The Forgotten Daughter

by Joanna Goodman

  “I can’t face Léo.”

  “Let’s go back to my apartment and figure it out,” he says.

  She nods, leans her head against the window, and lets him take her to his place. She doesn’t really care, as long as it’s not back to her parents in Verdun.

  Louis lives in a honey-colored brick building on Jules Verne, north of the Jean Talon Market. He rents the basement apartment, which has two bedrooms and one small window that’s level with the street. There’s a kitchenette with just enough room for a small table, and a couch facing the TV in the main room. The second bedroom is more of a storage closet—there’s a rolled-up futon in the corner, Louis’s bike, some boxes, dumbbells and weights. “You work out?” she says.

  “Can’t you tell?” He holds up a bony arm and makes a muscle.

  She’s not in the mood to laugh.

  “You want a Coke?” he asks her.

  “Have you got any beer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He goes to the fridge and returns with two 50s. “You want to smoke a joint?”

  “Sure,” she says. Perfect.

  Louis lights one up and passes it to her. He doesn’t ask her questions or try to get her to talk, doesn’t say anything to fill the air. He just lets her be, which she appreciates. He puts on some music, and they pass the joint back and forth. Her anger starts to feel hazy and far away. She leans her head back against the couch.

  “This is my father’s favorite album,” she says, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Oh, yeah? He likes Pink Floyd?”

  “He was in prison when The Wall came out. It was one of the first albums he bought when he got out.”

  She sings a couple of verses, not even a little self-conscious in front of Louis. “The first time he listened to it, he said, ‘I can’t believe I’ve lived without this all these years.’”

  At the time, Véronique wasn’t sure whether he’d meant that particular album or music in general. “It was one of the things he hated most about prison,” she says. “No music.”

  “I can’t even imagine.”

  “He’s never going to forgive me.”

  “Of course he will. You’re his kid.”

  Her cell phone rings and she jumps. She stares at it for a few seconds, not sure what to do. She looks up at Louis for guidance, but he just shrugs.

  She flips open the phone and makes an effort to sound straight. “Allo?”

  “Véro?”

  “Daddy?”

  “I called your apartment,” Léo says. “The crosseur told me you moved out.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Léo says. “How could you have known he’d do that to us?”

  “He promised me it would be objective.”

  “We both believed him, and he screwed us. But you’re the one I’m worried about.”

  “I’m fine. I just feel so terrible.”

  “You did the right thing by leaving him,” Léo says. “He’s not one of us, Véro. He never was. He’s worse than an Anglo. He’s a goddamn traitor.”

  Véronique starts to cry.

  “He doesn’t deserve your tears,” Léo tells her. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  But I love him, she thinks. She would never say that to her father; it’s hard enough to admit to herself. She’s aware of Louis watching her, and she wipes her eyes. “I know,” says. Her mouth is so dry it’s difficult to get the words out.

  “Why don’t you move back home for a while?”

  The idea of moving back in with them—sleeping in her old single bed in her childhood room, eating meals with them every night, watching her father get drunk to Hockey Night in Canada every Saturday—fills her with dread. “I can’t think about that right now,” she says. “I’m going to crash here tonight.”

  She looks at Louis to make sure it’s okay, and he nods emphatically.

  “Just take care of yourself,” Léo says. “Don’t feel bad about me. I should have known better. I let my guard down.”

  “You did it for me,” she reminds him.

  “No, mon amour. I did it for me. I let my ego get in the way.”

  “I’m sorry, P’pa.”

  “Me, too. He’s not one of us, Véro. Don’t ever forget that.”

  33

  JULY 1996

  The moment the waitress leads him through the arched door to the garden terrace, James regrets his choice. Café Santropol was Véronique’s favorite brunch spot, with its jungle of greenery, creaky wood floors, and three-decker sandwiches. What was he thinking meeting a blind date here, his first date since Véronique left him?

  He’s been hearing a lot of It’s time to move on from the people in his life—his mother, his sisters, his colleagues. Everyone has an opinion about how long it should take to get over the love of your life. It was the same after his father died. People are only comfortable with a certain amount of grieving; beyond that, it makes them uneasy.

  Getting over someone you love—someone you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with—is its own kind of grieving. Véronique is gone for good. She didn’t even indulge him in any post-breakup contact. Didn’t give him the opportunity to grovel or stalk her or try to win her back. She just got rid of her cell phone and disappeared from his life. He never heard from her again.

  Elodie is still in touch with her. They’ve stayed close, but Elodie won’t give James Véronique’s new number. She’s too loyal.

  Not long after Véronique dumped him, he went over to Elodie’s, trying to track Véronique down. He’d been drinking, was desperate to see her. “I just want to tell her I love her,” he pleaded with Elodie.

  “Did you drive here like this?” she asked him, letting him inside.

  “I’m fine.”

  “James, you can’t do that.”

  “Just give me her number. Please, Elo.”

  Elodie sat him on the couch and sat down across from him on the recliner. She lit a cigarette and stared at him through a cloud of smoke.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he muttered.

  Elodie didn’t say anything, just kept watching him through that veil of smoke.

  “You think I fucked up.”

  “You hurt her very badly,” she said. “She trusted you, James, and you put your ambitions before her.”

  “Not just my ambitions,” he argued, “my integrity. Her father is a murderer! I had to tell the truth.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Stop lying to yourself, James. You didn’t have to write that story. It was calculating and you know it. You exploited them.”

  “I admit it was a good opportunity for my career,” he said. “It was a story I’d always wanted to write. Why should I have to apologize for that?”

  “Knowing you would lose her, would you do it again?”

  “No,” he said without even having to think about it. “Of course not.”

  “It wasn’t worth it then, was it? Getting your big story.”

  “You sound like Véronique.”

  “I happen to agree with her.”

  James slumped down, sinking deeper into the couch. “I guess I knew she’d be angry, but I thought I could handle it. I thought I could get her to see my side. I really didn’t think she’d leave me.”

  “If you thought you could ‘handle’ Véronique, then you don’t know her as well as you thought you did.”

  A few months later, Elodie broke the news that Véronique was living with Louis.

  “Living with him like they’re roommates?” James asked, deluding himself.

  Elodie shook her head. She was quiet, her face pained.

  “Are you sure?” he said. “She probably didn’t want to move back in with her parents.”

  “They’re a couple,” Elodie said.

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been living there since she moved out of your place.”

 
“Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What for? You were in no place to hear it.”

  “And now?”

  “You need to move on. She’s not coming back to you.”

  “That asshole. He was just waiting for us to break up.”

  “You caused the breakup,” Elodie reminded him. “Not Louis, not Véronique. It was your fault.”

  James huffed off, feeling betrayed by his own sister. He still blamed Véronique for overreacting. Her leaving, he told himself, was just a cowardly way of ending a relationship she knew would never work. The way she rebounded into Louis’s arms confirmed that.

  He didn’t speak to Elodie for a couple of weeks after that, but Elodie isn’t a person you can stay mad at for long. Besides, all she did was put him in his place. She told him the truth.

  It’s taken him a long time to digest that truth and admit he never should have written the article about Léo, He’s come to realize, during the contemplative nursing of his broken heart, that it was always a conflict of interest. Somewhere along the way, distracted by ambition, he convinced himself he was entitled to have his big story. He didn’t even consider that Véronique would be the collateral damage. Or if he did, he dismissed it, thinking he could clean up the mess and manage her after it was done. It was a profound lapse in judgment that has cost him the woman he loves.

  It was his editor, Damian, who arranged this blind date. The woman is Damian’s wife’s younger cousin. Her name is Sarah Abney. She’s thirty-one, a gym teacher at one of the private schools downtown, lives in Westmount. As Anglo as they come, his father would have said. He’s seen her picture and has to admit she’s pretty cute. Fit, blond, preppy—about as far away from Véronique as he could get. It’s been almost nine months without Véronique, without any woman. There was the brief thing with the bartender at Laïka, but he doesn’t really count that. No feelings were involved on either side.

  And so he agreed to meet Sarah Abney, a blond WASP who will never remind him of Véronique. Which is a good thing. Damian cautioned, “Keep an open mind.”

  He just wishes he hadn’t chosen Café Santropol. Even the smell of the place—a comingling of growing plants and coffee—makes him sad. This was their Sunday place. Véronique always had an espresso milkshake and the Coin Saint-Urbain sandwich with ham. She’d eat half and save the rest for Monday’s lunch.

  “James?”

  He looks up, discovers an attractive blonde staring down at him. “Sarah?” He gets up, shakes her hand. She’s prettier in person.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No, I’m early,” he says, comfortable in English. “I live around the corner.”

  “Oh, nice. I love this area.”

  They sit down, navigating the unavoidable awkwardness of the first few minutes. She crosses her legs to the side of the table, and he can’t help glancing at them, suntanned and muscular. She’s wearing white Bermuda shorts and a heather-gray tank top, very little makeup. Her eyes are green, her nose freckled.

  “This place is adorable,” she says, looking around.

  “You’ve never been?”

  “No. I don’t usually get much farther east than my school, which is on Simpson. I probably should, though. I’m completely out of touch with the Plateau scene.”

  “You’re not missing anything,” he assures her. She doesn’t look like she belongs on the Plateau; she belongs on a tennis court.

  “Damian tells me you’re one of his best reporters,” she says.

  “Does he? He tells me you’re his favorite wife’s cousin.”

  She laughs, opens her menu. “What’s good?”

  “I always have the chicken salad. The Duluth is pretty good, too.”

  “Pears and caramelized onions?” She shakes her head, crinkles her nose. “I prefer meat on my sandwich. How’s the roast beef?”

  He’s starting to relax. She’s cute. Keep an open mind, James. He’s been single almost a year; he’s thirty-five and wants a family at some point. Véronique has moved on—why shouldn’t he?

  The waitress comes by and takes their orders. Sarah orders the espresso milkshake, which feels like a good omen.

  “So, should we just get straight to the ex conversation?” she says, folding her arms on the table and leaning closer to him.

  “The ex conversation?”

  “Your ex, my ex. Damian told me you’re coming off a bad breakup, as am I.”

  “Ah. The ex conversation.”

  She nods, waiting for something from him.

  “My girlfriend and I split up about eight or nine months ago,” he says. “You?”

  “Just over a year. It’s taken me this long to brave going out on a date.”

  “Same.”

  “It hasn’t even been a year for you,” she says, sounding a little dubious about his readiness.

  “We weren’t compatible,” James says. Which isn’t exactly true. They were incredibly compatible in almost all ways.

  “Damian told me you wrote an article that pissed her off,” she says. “He said that’s why she left you.”

  “Ouch. Okay. Thank you, Damian.”

  “Don’t blame Damian. I asked him to tell me everything about you before I agreed to the date.”

  “And you still wanted to meet me?”

  “At least you didn’t cheat on her.”

  “No. I just wrote a very unflattering article about her father.”

  “The FLQ guy who murdered Pierre Laporte.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a journalist, though. Isn’t that your job?”

  He’s starting to like her more and more. “Yes, it is,” he says, perking up. “But I shouldn’t have written it. I should have put her feelings first, I guess.”

  “He murdered someone. How were you supposed to portray him? As a hero?”

  “I guess I wasn’t supposed to portray him at all. I should have recognized the conflict of interest.”

  “From a career standpoint, I can imagine it was exciting to get that interview.”

  “It was,” he admits. “But she thinks I used her to get it.”

  “Did you?”

  The question catches him off guard. He remembers back at the beginning, when he showed up on Véronique’s doorstep. Yes, he was looking for a story, for access to her father, but he fell in love with her. He loved her right from the start. He still does. He would never have written that goddamn article if he’d known he was going to lose her. “No,” he says. “I didn’t use her. Not for a second.”

  “Did you mislead her?”

  James looks up with relief when the waitress shows up with their food and interrupts their conversation. Sarah asks for extra mayonnaise. James asks for a Coke.

  “I didn’t realize we’d get so deep into this territory on our first date,” he says when the waitress leaves. The giant sandwich on his plate looks unmanageable; he’s lost his appetite.

  “We could talk about the weather and our hobbies and where we went to school,” she says. “I take a pottery class at the Visual Arts Centre.”

  “Funny.”

  “I’m almost thirty-two,” she says, turning serious. “I wasted five years in a relationship with a guy who was cheating on me the entire time.”

  “And you didn’t know?”

  “Of course not. He was a personal trainer, so he was always at some client’s house. I trusted him. I had no idea he was sleeping with most of them until one of them showed up at our apartment. Pregnant.”

  “Shit.”

  “We were planning our wedding,” she says. “We were going to have it at his family’s farm in North Hatley.”

  “Damian didn’t tell me any of that.”

  “He probably didn’t want to scare you off.”

  “I guess we’re both still a little traumatized.”

  “I’ve done a lot of soul-searching over the past year,” she says, twirling a gold bracelet around her wrist. “I’ve asked myself many times, why did I choose someone like
him? How could I have been so clueless? Because even though I didn’t know, I must have known. Like, on some level, you have to know. That’s what my therapist says. I’m just grateful I found out before we got married.”

  James is quiet. He’s also done his fair share of soul-searching. In his case, he was the perpetrator, not the victim. He wonders if Véronique has been asking herself the same questions as Sarah. Why did I choose someone like him? How could I have been so clueless?

  “Anyway,” Sarah says, “all that is to say, I don’t want to be in a rebound relationship. I don’t have the time or the energy. I need to get that out right up front.”

  James isn’t sure what to say.

  “And if you’re not quite ready,” she continues, smearing mayonnaise on her bread, “or if you’re not fully over your ex, I’d rather know now.”

  He thought Véronique was straightforward, but Sarah is on a whole other level. She’s mature, confident. He respects that. He’s also a little scared of her.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks him.

  “I don’t really know what to say. I’m a bit intimidated, to be honest.”

  “Intimidated how?”

  “By your straight-up lack of bullshit.”

  She laughs and takes the first bite of her roast beef sandwich. She struggles with a rogue piece of lettuce, has to use her finger to get it in her mouth. When she’s done, there are two dots of mayonnaise in the corners of her mouth. She dabs at them with her napkin, never taking her eyes off him. “Is that a bad thing?” she asks him.

  “No, it’s not,” he says. “Not at all.”

  After lunch, they step outside onto Duluth Avenue and linger a moment in the bright July sunshine. James is feeling good, his spirits high. “Want to head over to the mountain?” he asks her, not wanting to go back to his apartment alone. Sundays are the worst. “We can check out the scene at the Tam-Tams.” Check out the scene? Did he just say that?

  “What are the Tam-Tams?”

  He turns to her with a look of exaggerated shock. “You’ve never been to the Tam-Tams? And you call yourself a Montrealer?”

  “I told you I never come to the Plateau.”

  He takes her hand, emboldened by their earlier conversation, and leads her toward Parc du Mont Royal. The thought crosses his mind that they could potentially run into Véronique. They used to come here together on Sunday afternoons. They’d get high and lie around in the sun. She always knew people. She liked the whole vibe. If he’s honest, he’s kind of hoping to see her, especially since he’s with Sarah.