Again, Noémie consoled me. “Give them some time. It will happen.” She thanked me for cleaning up the kitchen, then focused on Geneviève. “Geneviève, can you take the garbage out, please?”
At least she’d moved slightly.
Her body was now lying on the couch, with her legs draped over an armrest. “Ugh, yeah. In a minute. Can’t you just take it out?” she said, turning another page in her book, not even bothering to look up.
I just stared at my fiancée—or almost fiancée—not quite believing what I was seeing. “It’s like I don’t even know her anymore,” I whispered as I leaned on the large center island.
Noémie let out a small laugh and said, “It’s called O.C.S.”
I swung my head to her, not understanding. “O.C.S.?” I repeated back, thinking if I’d ever heard of that.
“Only Child Syndrome,” she said, pointing to her daughter. “This is why you have more than one.”
“I heard that!” Geneviève yelled, but still didn’t move. Other than to turn a page.
I whispered again, “You don’t understand. Back home she’s always busy doing something. Such a perfectionist. But here she’s—”
“A lump on a bump? An annoying, eye rolling, spoiled child?”
I squinted my eyes at Noémie. “Kind of.”
“Geneviève, the garbage, please?” Noémie asked loudly for the second time.
“I said in a minute. Hey, can’t Beau take it out? He’s standing right beside it.”
“Is this how we treat guests? We invite them in and ask them to clean the kitchen and take out the garbage?” Noémie asked, her voice even louder this time.
“He’s not a guest! Besides, I cooked and cleaned at his parents’ house. Beau, can you just take it out for me? Please? I want to finish this chapter.”
My jaw dropped at what I’d just heard come out of her mouth.
Noémie turned her back to Geneviève and spoke to me quietly, “As parents, we prepare our children for the outside world. We hope and pray they’ll make fine, contributing members of society one day. But at home? They will always be—that.” She hooked her thumb in her daughter’s direction.
I smiled down at Noémie and said, “No offense, but I’m not like—that at my parents’ house.”
“Trust me, my darling Beauregard. You are.”
Later that night,we were in bed when a knock sounded at the door.
Apparently, Noémie didn’t have a problem with us sharing a room. I hadn’t been sure exactly where I’d be sleeping, but Geneviève said it was fine.
Right now, I was rethinking that.
Being okay with a man sharing your daughter’s bed was different than actually seeing a man sharing your daughter’s bed.
“Come in,” Geneviève said, still glued to her book.
The door opened and Noémie asked, “Any laundry? I’m going to throw a load in.”
“That’s okay, Noémie, we can do it tomorrow,” I said, pulling the blankets further up my bare chest.
“On the floor by my dresser. Oh, and behind the door, too,” Geneviève said, flipping another page over. “Please and thank you.” Her voice was monotone, like she really wasn’t even hearing or involved in what was going on.
I was getting concerned aliens had taken over her body.
Noémie threw our clothes into the laundry basket she’d brought in with her. “I’ve got your stuff too, Beau. Don’t worry, I do good laundry.” She smiled at me and turned toward the door.
“It’s true. Mom’s the best at doing laundry. She can get out any stain.”