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“Talking can help.” She was glad Ella wasn’t around to hear that. Given the conversation they’d had, she’d no doubt add hypocrisy to the never-ending list of Gayle’s sins. “And sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”
“That’s true. I’m always acting a part around the children. I don’t want them to know how bad I feel, because then they’ll feel bad. So I put my best smile on with my dress in the mornings. Have you ever done that?”
Gayle thought about all the things her children didn’t know about her. “Many times.”
“It’s part of being a parent, isn’t it? You’re the support, not the supported. The only time I allow myself to cry is in the shower and the kitchen because I can hide it there.”
“How do you hide in the kitchen?” Gayle had visions of Mary crouched under the table, howling into a napkin.
“I don’t hide myself, but I can hide tears. I chop a lot of onions.” Mary fiddled with her cup. “Onion soup, onion gravy—onions in everything. They’re a marvelous cover-up for red, watering eyes.”
“I’d never thought of that.” Gayle didn’t cry. And generally she didn’t have to hide her emotions because she lived alone. She wasn’t wrapped up in her children’s lives the way Mary seemed to be. But she wanted to be. She thought about Tab’s happy smile, and how much fun they’d had building that snowman. “Why do you think it’s your fault that Kirstie is struggling?”
“Because I’m supportive of Brodie’s idea of opening our home to guests. I think it’s a good way to solve our financial difficulties, but Kirstie feels as if it’s a betrayal. She thinks there must be a different way. Wants a magic bullet. But life isn’t like that, is it?”
“No. And people are generally afraid of change, even though sometimes it can be good.”
If it weren’t for the fact that the past few weeks had shaken her faith in her own beliefs, she would have given Mary a copy of her book.
“You’re right, and the truth is sometimes we have no choice but to change. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to stay here.”
“Your daughter doesn’t feel the same?”
“Kirstie is upset with her brother for even contemplating allowing strangers into our home. Film crews. TV. He’s thinking about doing weeks for hikers, and weeks for artists, writers and musicians.” Mary smiled. “He’s a mathematician. Very clever. When he was a teenager, the school used to tell me that they’d never taught a pupil with a mind like his. And he’s musical. Plays the cello and the piano. But his creativity stops there. Trying to come up with solutions that aren’t numerical is half killing him I think, so the last thing he needs is his sister fighting him.”
Gaye thought about the man who had picked them up from the airport. Practical. Dependable.
“You must be proud of him. And of Kirstie. She’s here by your side, helping you, even though she’d rather be out there with the reindeer.”
“Yes.” Mary finished her coffee. “I did wonder if it would be easier for everyone if we sold the place and I moved to an apartment in the city. I wouldn’t need to worry about a leaking roof and frozen pipes. But I don’t think I’d survive. We go for the day sometimes, and I can’t breathe with so many buildings crowding in on me. I’m staying here until we’ve tried everything. And that means Kirstie adapting, too. So that makes me feel selfish. But it also means I don’t have the privacy for those quiet, difficult moments when grief swamps you.”
“Does it matter if they witness that? Your children must know you’re upset. It’s natural to grieve.”
“I want to protect them from that. Even when your children are grown, you still want to protect them, don’t you?”
Yes, Gayle thought. You did. Even when they didn’t thank you for it.
“Maybe we protect them too much. I don’t know.” She took a mouthful of hot coffee. “I’m not the right person to pass an opinion on that. I’m not a very good mother.” She felt her voice falter and then felt Mary’s hand on hers.
“That’s nonsense. You’re an excellent mother.”
“I’m really not. And lately I’ve been questioning some of the parenting decisions I’ve made.” Had she really just said that aloud? And to a relative stranger? “Ignore me, I’m—”
“You do that, too? It’s a relief to know it’s not just me.”
“You question your parenting decisions?”
“Of course. You do what you think is best at the time, based on the information you have available, and it’s only later when you look back that you wonder if you made the wrong choices.” Mary leaned forward. “What we have to remember is that looking back doesn’t give you the same picture you were looking at when you made those decisions. All we can do is our best, based on the information and circumstances of the time, and I’m sure you did that.”
It was reassuring that Mary, who seemed to have a close loving relationship with her family, sometimes felt the way she did.
“You feel doubt, too?”
“Constantly. Welcome to parenting. The hardest thing you’ll ever do in your life. And the thing they don’t tell you in any of the books is that it gets harder, not easier. At least when they were toddlers you could control their world to an extent. It was tiring of course, relentless on occasions, but it was also fairly predictable. You were in charge.” Mary shook her head. “Then they become adults and you realize that the stress of parenting doesn’t ease. If anything, it gets worse.”
“It does.” She hadn’t thought about it before, but Mary was right. The child side of things had certainly been simpler in many ways.
“My two don’t seem to think I can possibly understand anything about their lives.”
