“What part?”
“All of it. Tell me everything.”
“Well, I grew up in Boston. I left for university, but I came back when I graduated. My mother left us when I was little, so it was just Dad and I for years. I live in the house I grew up in. It’s huge, and beautiful, and luckily it has been in my family for years, otherwise I could never afford it. Dad left it to me when he passed.”
“What was he like?”
“Oh gosh, Dad. Well, his name was Samuel. Everyone called him Sam. He was a lawyer, so he taught me to argue.” I laugh. “He took me on all kinds of adventures when I was growing up. We went to Civil War battlefields, museums, every historical landmark you can think of. I credit him with my love for history.” Charlie smiles while listening to me gush about Dad, though I suspect it must be difficult for him to hear, considering his complicated relationship with his own father. I recount stories of our adventures that are locked away in my head, like the fine china you only pull out on special occasions. “He had such a busy work schedule, but he never missed our Saturdays in the park when I was a kid. Never missed a soccer game when I was older. He was always there.”
“Soccer? You played?” His voice lifts with excitement.
“Yeah!” I giggle. “I think he was worried that I was lonely and needed some kind of social activity. He tried a few different sports with me and nothing clicked. But he took me to a field one day and handed me the ball and I took to it like a duck to water. So he put me into soccer when I was nine and I played all throughout school. I played midfield. I was always good at protecting myself from attacks and tackling opposition.”
“Sounds about right.” Charlie laughs. I suppose that I’ve put up walls in more ways than one.
“I mean, we did everything together. Everything except talk, that is. At least about the important things. I grew up wanting to ask so many questions, always wondering if I had done something wrong. Why didn’t she want me? Why wasn’t I enough? I didn’t know that he couldn’t be what I needed him to be, because he was in so much pain himself. I decided early on I’d do everything possible to take care of Dad. I’d make myself so invaluable that he wouldn’t leave me too. But then he got sick, and he faded so fast. For the longest time, I thought he died because I wasn’t taking care of him anymore. Like I was being punished for wanting to do something for myself. That’s silly, I know, but I felt more alone growing up with one parent than I do as an adult with none.”
“Alice, I don’t know why your mother left. But please understand, you have been and you always will be enough.” He tilts his head forward to lock his eyes with mine. “You are worth staying for.” I reach to squeeze his hand. He may never understand how much that means to me to hear from someone.
“You know, I tried to find her once. My mom.” It feels good to admit that. I’ve never told anyone, not even Ben. I’ve just bottled it up inside me, the pressure of it pushing against my chest for years. “A few years ago, when Dad died. Once I got through the haze of funeral decisions, flower arrangements, caskets, all that, I had a realization. She was the only parent I had left. I wanted to track her down. Not with any deep desire to meet her or rekindle anything. I think a part of me just wanted to know she landed somewhere safe.”
Charlie shifts to sit upward in bed against the headboard. “You found her?”
I lift myself to sit up against the wall across from Charlie. I weave the sheet in between my fingers to fidget with as I talk. “Yeah, I did. And she lived less than an hour away. Would you believe that? She wanted to leave us so bad, but she didn’t even go far. It’s like her ghost loomed over me my whole life, so close, yet I can’t reach out and grab it. That’s why I figured she would obviously hear of his death or see the obituary in the papers. He was a pretty high-profile lawyer, so his death got some media attention. I thought if she even lived with the smallest amount of regret, or had any curiosity about me whatsoever, this could be her moment to face me.”
“Did she?”
“No,” I say flatly. “But I decided not to let her get away with it. I read an article in the paper showcasing her art, and at the bottom of the review it stated her next art showing would be the following month at a gallery not too far from me. It was the perfect opportunity to face her. I had no idea what I would say to her. I think I just wanted to see her, or have her see me. I thought maybe, just maybe, if she saw me, she’d want to know me. At any rate, I knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid me in a room full of critics and buyers. I went to the showing and spotted her in the crowd straight away.”
“How?”
“Because she does this while she talks.” I run my hand through my hair as I shift my weight back and forth. “I knew it was her. I do it too.”
I remember the moment I saw her. It’s seared into my brain. She was beautiful and looked like she’d hardly aged at all. Her brightly colored maxi dress swayed as she floated effortlessly around the gallery. I felt grateful that I look so much like Dad, because I couldn’t see myself in her at all. Until she ran her hand through her hair and shifted back and forth. I’ve done it ever since I can remember. Whether I’m in conversation or teaching a class at Chisholm, I’ll subconsciously shift my weight back and forth and run my hand through my hair. It’s fascinating that someone can skip out on raising you, but you still carry parts of their personality. My heart dropped when I saw the similarities in our mannerisms. I was angry. I didn’t want to be anything like her. But now, I realize, if the worst thing I inherit from her is a nervous tick, that’s not bad. I’ll take it.
“What happened?”
“I circled the room for a while, mostly hyping myself up for a conversation with her. I viewed her paintings, looking for some consolation in them. I think I hoped to see some kind of hidden meaning in them, like feelings of guilt or regret. But I saw nothing. I waited, and waited, and watched her work the room till I saw her coming in my direction. She finally reached me, looked straight into my eyes, and…”
“And?”
“Andnothing. Absolutely nothing.” Subconsciously, I run my hand through my hair. “Maybe it’s crazy, but I had this wild idea that she’d see me, and just know that I was her child. I thought maybe some maternal instinct would finally kick in for her, and we’d finally have this moment. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted that moment to be of connection or confrontation. I didn’t even know if I wanted to tell her I missed her or that I hated her. But there was nothing. She didn’t even recognize me. I was just like any other stranger in the room to her. I think part of me was sizing up the competition, in a way. Like, this is what you left me for? Was it worth it? Is this what meant more to you than being my mother? I had a thousand questions for her in my head, and yet, only one really mattered: Why? Why did you leave me? Why wasn’t I enough for you? I decided not to say anything to her or make a scene, no matter how much I wanted to.”
“How come?”
“What purpose would it serve me? It wasn’t going to magically fix anything. I think I finally realized I can’t expect her to give me the answers to heal myself. If I lay that expectation on anyone else, I’ll set myself up for disappointment. She may have given birth to me, but she certainly wasn’t my mother. I couldn’t give her the satisfaction of being the victim. That was the day I began therapy. I was determined to become a better, happier person because of my parents, not in spite of them. I don’t want to inherit their mistakes.”
“I’m proud of you for that, love. The right decision isn’t always the easiest one.” Charlie leans forward on the bed to reach my hand, squeezing it in his. “And just so you know, she missed out on knowing the most incredible woman.”
I smile back at Charlie and lean forward to kiss him. He slips his hand around me and pulls me toward him, before playfully flipping me over onto my back. He moves himself over me, as his lips journey up from my navel, to my chest, to my neck, gently caressing each region.
“I’m enjoying knowingevery inchof this incredible woman,” he says as his lips find mine.
“My goodness,” I giggle. “Does the White Star Line know their stewards are so devoted to their work?”
“Mmm,” he whispers, in half chuckle and half moan. “I think you’ll find that I am quite attentive to my favorite passenger.”
Charlie’s fingertips gently swirl in circular motions on my bare back as we lay up all night, lost in each other, in conversation, in companionship. I find myself comfortable enough with him to lay bare not just my body but my soul as well. I open up and tell him everything. I want him to know every single inch of me. My entire life story. Everything from those first few golden years with my parents to my mother leaving. I tell him all about my home and my job at Chisholm.
