On the four-hour bus ride back to the convent, Claire forbade herself to cry. Her mother did not deserve Claire’s tears. She never wanted to see her mother again. Claire envisioned clipping all the threads of hurt that wound around her heart until she could inhale deeply. Beginning that day she would plan her life without her mother. She took out her embroidery kit and sewed her name on the back of the poodle.
Claire sat squeezing her eyes against the memory, but it blazed in her mind like a Yule log. A group of carolers, wearing red and green berets, strolled to a fountain and began singing in French, something about stars of snow. A chill slid down her back, and she doubled her scarf around her neck. Her memory had been so real, she wasn’t sure where she was—in France or Vermont, and Claire knew she needed help. She set her boxes on the bench, pulled out her phone, and called Marti.
When she answered, Claire gasped, “I remembered something.”
“Where are you?” Marti asked.
“Sitting on a bench outside the Christmas market.” She stamped her cold feet. “It’s snowing, I’m freezing, and I sound like a petulant teenager.”
“Do you feel safe?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if what I remembered is real.”
“Tell me.”
Without leaving out any detail, Claire reiterated her memory.
When she finished, she was shivering. “It was the last time I saw her and the last thing I said to her. I don’t feel guilty about it, nor do I regret it. But now I wonder if it was a strange coincidence that my mother was dead a year later. Why have I never wondered if she committed suicide?”
She wiped snow from her pants and hunched over her knees. “Oh, Marti, in my effort to not be anything like my mother, I may have overdone it. Was that encounter what made me fear becoming a mother? Was I so committed to being nothing like her that I avoided having children? Why did I just remember this?”
“You must have been terribly, terribly hurt, Claire. And the pain that altercation caused can take a whole lifetime to heal. The repercussions of that confrontation have been reverberating throughout your life. Often, we forget things to protect ourselves. And we can only see things as they really are when we’re strong enough and ready to accept them.” Her voice was low and comforting. “Like now.”
Claire let out a grunt. “I’m glad the bitch died before the next Christmas.” She pressed her fingers to her mouth to stop her quivering lips. “Oh, God, that’s a terrible thing to say, but I am glad she’s dead. I’m a terrible, terrible person. I hate my own mother.” Her arms felt tired and limp and useless.
Marti whispered, “You’re not terrible. I’m glad too. You deserved a much more loving mother than the one you had.”
“Is that why I wasn’t honest with David, because I wasn’t ready to remember my promise of not being like my mother?”
“You didn’t remember that moment until now, so I think that might be true.”
Twilight was descending and the lights on the trees and buildings sparkled against an ink-blue sky. Strands of white lights zig-zagged between the buildings’ roofs, making a star-studded ceiling above Claire. “It’s magical, here. Strange, I’ve been feeling miserable, but now I’m feeling better.”
“That’s good. Sometimes when you let emotions out, you feel better, even though expressing emotions can be painful.”
“I see. Okay, that’s enough memory time. Let’s change the subject. I wish you were here.”
“No wiggling away so fast. One more question. Do you know if your mother was ever diagnosed with a mental illness?”
“I don’t even know how she died.”
“I’m no psychiatrist, but I think your mother had something seriously wrong. What she did was cruel, and not something a normal mother would do.”
“So, her behavior had nothing to do with me or the poodle?”
“It could be she was severely depressed. But that’s not an excuse for how she treated you. She should have sought help to enable her to be a good mother.”
“I get it. Now changing the subject, again—”
“Not yet. Why didn’t you ever mention how neglectful your mother was?”
As if a church bell rang, something resounded low in Claire, but she couldn’t identify it. A fluttering sensation moved across her heart. She searched her memory…neglect…why did she have such a physical reaction to that word? “Was her behavior neglectful?”
“Absolutely. She knew you were coming to visit. She made no preparations for Christmas, which was bad enough, but no food? What would you do for your child for Christmas?”
“I’d decorate everything in sight. I’d cook up a storm. I’d take her to the Christmas parade. We would make cookies and crafts together.”
“Exactly.”
