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But Agatha only snorted.
“Holy shit, indeed, girl.”
Chapter forty-three
Ricki
IvisitedAgathaasoften as I could. She allowed me to move my small potted plants down from the roof and onto her terrace, offering me tips on caring for them, re-potting, soil quality and more. I cherished the hours I spent with her, and even though she never really softened all that much, I think she liked spending time with me, too.
Some days, when the weather was too hot for her, we would sit inside, and she’d tell me stories about when she was a girl, or about her travels around the world, or about her children. She had three kids, all already grown and living their lives. She seemed proud of them, but they never seemed to come and visit, which made me sad.
I didn’t think I’d want to visit my mother when I could move out, but Agatha didn’t seem like my mom at all. Sure, she was cranky, but in that way that old people get where they seem more like they’re simply tired of people’s bullshit than anything else. She wasn’t mean or cruel. She didn’t intentionally hurt my feelings, or make me feel bad when I wasn’t dressed fancy.
And some days, she actually complimented my make up.
There were times, though, when Agatha would look at me, her eyes narrowed on the bruises that often appeared on my wrist or the tears in my eyes when I arrived, and I could see that she wanted to say more.
But she never actually said anything.
Until one afternoon, she did.
I was sitting on a stool in the garden area trimming the dried heads off of a past-bloom bacopa plant and humming to myself, just enjoying the quiet of the late summer day. Agatha had been watching me, her gaze narrowed again on the mottled bruises on my wrist—perfect imprints of my mother’s fingerprints—lips pursed in thought as she tapped her cane rhythmically against the slate tiles of the patio.
After watching me for a little longer, Agatha stood and moved inside, returning a few minutes later with a small potted plant I’d never seen before and a velvet bag about the size of a deck of cards.
“Enrica,” she said, insisting on always using my full name. I didn’t mind when she said it, though; she didn’t make it sound like my full name was a punishment. “Come sit with me, girl.”
Putting the small pruning scissors down, I dusted off my hands and wiped my forehead with the back of my arm. Summer was starting to fade, but the sun was being particularly relentless this afternoon. When I’d taken my place beside Agatha, she set the pot down on the low table and the velvet bag in her lap.
“Child, in all the time we’ve spent together, I’ve never told you about Mr. Albright,” she started, and I tipped my head to one side, listening intently. What she said was true; we’d talked about every aspect of her life and family except for her husband. I knew he’d died, but that was about it. “My husband was chosen for me by my parents when I was very young. Little more than a girl,” she said, as though that was something that was totally normal. My mouth dropped open in shock, but she continued. “He was a cruel man with a drinking problem and a lot of money. I was a pretty girl with desperate parents and no options. At first, I’d hoped for love. Something out of a storybook, perhaps? I told myself that his hurtful words were only because he didn’t know me, that maybe if I tried hard enough, looked good enough, smiled wide enough, in time, he would come to care for me.”
Her eyes went unfocused, her face tight as she relived her story for me. My heart hurt for Agatha, not because I’d ever had a cruel husband—obviously—but because I knew what it was like to try desperately to get the approval of people who were supposed to love you and to be found lacking every single time.
“After our first child was born, that was when things got really bad.” Agatha closed her eyes for a moment, her hand curling around the velvet bag in her lap, before she looked back at me. “I got very good at hiding my own bruises, Enrica.”
I swallowed heavily and covered my wrist with my other hand, knowing exactly what she was talking about, even if she wasn’t going to say it out loud.
“But still, even with all the extra makeup and long sleeves in the summer, I endured. I continued to try to prove that I was worthy of his affections, of his time. We had three small children, but he was spending less and less time at home.
“The first time I realized he had a mistress, I was devastated.” I could feel my cheeks heat as I realized what she was saying. I may have been nearly fourteen years old, but it was the first time an adult had ever really had a conversation with me about...adult things. I tried to keep my face still, even as my toes curled and my desire to fidget awkwardly screamed at me. “I still didn’t even really like the man,” Agatha went on, oblivious to my internal battle to act mature enough for this discussion. “But it felt like a failing on my part. Something that I had neglected to do well enough so that he wouldn’t stray.”
Reaching for the glass she’d had on the table, Agatha took a drink, the ice clinking as she set it down again.
“The night I confronted him about his extracurricular activities was the first time he put me in the hospital.”
She let the sentence hang in the air, the weight of it threatening to choke me as I pictured her, battered and bleeding, on the floor of this very apartment. I couldn’t imagine anyone hurting Agatha like that, let alone her own husband.
“The nurses asked me if I was safe to go home, and I told them yes.” I stared at her in confusion, and she explained further. “I had nowhere to go, girl. My parents would have turned me out if I’d gone to them, children in tow, telling them that the match they’d made for me wasn’t what I wanted anymore. It simply wasn’t done in my day. A woman stayed faithful to her husband, and a husband did what he pleased. That was how it was.”
“That’s bullshit,” I stated, and Agatha laughed.
“It absolutely was, and still is, but unfortunately, that is often our lot as women. We endure, and we endure until we can no longer take it.” Eyes narrowed, she leaned close to me and whispered, “That is when we take a stand.”
Reaching for the small potted plant, she held it between us, turning it one way and then the other, showing me the shiny green leaves and the dark purple flowers that were just about finished for the season.
“I’d always loved to garden,” Agatha said, her eyes on the plant. “It was the one pleasure I had that was just for me. Setting the plant down again, she reached for the velvet bag. “I have something for you, Enrica. Something I want you to keep close to you at all times.” Opening the bag, she tipped it over and out tumbled a slinky silver chain and small, matching pendant that sparkled in the sunlight. Looking at it, I could see it was actually two layers, one inside the other. The outer layer was the silver, a swirling cage-like design that was delicate and pretty. The second, inner layer, was solid, and as I watched, Agatha opened the silver cage and removed the inner piece, unscrewing the top to show me the empty vial inside. “One day, you might find yourself in a situation like mine. A situation where someone—a man, perhaps—is behaving in a way that society may be willing to ignore, but that you find unacceptable. Maybe he is leaving bruises on you, or maybe they are on someone you love. On your children,” she added pointedly, her voice tight. “Whatever it may be, I want you to remember that you can take a stand, Enrica. You have the power to remove yourself from a situation when no one is willing to help you, and to remember that often, you can only rely on yourself and no one else.”
Screwing the top back on the vial, Agatha reassembled the necklace and secured it around my neck, smiling when she saw it hanging there.
