Silent Bird by Reina Lisa Menasche

upward-pointing spout on the day I moved to Montpellier. Originally called the “small horse,” the French bidet had once been used to soak the private parts of 17 th century cavalrymen who would’ve been better off de-lousing every inch of themselves. However, Monique used her bidet for rinsing underwear. I didn’t want to think about how Monsieur and Madame Courbois used theirs…
    There was a rap at the door. “Pilar, you in there? Are you sick?”
    I hauled myself up to open it. “Can we go home early, Jeannot? Please? I really don’t feel well.”
    “ What is wrong? Did something happen?”
    “ No, just an upset stomach. Maybe I ate too much. I’ll be fine.”
    He studied me, assessing. Finally he nodded, and held out his hand, and we returned to the dining room.
    His family was at the table eating again, making room for dessert, which included impromptu bits of sandwich with more fresh bread and cheese and even slabs of rich dark chocolate. In fact, a whole receiving line of cheeses and pies and chocolates had been laid out in center, the centerpiece slab of overripe Brie smelling like a basement on a rainy day.
    I gave Jeannot another pleading look. Please !
    He slung his arm over my shoulders and announced that I was n’t feeling well, that we had to leave but would be back another day soon. And as paranoid as it sounds, I could swear that all members of the Courbois family glanced at my belly. I could almost hear them thinking: “Ah, so that explains the sudden engagement! How many months?”
    In the car I expected Jeannot to grill me about my sickness or how I felt about the day with his family. Instead he put on a tape of Vivaldi and said nothing. We didn’t talk much at home either and went to bed without making love. And as I lay staring at the dim moonlight filtering in from the balcony, I thought: I don’t want to live here forever.
    I don’t.
    And a moment later I’m standing on my mom’s doorstep, extending my hand to the man I adore.
    “Come with me ,” I say. “Please? I want you to meet my family.”

VII I
    Jeannot steps with me through a gap between the windswept dunes of Fire Island, down a slope into a forest that ducks under the sand. Knotted branches reach high into the sky for seagulls, and the trees lean together overhead as I giggle: my arms pinwheel.
    “ This is Sunken Forest—I'm home! Can you believe it, Jeannot? I'm home!"
    My big old house in the Hamptons—it’s so close! How did it get so close? Shingles gray like fog, and huge picture windows that grab and trap the sun.
    But the front door is locked.
    Stranger Danger.
    “ I’m not supposed to open the door,” I say urgently. “He couldn’t steal me if I didn’t open the door!”
    Suddenly we ’re in the new house, in Mama's small kitchen where she stirs chicken and rice. She looks young and sad and oh so pretty, her hair black and glossy; her eyes so sweet and blue, I can’t stand to see her cry. I’ll do anything to help her not cry!
    “ I never noticed,” she sobs. “Why would I? I’m a bad mother.”
    No. No . Don’t say that, Mama. I’m bad, not you. I’m the one who opened the door!
    “ Hug me, Pilar. You are my sun and my moon.”
    Le soleil et la lune.
    “Grandma and Grandpa live here too,” I tell Jeannot, pulling him toward the old woman at the table. She is turning the pages of an old photo album that are stiff and brown as dead leaves. The TV is blasting so she can hear it. And Grandpa shuffles to his winged chair, where he beckons me close and talks about the insects outside and the rotation of the earth, and how you need to hold on to your dreams with both hands.
    “ I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he says.
    His voice is so real . I feel what I haven’t dared hope—that it's all going to be okay as long as I stay in this room. I can smell Mama’s cooking and Grandma's mothballs and the pine trees outside. I am completely, breathlessly home. And Grandpa is alive! They are all here