Chapter Three

I was almost asleep when we got to the sacred spot, as my mother called it. I woke up pretty fast, though. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the wind slapped me in the face.

We slipped and slid down the trail that snaked through the woods. After ten minutes, we finally reached the lookout over the ocean. Our faces were soon glazed with ice—a mix of ocean spray and sleet. Each strand of hair was frozen stiff.

“Me come from Tribe of Icicle People,” I said, shivering.

“Me Frosty the Snowman’s brother,” said Chris, wiping the frost off his eyebrows.

“Now I would like us to hold hands in a circle and listen to the stillness,” instructed Mom.

Just then a wave thumped so loud below us, it seemed to me that God himself was mocking her.

“And—?” urged Chris. He was jumping up and down to keep warm.

“And we each have to say a prayer.”

“To whom are we praying, Mom?” This was me.

“To the Source,” she replied.

“The Sauce?” asked Jean-Paul. “What is this Sauce?”

“No. The Source. S-o-u-r-c-e.”

“A spelling lesson, now? Mom!”

“You mean God,” said Jean-Paul quietly.

“Mom, this is something you should stick to doing with your goddess girlfriends,” I said.

I wanted hot cocoa. Fire. Toasty toes. Mine felt ready to fall off from frostbite.

Her face crumpled. I was sorry I said what I did.

“Can we do it fast?” said Jean-Paul. Then he winked at me. That wink. Again.

“No, forget it,” she said. “I guess I’m the only one this means anything to.” She pouted like a three-year-old. She’s been working with kids for too long.

Chris grabbed my hand and Mom’s, and Jean-Paul grabbed her other and mine. Our circle was complete.

“Thank you for my precious sons, for new love and the promise of hope I feel in my heart this day.” Mom’s voice trembled. Maybe it was just the cold, but I don’t think so.

Chris cleared his throat. “Thank you for my family and friends. And please stop the snow.”

“Thank you for your presence in my life each day,” said Jean-Paul. Heavy duty. “And bless the knitter of my new um… how you Sheree Fitch say, glove? I am happy I have them at these minutes.” Clever. Mom knit the gloves.

“Thank-you for Mom, Chris, Nana, Poppie, Dad, Erika, Hanna, Maddie and Luke and the ski vacation I’ll be going on this week.” I said.

“Amen,” said Mom.

“A-woman,” I corrected her. We all laughed, even Mom. Then we beat it back to the car. I don’t know if Jean-Paul noticed. But he wasn’t on my list of people I was thankful for.

Dinner was delicious. Also, a disaster. As always, we ate too much, especially considering we had another meal to go to. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was my manners. The fact that I’m so immature for my age. That’s a matter of opinion. It’s most certainly my Grandmother’s opinion. She’s been telling me that my whole life, no matter what age I’ve been.

“Chew with your mouth closed,” hissed Nana. I should have done what she said. But, I can’t help it sometimes. When people use a certain tone of voice with me, I just want to do exactly the opposite. This was one of those times. I opened my mouth wider and stuck out my tongue, filled with food, at Chris.

So then Nana kicked me under the table. For eating with my mouth open! Kicked me! In the shin! I don’t think she meant to do it so hard but she had on those pointy shoes.

“OW!” I yelled.

“What’s going on?” demanded my mother.

“Nothing” said Nana.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You wouldn’t want him to think you’re rude,” Nana whispered when Jean-Paul got up to get another glass of water from the kitchen.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I said. Then I burped at precisely the moment Jean-Paul sat back down at the table. I thought Nana was going to die.

“Excuse me,” I said. She kicked me again. Harder this time.

“Quit kicking me, Nan!”

“Mom?” said Mom.

Nana’s face turned the color of cranberry sauce. She gave my mother a what are you going to do about this kid kind of look. I smiled like an angel. Then Chris jabbed me underneath the table with his fork. He gave me the look.

“Frig off,” I said.

“Bite me,” he whispered. But everyone heard.

Mom looked ready to burst into tears.

“Chérie,” said Jean-Paul, “this meal is délicieux.”

“Don’t you just love the way he talks?” asked Nana.

My mother nodded. They were chatting about him as if he wasn’t even there. Talk about being rude.

Poppie cleared his throat. “After supper, Julian, how about a walk around the block with yer old Poppie? I need to walk off supper before I can try some of that pie.”

“Sure, Poppie.”

I’d do just about anything Poppie asked. Then again, he never uses that voice with me. Or gives me the look. He treats me with respect.