My sister and I were left to fend for ourselves when it came to breakfast and lunch. We ate those meals on the dock or the verandah. On the nights my mother went to the resort, she fed us at the kitchen table, plopping down grilled cheese sandwiches or hot dogs in front of us before disappearing up to her room to get ready. The nights my mother didn’t go to the resort, she insisted on candlelit dinners after eight in the dining room.

She’d been an only child, raised in a suburb of Paris by two alcoholic parents. Her father was a kind drunk, sloppy and slow moving, but her mother was an abusive one. Alcohol made her angry, suspicious, and quick to strike out. My mother said she was happy to leave France behind. She spoke mostly English, only allowing bits of French to escape now and again. She even protested when my father used the French version of her name, Avril, instead of the English one, April, to name the island, which he bought for her as a wedding present.

She rejected almost everything about her French heritage except for the wine and their relaxed, late-night manner of dining. Those nights were always my favorite. We lingered long after dinner. I remember being full from food but hungry for my mother’s attention. The red wine and slow smoking of cigarettes lulled her into a sedentary mood. Laughter at her jokes and requests for her stories were what kept her there. She rarely walked away from a rapt audience.

The back doors were thrown open, inviting soft breezes to play in the candlelight and attracting dusty moths to risk their lives in the flames. My mother allowed us small sips of her wine. I pretended to enjoy the bitter sting of it, which seemed to please her. May always gagged and swore she’d never drink when she grew up, which caused my mother to roll her eyes. She’d cast a knowing glance at me, as though we were more refined, more mature than May would ever be.

Some nights my mother would reach across the table and take my hand in hers, wrapping her long, cool fingers around my small, hot hand. I’d study the red polish on her nails, the flicker of the candles skittering across the shine of it. She’d rub the back of my hand with her thumb, and I’d stay as still as I could. Even when the friction felt raw against my skin, even then I wouldn’t disturb her touch.