Frameshift

“Hey,” said Jessica, a note of light teasing in her voice, perhaps trying to defuse the tension her mother’s remark had engendered. “You told us he was French-Canadian, but you didn’t say he had such a sexy accent.”

Molly giggled, something Pierre had never before heard her do. She and Jessica were suddenly teenagers again. “Go find your own immigrant,” she said, then turned to Pierre. “Honey, this is Jessica.”

Jessica held out her hand, the back of it facing up. “Enchantee,” she said.

Pierre adopted the role being requested of him. He bent low and kissed the back of her hand. “C’est moi, qui est enchante, mademoiselle.” She giggled. Jessica was a real knockout. Molly had mentioned that Jess had done modeling and he could see why. She was a taller, tartier version of her sister. Her makeup was expertly applied: black eyeliner, a dusting of blush, and pink lipstick. Molly was standing right beside him; Pierre felt momentarily anxious, but relaxed when he realized he was indeed musing about all this in French.

“I’m afraid our car is parked a fair distance away,” he said. The women’s bags weren’t very big. Even a few months ago, Pierre would have picked one up with each hand and simply carried them. But his condition was getting worse in small but noticeable daily increments, and he was now just as likely to drop them. Although his foot had been shaking somewhat, he’d hoped he’d been doing a credible job of making it look like toe tapping, as if he were some jittery type-A personality.

A few feet away, a big man was making a macho show of discarding the baggage cart his female companion had found and carrying a bulging Samsonite case himself. Pierre moved as fast as he could, seizing the cart and placing Jessica’s and Barbara’s bags on it. At the least, he could certainly push the cart for them. Indeed, it was probably better having it as a sort of discreet walker as they embarked on the long hike to the garage.

“How was the flight?” asked Pierre.

“It was a flight,” said Jessica. Pierre smiled, sensing a kindred spirit.

What more could one say about spending hours in a tin can?

“Where’s Amanda?” asked Barbara, her tone making clear that she was very much the new grandmother, eager to see her first grandchild.

“A neighbor is looking after her,” said Molly. “We thought all this” — she rolled her eyes, indicating the hubbub around them — “would be too much for her.”

“I would have loved to have been there for you,” said Barbara. Pierre allowed himself a slight sigh, lost on the background noise of the cavernous terminal. His mother-in-law wasn’t going to easily forgive Molly for cutting her out of so much of Molly’s life. Barbara and Jessica were only going to be here for four days, but it was clearly going to seem longer.

They passed through a pair of sliding glass doors into the late-afternoon sunshine. As soon as she was out of the terminal, Jessica fished a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and lit one. Pierre jockeyed slightly so as not to be downwind from her. Suddenly she looked far less attractive.

Molly opened her mouth as if to reproach her sister, but in the end said nothing. Her mother clearly recognized the expression, though, and shrugged. “It’s no use,” she said. “I’ve told her a thousand times to quit.”

Jessica took a deep, defiant drag. They continued on toward the parking lot.

“Have either of you been to California before?” asked Pierre, the role of defuser now falling to him.

“Disney World when I was a kid,” said Jessica.

“Disneyland,” corrected Molly, sounding every bit the big sister. “Disney World is in Florida.”

“Well, whichever it was, I’m sure they still remember you throwing up all over the teacup ride,” snapped Jessica. She looked to Pierre with wide eyes, as if still stunned by it all. “How anyone could get motion sickness on the teacups is beyond me.”

Pierre spotted his car. “We’re over there,” he said, gesturing with his head as he steered the luggage cart.

Yes, he thought. A long stay indeed.

Pierre managed to carry the bags up the front steps. Molly looked on with compassion. They had worried about those steps when they bought the house, and watching him struggle with the bags gave her a clear foretaste of what was to come for him. The back door opened onto level ground; they knew eventually that it would end up as his principal entrance.

Once the bags were inside, Molly’s mother and sister plopped down, exhausted, in the living-room chairs.

“Nice place,” said Jessica, looking around.

Molly smiled. It was a nice place. Pierre’s taste in furnishings was abysmal (Molly shuddered every time she thought of that hideous green-and-orange couch he’d had), but she had a good eye for such things; she’d even taught a course on the psychology of aesthetics one year. They’d furnished the whole room in natural blond wood and green malachite accents.

“I’m going next door to get Amanda,” said Molly. “Pierre, maybe you can get Mom and Jess a drink.”