Dark Mirrors (6 page)

“Esmée dear, whatever’s happened? Please tell me.”

Despite herself, Esmée couldn’t help the deep sob that erupted like a stifled belch from between her trembling lips. She instinctively moved into the comforting circle of her mother’s arms, unfettering the emotion that she had sworn she wouldn’t, shouldn’t expose.

“Oh Mum, it’s such a mess!” Esmée’s head found the curve of her mother’s shoulder as the dam that had thus far restrained the tears so efficiently finally gave way. It had been a long time since she had been held like this, had her back rubbed and consolatory words whispered gently in her ear. She was twelve all over again and it felt good to be mothered. She too recognised the reluctant reversal of roles, knowing that normally it was she who gave the hugs and platitudes and reckoned that it was only right now for her to be on the receiving end of such a familiar embrace. Memories of her childhood sparked in her mind: that comforting touch, those safe, warm arms, her mother’s fresh smell, the transfer of emotion from
child to parent, willing the bad things to disappear forever, to make it all right. Yes! It felt good and she didn’t want to let go.

Reluctantly her mother extracted herself from the embrace and taking a tissue from what, when they were kids, seemed like a never-ending store compactly concealed up her sleeve, she handed it to Esmée.

“Esmée, please talk to me, tell me what’s wrong,” she implored.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Esmée sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What? Didn’t mean for what to happen? Come on sit down, love. Talk to me!” Sylvia moved her towards the table and, pulling out one of the heavy timber chairs, steered Esmée into it. Setting a second in front of the first, she sat down opposite her daughter.

“Now!” she begged, firmly taking hold of her daughter’s knees, and to a certain degree, control of the situation.

Sniffing and regaining her breath, Esmée looked at her mother and considered for a moment exactly what she should say and how she should say it. But the words refused to come out, choosing instead to rush around inside her head, like rampant stormtroopers on an international exercise, forming silent statements, none of which made any sense at all. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for her mother’s predictable reaction, willing herself to be calm as she looked into the beautiful grey eyes in an intensely worried face.

“Mum . . .” She paused, regaining some of her composure. “Mum, I’ve left him.” There! It was out! As simple as that. It felt surprisingly good. Four words forming a remarkable yet basic statement. Taking courage from those first and surprisingly painless words, she scuttled on, pushing the words out before her pluck gave way. “The children and I have moved out. I’ve left him, Mum.”

She felt her mother flinch and visibly recoil, a confused look crossing her face.

“Jesus, Esmée, what do you mean? Left who?” The question was obviously rhetorical as she continued to interrogate. “Moved out! Where? Why?”

Words failed Esmée. She simply didn’t have the vocabulary to explain it properly, the answers being far more complex than their corresponding simply presented questions. It was just too hard, probably impossible, to find a concise way of telling her mother that she had just had enough. And was that reason enough? Could she communicate this to her mother efficiently without it sounding childish, trivial or naïve – or, worse, all three? All she could do was shake her head slowly, lowering it to look at the thinning hands that covered her own, observing the translucency of the ever-loosening skin and avoiding the obvious disappointment and grief that glazed her mother’s face.

“My God, Esmée, I knew things weren’t good between you and
Philip but I never imagined for one minute they were this bad.”

“How did you know?” Esmée shot back, astonished by her mother’s perceptive comment, forgetting for a moment the drama of her position.

“I’m your mother, Esmée, and I know these things.”

Esmée once again found herself in a closed and emotional embrace and, joined together across their knees, they sat in silence for some time letting the information stew and thicken and, for now, there were no more tears.

The clock ticked on the wall and time slowly drifted by, tick after tock, until ultimately it was her mother who withdrew first.

“Ahh look, the tea’s cold now. Let me make a fresh pot.” Sylvia’s
words were solid and safe as she stood up with great conviction to once again go about creating the age-old medicinal brew.

Esmée rested her elbows on the table, held her face in her hands and wiped the moisture from her cheeks while watching her mother go through the ritual. Scalding the pot first before pouring the steaming water on top of generous heaped spoons of fresh breakfast tea leaves, she then laid the table with full-fat milk, white sugar, a plate full of Jersey creams, a china cup and a large blue mug. Esmée found her mother’s activity soothing and felt her pulse slow down in rhythm to the precise and deliberate movements, and the need to weep temporarily passed. Neither woman spoke, each lost in her own thoughts, as the silver strainer was placed over the mug and the amber liquid poured through its pores. Adding milk and two spoons of sugar, Sylvia handed it to Esmée with a warm smile and a biscuit. That was the wonderful thing about her mum, Esmée thought while taking the first sip of her sweet tea – her mum always knew exactly what to do, seeming to understand almost immediately that Esmée needed time to calm down, to gather her thoughts and straighten things out in her own head before attempting to vocalise them. And Esmée knew that, although they never really discussed it, for her mother the sanctity of marriage was all-encompassing and she too was using this moment of silence to absorb the devastating and morally controversial news.

With her own delicate china cup supported protectively between both hands, Sylvia sat down opposite her daughter.

Esmée was immediately struck by the intense look of worry, cloaked by the encouraging smile, in the depths of her mother’s piercing but sympathetic grey eyes. A look so profound that, no matter how well suppressed, it still managed to work its way through the shine of concern and affection.

“Why didn’t you come to me before this? Has he hit you?”

“No, Mum, it’s not like that. It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, try . . . what has he done?” She was gingerly seeking an explanation of whatever monstrous act that resulted in this exceptional outcome. And it had better be good.

Esmée tried to ignore the poorly veiled disappointment in her mother’s tone and, unable to hold her stare, looked up uneasily at the light that hung over the table. Watching it gently swing in the light breeze from the open door, with its woven wicker shade stained by the years of vaporous flavours from many home-cooked meals, deepened in colour to a rich tan, Esmée considered the best way to answer this simple question. She thought about the first time she had figured out what Philip was up to. Amy was three months old and cutting her first tooth. She vividly remembered the argument, the controlled accusations of insanity and the convincing denials.

“He’s been unfaithful to me, Mum,” she declared bluntly, laying her palms flat on the table. “Not once or even twice. I’m not exactly sure how many times. For all I know, for the past four years, and maybe before that, Philip has been shagging every woman in Dublin except me.” Her head dropped low in shame, waiting for her mum to react, and when she didn’t she added: “We don’t talk, we don’t laugh, we just exist, and I, well, I can’t do it any more.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“Well, sure that he’s being . . .” But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, “you know . . .” indicating through the movement of her eyes and brows the meaning of ‘you know’.

“What? Sure about the affairs?” With targeted childishness, Esmée purposefully placed emphasis on the last word. “As sure as I know that pigs don’t fly.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“Of course I have, Mum – you don’t think I’ve just packed up house and home without trying to sort this out, do you?” She was beginning to lose both her patience and temper, trying hard to remember that her mum was only asking, that she knew no different and was checking to see that her impetuous daughter had, unlike during her many previous crises, checked all bases before reacting.

As if to justify her actions and, she supposed, to help her mother understand, Esmée went through the sequence of events that led to her departure: the discussions, the arguments, the failed counselling and ultimately the icy wall of silence.

“Each time he was so persuasive, Mum. He promised me time and time again that nothing was going on. He swore on Amy’s life, for God’s sake! And I believed him. I convinced myself that I was just being paranoid, told myself that it was all in my head. But little things just kept happening, little things that nagged at me – they just didn’t feel right: receipts for presents I never got, late nights at work, phone calls on his mobile in the evenings, his unexplained absences from work . . .” Esmée laughed bitterly while the words tripped forth.

“And then, then one night he actually called me ‘Karen’ and I believed him when he apologised, telling me she was this new girl at work. I swallowed it, justifying it to myself by remembering how we used to call you ‘Teacher’ when we were kids! Remember? What a complete idiot!”

As she spoke, recalling it and so reliving it, her mother sat and listened to the tale, taking it all in, trying to make rhyme and reason out of Philip’s actions.

“It all sounds so obvious now, so clichéd . . . anyway . . .” Esmée continued in her matter-of-fact tone, lost in the narrative of the last four years of her ridiculous union to Philip, unaware of the pools that had once again built up in her sad blue eyes, “eventually we stopped making love – there wasn’t even sex any more, but I didn’t stop trying. I tried to encourage him, to instigate it. I made nice dinners, tried to dress nicely. I even overhauled my underwear drawer thinking I could bring him back, thinking if I made myself look good he’d notice me again, that he’d want me again.” Unconsciously she smeared her tears across her cheek and into her hair. Her voice shook and her chest heaved as the depth and reality of the story once again took a hold over her.

“But I stopped in the end because it just wasn’t working and his constant rejection was killing me. You know,” she confessed quietly, “we haven’t had sex in almost two years.”

If she was trying to shock her mother with this blatant statement of fact she failed miserably. Sylvia didn’t so much as flinch, being at a point way beyond shock. She thought her daughter’s marriage was solid – troubled but solid. A bit like hers and Frank’s. They’d had their good years and their bad years but they were rock-solid. And in sympathy all she wanted to do was reach out to her daughter, to make it better. She also wanted to castrate Philip. But on the other hand, she wasn’t convinced. He just wasn’t the type. But then, she thought, is there a type? Swallowing the concrete lump in her throat she held back, knowing that Esmée had to finish this without her and as she did, as any good mother would, she collected her thoughts and composed her reaction and advice.

“And I miss it so much, Mum, I really do. I’m only thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m human and I need intimate contact.”

Her mother blushed at the notion of her daughter’s sexual desires
that, if she were honest, she really didn’t want to know about.

“Sometimes I just to want to reach out to him, for him to hold me. I’m not after mad raging sex any more, I can live without that, but I can’t live without intimacy and companionship.”

Sylvia watched and listened in complete dismay as Esmée poured out her heart and, when desperation and the tragic reality of her daughter’s circumstances became apparent, she went to her, knelt beside her and cried with her.

“Oh Esmée,” she whispered with the love only a mother can possibly give and, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead while wiping away the tears she could catch, repeated her name softly, over and over. “Esmée, Esmée, Esmée, you should have come to me, I’m here for you. We’re all here. You might not believe me but I do understand what you are going through. Really I do.”

Here she paused. She had her own story. Was now the time to tell it? This was a parenting moment for which there were no instructions, no rulebook. Painful as it was to acknowledge, Sylvia accepted that there were some secrets which, ultimately, were meant to be revealed and that they, in controlled circumstances, could be fashioned to help, perhaps to avoid a repetition of errors or maybe to illustrate simply life’s big picture.

What do I do, Frank? she silently asked the spirit that had never left her.

Do I tell her? Can I tell her? But she didn’t really need to ask his permission. She could feel him, sense him there with her. He was a presence that passed through her, a pulse of electricity that tickled every nerve-ending on the back of the hand that gently swept the face of their weeping child. He gave his approval and taking a deep breath she knew that the confession wasn’t a betrayal but a means to an end. Now more than ever she needed to support her daughter, no matter how painful or humiliating.

“Esmée, your father and I . . .”

Esmée looked upon her mother kneeling at her feet, unable to explain the charge that at that moment connected them so intensely.

“You know there were times when we drove each other mad,” Sylvia went on. “Times when we hated, even despised each other . . . it wasn’t always a bed of roses.” There was melancholy laughter in her voice as she iterated further, needing to put her daughter’s plight in context and help her see sense. “We had our fair share of problems.”