“That’s the story she was selling,” he imparts. “But Dr. Toussaint has other ideas.”
“Which are?”
“Well, there’s a whole host of reasons to why this went down.”
“Daddy, you’re procrastinating.”
He laughs. “I’m just trying to find the words, Princess. She explains it better than I do, and I don’t want you making a mountain out of a molehill. I won’t have you blaming yourself.”
“So this
is
about me.”
“It will always be partly about you, Caroline. You’re the only daughter she has. You’ll be the punching bag as much as I try not to let that happen.”
His arm slides around my shoulder, and I lower my head on his. My father’s fatigued, but he’s not drained. He’s always been too good for his own good, never letting Mom entirely sap his strength. I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know
why
he does it, but his resilience amazes me. The best thing he’s done for me is love my mother and give me the chance to truly be someone’s daughter. It’s easy for a man to take his son to a hockey game, but to take his daughter to buy Maxi Pads, or Advils for her menstrual cramps is flabbergasting.
He kisses the top of my head.
“You smell like the beach,” he says. “I’m so sorry you had to rush back.”
I drop my head, sinking my nose into my shoulder and hair. I’m expecting preserved traces of Alec, but I don’t come across him. I suppress the urge to bawl.
“So,” I ask, shifting to face him, “what does Dr. Toussaint really think happened?”
I’m pained looking at him. Dad’s eyes are luminous, open wounds stifling waves of emotion.
Oh, Daddy, you could have been so happy with Sandrine.
Who chooses to be miserable, instead?
Daddy smooths his striped Nautica polo shirt and does the same to his cargo shorts. His gaze bounces from the floor, to the reception area, and then to me. He clears his throat.
“She believes your mother agreeing to rest is a sign that she knew her thoughts were getting the better of her. She thinks Amalia recognized warning signs, and true to her condition, she wasn’t about to blame herself.”
“So, Angel Mae became the punching bag?” I say.
“Exactly.”
“But she was overthinking things because of me. Because I left.”
“Not necessarily, Princess.”
“Daddy, please. Stop beating around the bush, and just come out with it. We’re both tired.”
My father stays busy, flinging his gaze from one place to another.
“If she were truly worried about her life, Caroline, then she wouldn’t chance it by falling asleep. She felt tired. She wanted to rest, and couldn’t do it at home because things felt too different there.”
“But she’s the one that changed things around.”
“I think it started with Angel Mae,” he says. “Her presence unnerved her. It was intimidating, I guess, and unfamiliar. What we should have considered was just having someone check in on her, or maybe turn up at night.”
“But she gets carried away in her dressing room. She’d forget to eat, Daddy. Besides, there would be no way she’d take any of her supplements. Being alone wasn’t an option.”
“Well, maybe we should have met her halfway. Maybe I should have done my thing with her, or have Mae around in increments. Either would have worked. But this was
my
plan, so it’s my cross to bear, Caroline. We need to come together and consider that we’re not giving your mother enough credit, or we’re not making her as accountable as she can be.”
I feel a lurch inside my chest, as though I’ve been dropped. Choosing not to medicate my mother is already meeting her halfway. I concur about the drugs. I hated what they did to her, too. Mom was far too dazed and sleepy, and she suffered from an abnormally parched mouth. Mom had a point about that, and I listened. I respected her opinion.
Frankly, while doctors experimented with doses and varieties on her, she wouldn’t tend to anything, and it was Dr. Toussaint who suggested a more natural approach. I understood it was a road less travelled, and I’d have to be more invested with my time to pull the treatment off, but until I left town, we were managing. Now, I’m supposed to back off? I was gone for six nights, I kept tabs on her, and still we ended up here! It’s rare Dad and I disagree, but he’s not right about this. Mom needs constant monitoring.
“I’m to blame for the most part, you know,” divulges my father.
I stare at him. “Why do you think that?”
“I had a chat with her this week,” he reveals. “I told her that Sandrine and I were no longer together, and we had the most earnest conversation. Actually, I did most of the talking because your mother listened graciously. It was short, but I guess I still gave her a lot to think about.”
I stare apprehensively, the words going round and round in my head.
“What were you expecting her to say?” I utter.
“I’ve been asking myself that, too.” Dad’s skin bunches around the eyes as his jaw clenches. The short, feathery lines around his mouth and eyes are perceptible tonight, and he looks urbane and smart. “I swear, Caroline, all I said to your mother was that it was too hard with Sandrine. Sometimes, you and Amalia need me, and it’s hard feeling guilty all the time about wanting to be closer. So, I made it easier for the two of us and chose to be available as much as I can for my daughter and her mother. It’s what I always wanted, and I could never give Sandrine more.” Daddy sighs. “Somehow, Princess, your mother’s wheels started turning, and she vacated her dressing room for me.”
I can’t help the amused gaze that comes over me.
“She assumed you were moving back?”
“She was making an offering,” he justifies. “Amalia dragged the vanity, and all her gear, out from her dressing room and into the main bedroom. She was going on about a desk so I could work from home sometimes, and she was stuck on this desk, going on about if she should put it in the bedroom or in the living room. She couldn’t think about anything else.”
He stands, pacing somewhat as he rubs the back of his neck.
“Don’t you see, Princess? The fact that your mother noticed she couldn’t sleep, the fact that she noticed she was dwelling, the fact that she knew the apartment only felt different because Angel Mae was around, and the fact that she was thinking about changing its structure by adding me to the mix was all too much for her.” His chin quivers.
“Amalia was agitated. There was a lot going on, but she resolved to seek help on her own terms and in her own way. We’re not in a crisis. Dr. Toussaint is convinced of that. I’m convinced of that. Amalia’s avoiding a total shut down.”
I fold my arms tightly round myself.
“So, this is what… progress?” I ask.
“We know relapses are bound to happen, Caroline,” he retorts at once. “And if this episode is a relapse then yes, it’s definitely progress.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A shiver spikes pleasure, flooding me with warmth.
“Caroline,” the voice implores, soft and close. Fingertips trail my neck, and hot, sweet breath fills my ear.
“You’re shattered, love.”
“I missed you,” I whimper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Caroline, my love. Sweetheart…”
“I want you,” I moan. “I still want you.”
“Love? Come, my love.”
“Yes,”
“Caroline? Caroline.” The voice is cross, aggravated. “Caroline!”
“Alec?” I whisper weakly, my heart pounding.
“What the fuck! Ugh. No! It’s not Alec you horny, undersexed, demoiselle! It’s me.”
Sofie?
I flinch back, blinking the fog out from my eyes and brain, and I roll over. I sit, pushing myself up on one hand, dropping my feet to the floor, deliberating where I am.
The family room has radically changed over the years. I was so spent last night that I failed to process where Sofie had arranged for us to rest. I’m on a chunky, cognac, leather sofa next to four orange ottomans pushed together, and Sofie’s smack-dab in front of me, jabbing her finger into my shoulder.
“Oh, would you stop it. I’m up!” I wail.
“Well it’s hard to tell. You look kind of stoned.” She pulls apart at a croissant. “Here. You can have the smaller half,” she offers. “They’re fresh. I wish our cafeteria in high school was half as good.”
I narrow my eyes, inhaling my annoyance as deep as I can so I can overpower it. I have more important things to do than argue with Sofia-Marie.
“What time is it?” I ask, slipping into my Converse, my voice hoarse and shaky. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier? Is Mom up?”
“Chill, Caroline. It’s still early,” she says. “Your dad’s checking in on her, and we can get some breakfast first.”
I look up at her, disbelieving.
“If you haven’t noticed, Sofie, we aren’t in some hotel, here. Contrary to what it may seem to you, this
is
a hospital.”
I’m wholeheartedly annoyed by this chipper air of hers. Sofie slept at the opposite end of the sofa with me, and she surely could not have rested well enough to be so energetic. I registered her face yesterday. I saw how chilling the news was for her and watched it cast a shadow for the rest of the day. Although, the prognosis is somewhat encouraging, we still can’t trim down the gravity of the situation. My patience is truly running thin with her, and downplaying my mother’s relapse only makes my blood boil.
“Jay says hi,” she announces. “He said to give you a hug.”
I swallow. I’ll need mantras playing on shuffle if Jason plans to coexist in our lives, blocking Alec from infiltrating my head. Jay’s name immediately induces memories of him, and my skin prickles. I instinctively conjure memories of Alec’s morning regrowth, his face rubbing mine.
“I like the scruff,” I said, stroking the outline of Alec’s chin, nibbling in the cleft.
“I’m not fond of it,” he responded. “It seems to irritate your skin.” He smoothed the redness with open-mouthed kisses.
“Hmm… I do still feel it around here,” I provoked, grazing my fingers along my belly, sliding them teasingly down to my inner thigh.
Alec growled.
“Love, you have no idea how bloody sexy that is,” he snarled, collapsing on top of me.
My heart is in my throat.
I didn’t say good-bye.
What a turn our day took. What a demise for our week. The pain magnifies.
I owe him an apology, a note, a text… but he’s too much. It’s impossible to consider reaching out because resisting him hurts, and I’ll fail miserably. That’s the farewell that was meant to be for us. We played with fire, and we got burnt. It doesn’t get easier or more profound than that.
I’m not oblivious to Sofie watching me curiously, but it’s better I not go there with her. The summer fling in Maine is of no consequence as from right now. I rise, turning on my heel.
“I’m going to see my mother.”
Mommy.
I don’t know for sure if my voice actually emerged out of my chest because she doesn’t flinch or respond. It sounded real enough—loud enough—to have been something, but nothing stirs in the twin bed.
My arms wrap tightly around me and tears blur my vision. The breath that escapes my mother is long and shuddering, and I’m undone. I squeeze my face in a palm, my heart breaking in my crumpling chest. Fear, anguish, ire… at different intervals take precedence, making every sob separate, distinct, and loaded with meaning.
My eyes screw shut, willing my brain and body to hang on despite a lack of decent sleep, in the face of worries, regardless of my petrified inner child and her relentless memories. I linger in a swamp of pain, besieged by the monsters that have slept under our bed and have come back for us. Mom looks ghostly pale.
She can’t like this. My mother probably can’t stand herself like this. She’s merely a lacklustre shell of herself: sullen skin, dried out, naked lips under a thick, oppressive mop of hair. I wonder if she came here this way, or if she had diligently primed herself for her weekly outing. Did they strip Mom of colour before leading her to bed? Did they sponge away at her red lips and rosy cheeks? Did they swab the mascara off along with her black, thick, liquid liner? Did she let them wipe her crystal white shadow and metallic grey smoky lids? Her polish is chipped, her nails masticated. If I had been home, it would never have reached so far.
Mom is sitting up, staring out the window, probably catching nothing at all. Her legs are perfectly still under a buttercream blanket, and her laced fingers sit atop her belly. She’s quiet, motionless; even her breathing is static. I can’t discern a normal rise and fall of her chest, and her eyes have no flutter to them.
I petition my limbs to move, my voice to rise. “Mom.”
She startles.
“Mother, it’s me.”
She stays frozen.
I approach the bed, keeping my eyes on her face like she’s a lioness with prey. I tread softly, ready to feel her bite. I move around the bed, entering her field of vision, and block the view.
“Mom?”
She’s not nudged, staring through me.
“Mom?”
I hesitate, my heart stammering, and try manoeuvring around the stark silence.
“It’s Sunday morning, Mom. I’m back a little earlier from my trip,” I say, trapping a sob.
Nothing.
“There’s been a lot of change this week. I don’t know about you, but I certainly had a lot of new things happen to me.” I start to pick at my nail polish. “I felt really out of sorts on most days, but sometimes I felt really happy. It was an emotional week for me—seeing new things and meeting new people. I loved it though—Maine. I loved it. It’s just like I remembered it. How about you? Do you want to tell me about your week? Why didn’t you take my calls?”
Mom looks like her heart has leapt into her mouth.
“That imbecile,” she blurts. “Something’s wrong with my lipsticks. They’re so flat and dull. They’re stale, and they don’t glide on the way they did. Angel Mae touched them.”
My lips curl into a hint of a smile.
Gotcha.
“Really,” I say, approaching the bed to sit at the edge. “How would you know, though? You only wear the one. Maybe they’ll look different to you when we get back. Sometimes a bad mood distorts what we see, and they could all be back to normal as we speak.”
She huffs.
“I missed you,” I say. “I thought about you a lot.”
“Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that. You left me with a complete stranger. Do you know she could have stolen everything we own, or even kill me? Some child you are. Such an ingrate. I don’t know what I did to ever deserve you—I honestly don’t.”
My eyes dart to the blue, vinyl floor.
“It was a mistake leaving you with a stranger. I agree.”
Her eyebrows rise in surprise.
“Angel Mae was well recommended, though. I guess I just wanted someone to be around to do the things I do for you. I should have let her come by in the morning and then around supper to spend the night. I should have realized that when I’m at work you go hours without me and having a live-in was unnecessary. I’m sorry. You’re right, Mom. I was wrong.”
I offer a polite smile, proposing a truce.
“She watched my Downton Abbey DVDs,” she states, looking disgusted.
“She didn’t ask you first?”
“Oh, she did, but I had to stop what I was doing, Caroline. I had to march into the living room to play the darn things for her.”
“Aw… you shared! Mother, I’m so proud of you. You played nice while I was away.”
My voice is wry, and her eyes narrow as I suppress further amusement in my comportment.
“Did you watch them with her?”
“No!” she exclaims, appalled. “Have you any idea how much that woman can talk? I listened from my dressing room, and you neglected to tell her about our seating arrangement.”
I shudder.
“No, I didn’t. It’s in the notebook. I warned her that you sit on the left side of the sofa. Is that where she sat? You could have politely reminded her.”
“My side?” She’s horrified. “No! Oh, my world, I don’t know what I would have done if she occupied my side. I’d have to bleach the sofa, or we’d need an entirely new one. She sat on
your
side, Caroline.”
“Oh,”
“Oh?” she repeats. “Do you know what it’s like to be in your own home and suddenly nothing makes sense? It was unbearable. I felt beside myself. I truly did. Oh, Princess…” She waves a hand like she’s utterly dismayed. “You look awful. Look at you. What a scrappy mess.”
I sigh.
“Yeah, but check out my nails.” I hold up a hand. “No more elephant grey.”
She gasps. “You’re hopeless. That’s a child’s colour. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Have you spoken to your father at all?”
“Yes.”
“The poor man is alone now. I don’t think Sandrine ever liked us, so your father did the smart thing. He’s broken off with her.”
“I heard. But I also heard you’ve made a place for him at home.”
She blanches. Her fingers curl, and her hands start up on their clawing, opening and closing, opening and closing.
Mom’s eyes turn erratic, the blinking incessant.
“Breathe, Mom. Deep breaths. We’re in no rush. Tell me slowly what you’re thinking.”
She lowers her head, careful that her hair hides her from clear view. Her hands have a life of their own, and she grabs my arm, squeezing until her nails have indented my skin.
“Close the shades,” she commands.
I nod and do as I’m told.
“Go on,” I say. Her hand clutches me once more. The grip makes me gulp, but I work through it. “What’s going on with you? Why are we here?”
“I started thinking,” she says, “and I knew I shouldn’t because finally this happened. Now I can’t stop thinking.”
Mom looks away, gathering her thoughts. I don’t want her trailing off too far, so I reel her in before she loses momentum.
“What were you thinking about? Dad, Angel Mae, me… who started this for you?”
“All of you!” she shrieks, her hands fists.
Mom’s torso starts to sway back and forth in constant, repetitive rhythm. A long time ago, it called for intervention, coaxing her to still, but we know better now. Dr. Toussaint is clear that communication and eye contact are hard limits for Mom, and it’s a physical pain to get through. So I let her work through the coping mechanism because if she’s choosing to muddle through it and essentially share, then who am I to ward off her courage by asking her to stop moving obsessively? She’s not hurting anyone, nor can she hurt herself, here, in this bed. It’s true, what I hear in group. Everyone thinks they’re experts on the matter, but until they’ve walked in our shoes, they should keep their comments to themselves.
The only advice I can suggest is to remember her breath. I remind my mother to breathe so as not to pick up a frenzied heart rate. The rest can go on as she sees fit, and I wonder how many years she went on this way, through school and family dynamics, being pestered and ridiculed and utterly misunderstood.
“Why were you thinking about all of us?” I ask, lowering down on the bed beside her. “Is this okay?” I check with her.
She doesn’t answer, so I know it’s a
yes
. I don’t snuggle in against her because that’s too close for comfort, but our sides graze, and she still stays halfway seated.
She tells me how she felt absorbing the news of Sandrine and Dad. She doesn’t know why it affected her like it did when she really never gave them much thought as a couple. I think my mother knows she’s the love of his life, and it was always enough for her. Then again, I recall how enraged she’d become if Charlotte Landry from downstairs went up to talk to him. It’s never easy to distinguish why she does what she does, or feels what she feels. But I try—dead end after dead end, I try.
It’s clear she doesn’t like the thought of my father being alone. It festered, and the way he confided in her and expected nothing back in return somehow appeased her. There was an epiphany in between, and ideas came about. She says she thinks he’s still the most beautiful man she’s ever seen, but needs a distance from even the most beautiful man. I suppose it’s in the same way certain fabrics grate at her and textures confine her, that a human body in close proximity is suffocating.
I know this well because I try sleeping on the edge most of the time. Mom can’t feel my breath, or God forbid a hand or foot touches her skin. It’s revolting. But when her mind was running away from her, she craved my father, and it was an excruciating need. She trusted he’d secure her from the world and herself. There was a time when she wanted him to make decisions for her, and having him around this week, no matter how maladroit she is to falling in love, my mother recognized how in love she still is with him.
“I don’t want to hurt him, Caroline. I don’t want him to feel like that God awful book you gave me.”
I rise on a hand, pushing up to watch her intently. She shifts, jumping away from me as fear floods her face.
“Mom?”
“Space, Caroline. Space!” she howls.