“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
“No more sleepovers,” Ghyslain said to my mother. “You’re already at risk of kidnapping.” He made a notation in his logbook. “You shouldn’t be letting your kids go anywhere.”
A tinny French monotone from the radio filled the room. I hated the reporter for the way she commanded the men’s attention. I wanted to shout at her to shut up.
I hated Ghyslain for being such an alarmist. I hated my parents for bringing me to Beirut. I hated my brother for mentioning that stupid story about the Russian spy. If we’d still been in Tiberius, or back in Yellowknife, sleepovers with Ginnie would have been an easy sell. But not here. I could see it all over Maman’s pinched face and the way she crossed and re-crossed her legs, as if she needed to rearrange her body along with her thoughts.
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