Page 9 of What You Never Knew

Leaving the kitchen, I wander into the dining room. French glass doors give me a direct view into the backyard. The large raised garden bed where my mother grew vegetables is now just a mound of dirt and grass that looks like the grave of a giant.

The round charcoal barbecue grill on the flagstone patio has tipped over, and moss has begun to climb across its metal back. The very same moss that creeps up the legs of the old picnic table—one side sinking so far into the ground that it’s lopsided.

I turn away from the decay to study the well-worn surface of the long harvest table. It’s big enough to seat twelve, but it was usually just May, my mother, and me who ate at it. My father was away most of the time, and when he was there he preferred barbecues on the back patio.

My sister and I were left to fend for ourselves when it came to breakfast and lunch. We ate those meals on the dock or the verandah. On the nights my mother went to the resort, she fed us at the kitchen table, plopping down grilled cheese sandwiches or hot dogs in front of us before disappearing up to her room to get ready. The nights my mother didn’t go to the resort, she insisted on candlelit dinners after eight in the dining room.

She’d been an only child, raised in a suburb of Paris by two alcoholic parents. Her father was a kind drunk, sloppy and slow moving, but her mother was an abusive one. Alcohol made her angry, suspicious, and quick to strike out. My mother said she was happy to leave France behind. She spoke mostly English, only allowing bits of French to escape now and again. She even protested when my father used the French version of her name, Avril, instead of the English one, April, to name the island, which he bought for her as a wedding present.

She rejected almost everything about her French heritage except for the wine and their relaxed, late-night manner of dining. Those nights were always my favorite. We lingered long after dinner. I remember being full from food but hungry for my mother’s attention. The red wine and slow smoking of cigarettes lulled her into a sedentary mood. Laughter at her jokes and requests for her stories were what kept her there. She rarely walked away from a rapt audience.

The back doors were thrown open, inviting soft breezes to play in the candlelight and attracting dusty moths to risk their lives in the flames. My mother allowed us small sips of her wine. I pretended to enjoy the bitter sting of it, which seemed to please her. May always gagged and swore she’d never drink when she grew up, which caused my mother to roll her eyes. She’d cast a knowing glance at me, as though we were more refined, more mature than May would ever be.

Some nights my mother would reach across the table and take my hand in hers, wrapping her long, cool fingers around my small, hot hand. I’d study the red polish on her nails, the flicker of the candles skittering across the shine of it. She’d rub the back of my hand with her thumb, and I’d stay as still as I could. Even when the friction felt raw against my skin, even then I wouldn’t disturb her touch.

The memories of those dinners are loud, as though they’re seated around the table, calling out to be noticed. As an adult, I suddenly see the wrong in them. The rejection of May because she didn’t like the wine my mother so adored, the affection doled out like a prize, nothing unconditional about it. The entire evening a stage for my mother, the two of us her captive audience. I run my hand along the smooth edge of the table as I leave the room—wishing my adult eyes would stop tarnishing my childhood.

The stairs are tucked into a corner of the living room, a narrow passage with a slight slant to it, making you feel as though you’re climbing through the bowels of a rocking ship instead of a cottage. The place was built well over a hundred years ago, before grand staircases started showing up everywhere.

You could sit on the bottom step and get a clear view into the living room without anyone being able to see you. May and I used it like a superhero power when we were kids, sneaking down to watch my parents late at night as they read books by the fire or, better yet, entertained friends from across the bay.

I duck into the stairway and grasp the thin metal railing. The slant seems more pronounced, but I may be imagining it. Each step has a dip that’s been worn down in the middle from heavy traffic. Even through my shoes I can feel it cup my foot as I go.

Reaching the landing at the top of the stairs, I stop to gain my balance and wait for my eyes to adjust from the shadows to the light. Windows line the entire upper hallway, and sun from above the tree line pours in. This cottage is a contrast of shadows and bright light, forcing you to recalibrate as you move through it.

The hallway is stuffy and hot. Dead flies line the windowsills and the curtains hang limp, heavy with dust. Exerting enough effort to produce a thin film of sweat on my upper lip, I manage to get two of the windows open. Going down to the end of the hallway to the bathroom, I pry that window open as well to create a cross breeze, and almost instantly I can breathe easier.

A ring of green grows in the dry bowl of the toilet. The sink is in better shape, with only a thin line of orange from rusty pipes staining the white porcelain. I turn to inspect the white claw-foot tub, which looks gray with its covering of dust.

We never really used the tub. My mother believed the best start to the day was a swim, no matter how cold the lake was. She swam from spring to fall and chastised us if we didn’t do the same. We even swam in thunderstorms as long as the lightning wasn’t too close.

The doors to the bedrooms are all shut, creating the sense that there are people on the other side wanting privacy. Bypassing my room and May’s, I go straight to my parents’. It’s the largest one, at the front of the cottage, the only one with a view of the lake.

I have to push hard on the door to unstick it from the wooden doorframe and half stumble into the room when it finally gives way. Like the rest of the cottage, this room looks as though someone was here only hours ago. My mother’s perfume bottles, face creams, and jewelry are still scattered across her dresser—the display made monochromatic by the thick layer of dust.

The bed is still made with white sheets and the blue-and-yellow flowered quilt my mother bought one year at the farmers’ market. Veins of black mold crawl across its surface, right below a water stain on the ceiling where the roof must now leak. I think about stripping away the dirty, moldy sheets, but it’s all so overwhelming—the dust, the mouse shit, the dirty bathroom. Where do I even begin?

Turning to leave, I come face-to-face with the open closet and my mother’s dresses, which are still hanging there. I jump, feeling as though I’ve just seen her ghost. The door is open only a few inches, and at first glance there’s the illusion that she’s in there hiding, ready to step out into the light.

When my heart slows to its normal pace, I step forward and pull the door fully open. Taking one of her dresses in my hand, I pull it up to my face. Inhaling, I’m able to pull the faintest trace of her scent from the cotton fabric—French perfume, outdoors, and cigarette smoke. It’s buried deep under the pervading mustiness but it’s there, triggering a longing in me so deep it cuts through my gut.

It’s not the mother who died recently that I’m mourning. It’s the one from the summers of my childhood. Before my father left and we rushed away from this place, taking nothing with us. Before I grew up and realized how truly destructive she could be, and selfish. Before I lost that innocent, naïve belief that because she was a mother, she was good and safe.

The bathroom door suddenly slams shut at the end of the hallway, smashing through the silence and startling away the sobs that were rising to the surface. It was just a gust of wind through one of the open windows, but it still sets my heart racing. I drop the dress and rush out of the room. Down the stairs and out onto the verandah, where I take deep, gulping breaths of fresh air. Air not laced with the scent of my youth or things I’ve lost and can never get back.

Sorrow, fear, adrenaline rush through my veins and set a soft trembling into my whole body. I fold over, put my hands on my knees to steady myself.

“Fuck.” The word roars out of me into the quiet of the surroundings. I brace myself for a scolding. I can’t shake the feeling that a parent is just around the corner, ready to pounce on my infraction.

Just take a few deep breaths. I suddenly hear May’s voice in my head. Don’t let it get to you.

I breathe in and push myself back to a standing position. I consider returning to the mainland and staying another night in the motel. Taking it all in baby steps rather than one giant leap. Maybe it was crazy to think I could do this on my own. Maybe I should just put the place up for sale.

A wind moves through the trees, making the leaves whisper. It catches in the partially open screen door and pulls it forward, making the hinges creak as though the place is speaking to me. Begging me not to leave. Beckoning me back in again.

Go inside and take care of things. There’s May’s voice again. Mom taught you what to do, so do it. I swat at the air as though the voice is an actual thing outside of me, not just my fucked-up head playing tricks.

“What if I can’t?” I say out loud.