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She squeezes it and a fierce pride lights her eyes.
“There’s not a hint of Drew in you.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “I know. I thought… the genes skipped me.”
Her eyes become cold, and hard and her mouth puckers as if she’s tasting something bitter.
“Bethany and to some extent even Phil, were so very much their father’s children…but you…you were mine. I thought you were perfect. He left me alone for the most part and I got to spend my time making our home happy for you. And then, his father and your uncle died. He became the head of the company and we moved into that house… And then, everything changed. The darkness grew and he made my life miserable. I was so afraid I would die without knowing a moment’s peace. Or have control over my body. Or my mind. Or my soul. I used to be so happy. I know it’s hard to understand, when you’ve never been completely at someone’s mercy, but I was dying. I never dreamed that I would leave my own children. I was no good to any of you. And it’s selfish, I know it, but I wanted to live.”
She says that and I realize she has no clue what my life has been since Bethany’s death.
“I understand. Completely, Maman.” I call her by the name I used to before she left. Her eyes fill with tears and she covers her mouth to stifle her sob.
“Oh my child, he made you suffer.” She says it, but there’s a thread of hope in her voice and in her eyes praying that I’ll deny it.
“Do you wear your hair short because mine is long?” she asks suddenly.
I flush hot, but my heart whirs as her missile hits its target.
“Of course not,” I deny fiercely.
“I know I haven’t been around for a long time, but I still know my daughter. And you’ve always been crazy about your father. When you were five, he told you blue was his favorite color. And then, it became yours.”
“That’s not true,” I gasp.
“Of course, it is. You always loved your long hair. But now, your father hated me and you want him to not hate you, too. Am I right?” she presses.
“Mother, can you please not do this now?” I put my fork down on the table and fix her with an angry stare.
“I’m just honest,” she says in her English that has become more heavily accented after nearly seven years of living in France.
I roll my eyes in dismissal of her words.
She strokes the back of her finger down my cheek and then slides it under my chin to force me to look her in the eye. She scans my face, her expression full of regret. Something I’ve never seen her express. “I love you.”
My heart is so heavy, that her words barely make a dent. She’s virtually a stranger. I nod and pull my chin out of her grasp.
She smiles ruefully, her eyes full of sadness and then runs her other hand gently over my hair.
I turn to face her. I try to see what Phil does. But all I see are the choices she made and how they affected my life.
“Come to France with me. Get away from all of this. We’ll make you so beautiful, and you’ll find love again.And I’ve got so much to tell—”
Make you so beautiful.
Right then, I decide I don’t ever want to live with someone who feels like they have to make me anything.
Not ever again.
“Thank you for coming. Thank you for telling me the truth.” I say in a voice that’s as steady as I can manage. I stand.
“Clo—” Her voice breaks, but I won’t look at her again.
“Don’t call me that.” It feels like an intimacy that we no longer share.
“I’m so sorry, Elisabeth,” my mother says quietly behind me. The sadness in her voice is unmistakable. I feel a wave of pity for her.
Impulsively, I walk over to sit in the seat next to her. “Maman.”
