She’s animated now. Talkative. I bask in the sound of her voice. I manage to circle the conversation back to why I left when the unexpected piece of the puzzle makes himself known just outside the door. His hoarse voice, his raspy laughter, jar something loose in my hazy mind.
Sebastien.I know the name without even seeing him.
You cannot have me all to yourself, you greedy girl.Mum’s voice, years ago.Sebastien is only here for a fortnight, so why can’t we all enjoy each other?She is playful and affectionate. She tickles me, but I resist the manipulation of forced laughter, because deep down I am not joyful and things arenotright.
Even after all these years I recall the heaviness of his presence in our tiny cottage the one time Mumdidbring him home. His gaze upon me was entirely wrong, but he hadn’t even touched me. So I escaped upstairs to my tiny room behind the curtain without explaining why. Words cannot wrap around such feelings—not when you’re ten.
I spoke freely to Mum whenever she was home, but not about that. I couldn’t think how to start, and I knew in my bones she would not like it. Sebastien had offered to take me into Penzance for a new coat—I had refused. How incrediblyungrateful,Mum had said. He could have delivered me to my tutor’s house. I walked alone, which wasmulish. I dodged and dodged, hoping Mum would see, or he would leave.
But then, he and Mum left for Germany together, where she sang and he…did something. Managed her, I believed, as if his efforts would bring any value to her work. He was too full of darkness. And it made me want to run.
Then when I was seventeen, Sebastien returned. He visited at Christmas and those greedy eyes stayed on me, prodding and invading. I didn’t have the words then to stop him. My voice was insufficient.
The past, if we’re willing to face it, brings stark clarity to the present. And the more I allow memories to seep back in, the more clarity they bring to what my life has become. I couldn’t trust anyone, even my mother.
“I ran away when I was seventeen, didn’t I?”
His laugh barks out again now from the hallway.
The words I needed to speak then nearly strangled me.Leave…me…
“Alone.” I finish in a whisper, and Mum looks up.
“Yes, alone.” She’s searching my eyes in the bright glow of her mirrors. “You hated nothing more. You hated when I left and couldn’t abide any man I ever brought home.”
The kaleidoscope of my childhood shifts into position with one important stone settled into place, completing another part of the picture. One in which I long for aloneness, but also for my mother, and finally that contradiction makes perfect sense.
A knock on the door. Sebastien lets himself in, his laughter lingering as he greets Mum with open arms. She runs to him, giddy and girlish, and he kisses both her cheeks.
She is seldom alone. Always on the arm of some man, anchored to someone, her countenance brightened by the one whose presence declares her beautiful and chosen. “Darling, look who it is. Oh, you’ve brought flowers.” She takes Sebastien’s bouquet, but his gaze is fixated over Mum’s shoulder—on me.
“How…ravishing.”
“Oh, stop.” Mum smacks him playfully on the shoulder as she blushes, and leans into this embrace.
You are the nightingale.The one afraid to be alone. I longed to cling to my mother in childhood, and she dropped my hand. She was too busy clinging to someone else’s.
I rise, holding her hands. “I must go. This has been lovely.”
“Yes, your husband. He’ll be cross with me for stealing you away, won’t he?”
AJ.My heart breathes his name, and with it surfaces the memory of those dancers on the stage who nearly kiss…but do not.
“When do you leave?”
“I shall check the schedule.”
Her gaze clings to me, silently imploring. “You will…write to me? Sometimes?”
I turn away from her eager face and the oppressive scent of Sebastien’s tobacco. It isn’t that I don’t wish to be around my mother. My leaving was never aboutherall those years ago, but aboutwhocame along with her. How would I explain such a thing? I cannot, so silence is my only answer.
“Goodbye then, love.” Mum’s voice is quick and efficient as she rises to embrace me, but there’s an undercurrent of hurt as she tries to brush over my silence.
This squeezes my heart to the point of breaking.Say it. Just say it.
She leans forward and a handmade necklace falls from the neckline of her gown. A string of pearls—no,seashells.Tiny flesh-colored shells from Cornwall. We collected them together—that’s all I can recall. For hours we scoured the beach, cleaned them, threaded them onto the string. I had one, too…somewhere.
I embrace her and kiss the top of her head. “Yes, of course.” I smile as she leans back. “We’ll write. And if you find yourself in Cornwall…alone…I shall meet you there.”
