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“Will you write?” I ask, bypassing her questions. She’s used to me, so she sighs and moves on.
“I can write paper and envelopes. No email for me. I plan to go home and dewire.”
“Unplug,” I correct because even after over a decade in America, Mari’s English is still a bit… confused. Staying inside an estate all day, every day, will do that to you, though.
“Yes, unplug,” she says while placing her cell phone on the island, screen facing up. “I won’t miss this.” She spins the phone on the surface.
I stare into the amber liquid as my fingertips chase beads of condensation down the wall of my glass. “I’ll miss you so much, Mari,” I say quietly like it’s a secret. It isn’t, though, but I am trained to keep my voice down when admitting things that are important. To keep my deepest feelings separate from this house and its residents.
“It is goodbye but not forever. When you are ready, you can come to France and visit me.”
I finish the tea, and no more than ten minutes later, an Uber awaits in the long, gravel driveway in front of the house.
“They didn’t even come to see you off,” I say more to myself than to her, though it is directed at her. “Fucking pricks.”
“Ma fille amère,” she soothes, and the gentleness of her tone sends pops of heat behind my eyes. I blink, refusing to acknowledge them because I don’t cry and am not weak. “You must soften yourself for this world, Cherry. How can love ever find you if you are too hardened to be moved?”
She wraps her body around mine in a long, meaningful hug. This is the last time I’ll feel her heart beating against my chest as she holds me. I can’t fight the tears that fall, but I still choose to ignore them.
“Take care of yourself but don’t forget, there is a middle between every two loose ends.”
I roll my eyes and she laughs at me, and the wind brings leaves to our feet as the sun puts warmth at our back. The gravel crunches as her measly two suitcases are loaded into the trunk, courtesy of the driver.
“I love you. And being in France won’t stop me from loving you.” She takes my chin in her soft hand and my face fills with fire so painful and searing that I close my eyes in an effort to escape it. But when they open again and are met with her damp cheeks and partial smile, I know I can’t hide.
“I love you, Mari,” I whisper, having never said those three words to anyone else in years. And when I say them, I know there’s a very good chance I won’t say them again to anyone, ever.
“Promise you will visit. If you ever want to, he will pay for you to come.”
I tuck my long hair behind my ear as the wind gathers at my back, tossing the ends over my shoulder. “I’m welcome to visit and yet I am not allowed to come live with you.”
Another sideways head tip paired with a tilt of her lips. “He doesn’t want you to come with me.”
I know it’s true. I know it is. Because the fight we had the night I begged to go to France with Mari is etched into my brain as well as my own name.
“I don’t care what he wants,” I say, sounding and feeling childish, but I can’t help it. He brings the immature, angry, fiery, vein-popping side out of me like no one else. I should just stomp my foot, my words would sing-song nicely to the beat of a temper tantrum.
“But I do. Because he was a loyal employer to me for years, my darling. You don’t have to believe or like it, but he was good to me so I am good to him.” She hugs me again, and presses kisses to each of my cheeks. “I was contracted until you were eighteen. The contract is fulfilled. Now I must go.”
I nod. And we just stare at one another for a bit. Moments, minutes, I don’t know. All I do know is that I can’t get enough of her rich, dark eyes and her graying hair, the smell of Chalimar on her wrists or the soft swish of her linen pants. Everything Mari will be missed.
I want to say you have been a mother to me. You have been my only mother, because my own mother went and got herself killed when I was just five so I hardly remember her at all. If any.
Mari has been my mother. She has been here since the first week after mom was murdered.
She has taught me everything. When I say everything, I don’t mean some things. Not only do I say what I mean but she really has shown me the ways of life.
Cutting hair, baking, cleaning, riding a bike, getting out of class with “woman” trouble, how to use a tampon, painting my nails, styling my clothes, reading, writing, literally everything.
The door slamming closed jars me from my painful tumble down memory lane. My eyes meet hers across the lowered car window. The sweaty man in the driver’s seat drums his thumbs along the wheel as he waits for us to say goodbye.
“Goodbye, Cherry.” Mari’s eyes are misty again and I refuse to acknowledge that mine aren’t much better. “Be good to them. They are not bad. Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
“Bye, Mari.” Those are the only two words I can manage. Tiny bits of granite and river rock pop from under the tires like jumping beans as the car exits the long driveway.
Be good to them, she says. I shake my head as I make my way back inside the empty home.
Why should I be good to them when they are no good to me?
