Lots of them. “Madame Duguay...” I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. She smells of lavender. “Madame Duguay...I am so sorry.”
She pats my back, as though I’m the one that needs comforting. “It’s okay, child. That was many years ago.”
We break our embrace, slowly, naturally, and I look at her, resting my hands on my thighs. “How long ago?” I wipe my tears with the back of one hand.
“Well...I’m sixty seven in September...and I was twenty one when I had him...so about twenty four years ago...”
“That’s long than I’ve been alive.”
She smiles. “Oui.”
I look at her, shaking my head in disbelief, unable to fathom this woman - this awesome old woman - having lost her child. “You’re so strong, Madame Duguay.”
She shrugs, chuckling softly, and pats my leg. “Life makes you strong, child.”
“I’m going to help you with whatever chores you need help with. I promise.”
She smiles. “Okay.”