“Mon cher, Tourbillon!” I cannot help but kiss le petite probléme bleu on her cheeks. Thrice, in fact. “You are positively radiant. Gâteau’s letter said the delivery was good.”
The hospital room is more comfortable than expected, with its large bed, rocking chair, and pretty paintings. Tourbillon is looking the way new mothers do so soon after birth—frizzy, unwashed hair and sleepless eyes. The expanse of her hair is worse now that there is little hair gel to hold it back. I never realized there was quite so much of it.
“L’Oignion!” Le petite probléme bleu was never comfortable with the Prance language. It is like needles in the ear.
I suppose I must stop calling her le petite probléme bleu now. Even if it is only in my head. She is the mother of my grandchild, after all. Gâteau would not like it if he knew. Perhaps it is time to put this last little bit of resistance to rest.
Tourbillon, with her large, unkempt hair, smiles at me with some hesitancy. “Carrot Cake said you were arriving tomorrow.”
On the other hoof, she is still blue and old habits are not so easy to break.
“Do you think I would not come as soon as the letter arrived? I managed the early train.”
“I’m…glad you’re here.”
Not quite the truth, but it will do. “And where is le bébé? I have brought some things for…. Gâteau’s letter did not say if it was a colt or filly. No matter, the bonnets will work for either. Have you picked a name? Elcair is a perfectly good name for a petite fille.”
“Carrot Cake…didn’t tell you?”
“Not a filly, then? I see. Grandsons are precious as well, and there are many names for a petit fils. I am sure we will find one that will fit.”
“He didn’t tell you.” Her voice goes as flat as her ears. Her mouth has puckered. She is displeased. She is always displeased.
“Is there something wrong, mon cher Tourbillon?”
“There have been some…developments.”
“Developments? What sort?” The babe must have been born with her hair. What a shame. I had hoped for something less ridiculous.
“I was carrying more than just one foal, apparently.”
So she was not just fat the whole time. “C’est merveilleux! Twins! Why did you not say? Two little fillies for mon cher Gâteau!”
“One of each, actually. A colt and a filly.”
“Magnifique! A little colt taking after mon Gâteau!” I look Tourbillon up and down. “…and I suppose the filly must take after her mother.” Not the worst thing…for a little filly to have pink hair.
“Not exactly…”
The boy. He must be the one with pink hair. “My grandson…he takes after you?”
“In a way.”
“I would think the Prance genetics would be stronger than…that.”
“There is nothing wrong with my son, L’Oignon. I will not have you inferring there is something wrong with either one of my children.”
“Of course not, Tourbillon. I would never dream of making a child feel bad over pink hair.”
“What’s wrong with pink hair?”
Oh dear, I forgot new mothers can be so very sensitive. “Nothing, mon cher. Now where are my grandchildren. Their Mémé is waiting for them.”
“First, you need to know—”
The door opens and my son comes in, pushing a double bassinet. “Ma?! You’re here?”
“As you can see. Tourbillon just told me the wonderful news. Twins! Is that my grandchildren? Let me have a look.”
Gâteau blinks a few times and he moves in front of the bassinet. He has not shaved and his eyes are as sleepless as Tourbillon’s. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“We all thought that,” Tourbillon says behind me.
“I took the early train. Now stand aside, Gâteau.”
“Ma…”
“Why must you move so? You are standing in the way, Gâteau.”
“Ma, wait—”
“I must see—”
I stop.
This cannot be correct.
Neither one has pink hair.
“Gâteau…”
“…yeah, Ma?”
“Celui-ci est une licorne.”
“Yes, she’s a unicorn.”
“Et celui-là est une pégase.”
“Right again. He’s a pegasus.”
I look at my son. Then again at the babes. Then, I look at her.
Cette petite probléme bleu.
More like cette petite pute bleue!
“Gâteau…”
“Is there a problem, Ma?”
“Es-tu positif…?”
“Am I sure of what?” He goes to her and wraps his foreleg around her, tightly closing any gap between them.
My son is not blind. He must see these children cannot possibly be his!
“Pouvons-nous parler?”
“We can talk here.”
No, we cannot. Not in front of her. He will defend her. He will not listen to me while his foreleg is still around her. It has always been that way. He has never listened to me when it comes to her.
Perhaps I can speak fast enough so she will not understand. Her grasp of the Prance language is mild, at best.
“Gâteau, vous devez voir—”
“See what?”
“Vous n’êtes pas aveugle!”
“Correct. My eyesight is perfect.”
“Une licorne et une pégase! Ce n’est pas possible!”
“Well, clearly it is!”
This is going nowhere. He is still holding her. My son is not stupid. He must see it—son infidélité. How could he not?
I knew she would break is heart. I knew she was not a good mare. Now I have the proof.
Why is he still holding her?
Her! Le probléme bleu! La pute bleue! La coquine! She did this! Imagine, my perfect boy not good enough for her. How many others are there? Dare I ask? How many stallions has she brought into my son’s bed? “Vous petite—”
“Ma!” Gâteau steps in front of her. “I would be very careful about what you decide to say next.”
“Je suis content que ton père ne soit pas là voir ça!”
“Pa wouldn’t have a problem with this.”
I see it there. The hurt in mon Gâteau’s eyes. He must know! He must see it. Oh, Carotene, I have never missed you as much as I do now. You would know what to say. You would know how to make our son see reason.
“Ton père—”
“Pa wouldn’t ever accuse my wife.”
“Je n’ai rien accusé.”
“You implied.”
“Carrot Cake.” At last she speaks, la petite gourgandine. “It’s fine. It’s okay.” Instead of angry, she looks tired and resigned. The look of a guilty mare.
“No,” he is gentle towards her, “it is not fine. I will not have anyone, even my own mother, think such things about you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. You are my wife. These are my foals.” He nuzzles her.
How can he be so blind? My son has become an idiot! His love for her is too strong. My heart will have to break for him instead.
If Carotene were here, I would tell him he was wrong about her. He was wrong to accept her so. I knew she would break Gâteau’s heart. I just did not think it would take quite so long. Now our son is blind to it. There are too many years between them. Gâteau is refusing to see what is right in front of his face.
One of the foals start to cry. It is the one with wings. My son goes to him, gently sushing, but his cries wake the one with the horn.
“Here, let me,” la petite pute tries to get off the bed, but the pain of moving so quickly is evident on her face. New mothers should not move so much. They must rest. Even ones who do not deserve such sympathy.
While my dear, sweet, complete idiot of a son goes to that wretched mare, I go to the unicorn. It is not her fault her mother is la pouffiasse.
“Let me, Ma.” Gâteau is beside me. I swat him away. If he refuses to see it, I will have to show him.
The little unicorn is calmed by my swaying. It has not been too many years since I have dealt with a foal and she is so very light. I look at her, trying to see the imperfections.
She is so tiny, with her sweet face and tiny hooves. She is so close, I must take in her scent. She smells of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg.
Her coat…I cannot help but notice it as well. It is not the same butter yellow as Gâteau’s, but more like a butter that has been whipped with honey. A curl from her mane fall nears her horn. It is the same orange as Gâteau’s. It looks like Gâteau’s.
It would be nice to have a granddaughter after having so many sons and grandsons. Gâteau is the last of my children to have children. I never understood why cette pute insisted on waiting so long.
“Quel est son nom?”
Silence. I glance over at my son. It is clear he is not speaking to me at the moment. I clear my throat. “What is her name?”
“Pumpkin Cake,” she says. I do not like her speaking to me.
“Citrouille.” A perfect name for one who smells of all the nice things of autumn. Perhaps I may get away with calling her Epice Citrouille. My little Pumpkin Spice. That might drive her mother crazy. I think I will do it.
Citrouille becomes fussy once again. She must be hungry. Gâteau gently takes her from me and passes her on to her mother. “She looks like you…Gâteau.” I say. He refuses to look at me.
Tourbillon is the one to speak next. “Yes, I think so as well.”
She would!
Gâteau still does not look much in the talking mood.
“It is not so shocking…to have a unicorn in the family.”
“Hmm.”
“Your great-great-great-great-grandfather was a unicorn, did you know?” I am looking at Gâteau because I am not speaking to her.
At last, my son looks at me. “Yes,” he said silently, “I believe you may have mentioned it before.”
“Well, then…”
Gâteau is holding the other one—the one with wings. I suppose I should look at that one as well. It is only fair. I am not a grandmother who plays favorites. “May I?”
Gâteau looks at her. She nods once and my son passes this little winged babe to me.
He is heavier than his sister. “And his name?”
“Pound Cake.”
Quatre-quarts. Not as pleasant to say. Although, he indeed looks like he is a mix of milk, sugar, eggs, and flour—a pale and dense sweet cake.
And he is strong. I can feel him push against the blankets, his wings and legs pushing for freedom.
“Pilonner.” Pound. Not like the cake, but the other one. To hit or smash a thing. I glance to my son. He does not correct me.
Pilonner opens his eyes. It is not the eyes of my son, but eyes I recognize and have long missed. Carotene’s eyes. I take a long look at this little one. His coat, mane, and eyes. He looks like a miniature Carotene if was not for the wings.
“Les ailes—” I stop myself. I must gather my words. I can feel the threatening of tears at my eyes. “The wings come from your side, Tourbillon?”
“My great-aunt’s cousin twice removed was a pegasus.”
“…that explains everything, then.” It explains nothing. “I suppose you…would contribute something.”
Gâteau reaches for Pilloner and I take one last whiff before kissing him gently on the head.
“He looks like my Carotene.”
“I know.”
“Your father would be proud.”
“I think so, too.”
There are some tears in his eyes. I blink fast so my own won’t be noticed.
Carotene would have loved to see them. A granddaughter! He never said so, but I sometimes suspected he wished for a daughter. A sweet little girl to boss the brothers around.
Although, he also always said our house could not contain two mares. I was boss enough.
He would have loved to see a grandson with his coloring. Of this, I have no doubt.
Two little and perfect babes. He would have loved them on sight, horns and wings and all.
I clear my throat. There is too much emotion there, too much wishing for things that can no longer be.
“When they are weaned,” I look over at Tourbillon, “they will come to me in Prance. They will need a proper education in their heritage. And when they are old enough, I will expect them for the whole summer.”
Her smile tells me she does not like that. “We’ll see.”
We will see, indeed. I walk around. We are not finished yet. “You need rest. And help. I will stay for a month. Maybe two.” I steal another glance at my grandchildren. Two months is not enough. I will stay for six, but will not say such things now.
“There’s really no need, L’Oignion.”
“Nonsense. You cannot be running Sugarcube Corner from the bed. You will need help.”
“Really. No, it’s fine.”
“We have Pinkie Pie to help,” Gâteau says to me.
Pinkie Pie? I picture that pink, bouncy thing le petite probléme bleu has forced upon their lives. She lives above their bakery—an awful decision. “Pas du tout! She will eat all your cupcakes before you get a chance to sell them. I will stay.”
A look passes between them. I have won.
“A month, L’Oignon. A month and no more.”
That is not all. More must be said. “And I will be sending you chocolates, Tourbillon. A new mother must have chocolates. Not this waxy stuff that gets passed around in Ponyville. I have a chocolatier who owes me a favor.”
Another look passes between her and my son. There is some sort of small, secret smile passing between the glances. I do not like it, these secrets. I do not see what is so amusing.
“Thank you for the apology, L’Oignon.”
I sniff. Excellent. She understands. I will not have to say such things aloud.
It is time for me to go. I can feel it. I will return in a few hours when things have…settled.
Does Ponyville still have cette caviste? I will need some dandelion wine to sooth things a bit more. It is Tourbillon’s favorite, after all.
Before I go, I must kiss my grandchildren. They are so very precious. Epice Citrouille and Pilloner. My heart has already made room for them.
“Tourbillon…” I say when I am at the door.
“…yes, L’Oignon?”
“If you decide to give me more grandchildren, do try to give them your hair. It will be less of a shock.”
