Chapter Eleven

Later, I went out for walk with Bernadette. I didn’t kiss her but she took my hand. I swear I could feel how warm it was through her gloves. We didn’t talk much. We looked up at the moon. You don’t need language when you’re on the moon.

The next day as we were leaving, my mother turned and said—to everyone —J’aime “Jean-Paul beaucoup.” Only she didn’t get it right. Everyone started giggling and then—maybe because they’d been so polite at all her other mistakes—just roared. My mother looked hurt.

“Mom, you just told everyone you loved his nice ass.”

She’d said bow-cue instead of beaucoup. They laughed even harder at her embarrassment. Except for Bernadette.

“Hey, you understood.” She pretended to clap.

“Hey, yeah, I guess I did. Wait until I tell my French teacher how I’ve improved my vocabulary.”

“À la prochaine,” she said as I got in the car. I think I understood that, too.

“Surprise!” said Jean-Paul. He pulled into the parking lot of the Château Frontenac. I had thought we were heading straight for home.

“We have something we have to do,” was all he said. We were in our room. He pointed out the window at the long line of people along the promenade, climbing the steps, taking their places and charging down on the toboggans.

Once we got outside I was sure he would change his mind. The line-up was ridiculous. It backed up way past the Château, and it was so cold people were doing jumping jacks to try to stay warm.

Jean-Paul took pictures until he discovered the camera was frozen. We waited in line an hour and a half, inching up the line every five minutes or so. I really didn’t think they’d stick it out. But they did. My mother was so cold the only things chattering were her teeth. Her eyes were watering. Jean-Paul’s eyebrows were frosted with ice.

When we reached the top it was dark. The city lights seemed so far below. Above us were the Plains of Abraham. I’d studied about it all. Not that I remembered much. Wolfe was the English dude. Montcalm was the leader of the French. It was pretty bloody and there have been hard feelings ever since. But it was weird thinking about it right then, with everybody all around us smiling and laughing.

“We’ve got the middle lane. That’s the lucky one,” said Jean-Paul. It wasn’t supposed to be a race but of course, it was.

“Eat my dust,” said the guy next to us.

“See you next year,” said the kid on the other side.

A guy wearing some kind of dead animal on his head settled us in position. Then he put his hand on the lever.

“Bonne chance,” he said as he released the brakes to let us go.

The other two toboggans shot out ahead. We were trailing far behind. Mom was screaming. The wind was fierce. Then I swear it was like someone came from behind and gave us this push. Whatever. We sailed up to them and past. We held tight and leaned forward, leaving them far behind. It felt like we’d never stop.

“They say it’s going to storm,” said Mom next Sheree Fitch morning. We’d just finished eating breakfast at the buffet. We were packing to leave.

“Don’t worry, chérie,” said Jean-Paul. “I’m a good driver.”

It was miserable though.

There were cars zigzagging around every turn. About an hour from home, Jean-Paul’s cell phone rang. Mom answered it.

“Hello. Chris! Hi, honey! How are —what? I can’t understand you—oh, oh, Jesus.”

There was this sound. Like she was sucking in air ready to blow up one of her balloons. Like someone had punched her in the gut.

“Tell… tell her we’ll be there soon as we can.”

She sat there, staring straight head.

“My fath—oh, Daddy!” She sobbed.

She reached for me over the seat.

“It’s Poppie. Poppie’s dead.”