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But in the end, sometimes we just need to say it.
Remy was going to go on living after he lost his mother not really knowing what she felt.
I understood entirely why he’d need to share what he’d just shared with his children.
There were two more hugs for Remy and the kids moved out.
But I recaptured his hand and held fast as he moved to follow them.
He looked back at me.
“You okay?” I asked a stupid question.
“I’m the happiest I’ve been in five years, and I’m coming apart. The polar opposite sensations are weird, but that’s where I’m at.”
I liked the honesty but wasn’t thrilled about where he was at.
Which meant I was forced to do the only thing I could do.
I nodded and said, “I get it.”
“And I’m proud,” he continued.
I smiled at him. “We have great kids.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, yes, we do. What I meant was, I’m proud of myself. I stumbled along the way, but I broke the cycle.” He jerked his head to the door. “They will never feel that tightness I felt when I saw Mom get mad this morning. And all their lives, they knew they were priorities. They knew their health and development and education and feelings were important.”
“They knew they were loved,” I whispered.
I watched his corded throat move as he swallowed.
Then he nodded.
I reached in and touched his lips with mine.
I didn’t pull very far away when I said, “And so are you.”
That was when Remy touched my lips with his.
We headed out, and I knew my husband was still experiencing polar opposite sensations.
I, on the other hand, was suffering only one.
This being tamping down murderous intentions as the words that tightness I felt when I saw Mom get mad bounced around in my brain.
It was no surprise the scene was set when we entered the mural room, the children already there, as was Guillaume.
As was Colette.
I saw immediately this swan song was not going to be playing for sympathy.
Oh no.
And I could have called it.
Colette was not going to go out like that.
Our last memory wasn’t going to be that.
No, she sat in the middle of the sofa wearing sage velvet pajamas, edged at the hems and the sleeves of the matching robe in delicate dusty pink lace. Her hair was pulled severely back at her nape, exposing for the first time how truly gaunt her face was. But nonetheless, she not only hadn’t taken off her makeup, it looked like she’d refreshed it, so she still looked a version of stunning.
But the shocking red of her signature lipstick was gone, a nude pink in its stead, as one would do.
One didn’t go to bed in shocking red unless it accompanied your ensemble.
Surrounding her were magnificently wrapped presents.
So we weren’t going to be pushed to offer sympathy.
We were going to be reminded of what Colette thought we would be missing when she was gone.
Again, not a surprise that she didn’t decide to speak to all of us one by one so she could tell us how much she loved us. Share her favorite memory we’d made. Explain how she treasured time spent with us. And then impart some nugget of wisdom we could call on in our futures to make a tough time easier, or a hard decision into a quick one, her lasting gift.
We were going to be given things that we would feel bad we didn’t want because they reminded us of her, and since she’d given them to us in her current state, we would feel obliged to keep them anyway.
Pure Colette.
God, I wanted to scream in her face.
I didn’t.
I sat in a chair, Remy perched on the arm of it, and I pointed out the obvious.
“We’re all here, Colette.”
“Yes,” she said instantly. “And we’ll start with you.”
She picked up a somewhat wide, definitely long rectangular, jeweler-sized box wrapped in linen-colored paper and tied with a strip of a champagne satin. In the exorbitant bow were two perfect ivory roses.
I’d seen a lot of jewelry boxes in my time, but none that unique shape.
She held it out to me.
Remy got off the arm of my chair in order to fetch it.
He handed it to me, resumed his seat, and I saw the roses were real.
I unwrapped the parcel.
Inside was an ivory velvet box, and when I opened it, I saw a long strand of pearls resting in a cloud of alabaster silk.
“Those are my five times great grandmother’s pearls,” she proclaimed grandly.
Dear God.
She’d given me slave pearls.
I felt bile race up my throat as I stared at the necklace in horror.
“Every first Cormier woman has owned those pearls for the last one hundred and eighty-five years,” she went on.
I swallowed difficultly, lifted my head, and croaked, “Thank you.”
Sadly, it sounded not only sickened, but like a question.
