promised, sipping from my strongly brewed tea and looking again out over the rooftops.
It all looked so different to Meadow Falls, darker and gloomier if the truth be told, but friendlier too. I had already noticed that: how people smiled at you, how people you had never met before in your life seemed genuinely pleased to see you – even those who were not obliged by genetics to do so.
I caught my mother’s gaze and she smiled at me softly.
“It’s amazing, sweetheart, how quickly the memories come back,” she said. “I thought this part of my life was all boxed away somewhere, but so much is coming back.”
I reached over and took her hand. “Tell me about it, Mom. Tell me about this city – all your memories. You know, I wish I had done that with Dad more – talked about things. Talked about his life more. We did at the end, but it was awful knowing that we were trying to cram all those memories into his last few weeks. I want to know more about you – about Auntie Dolores – and how you were together. I want to know all about your life.”
Mom brushed at a few crumbs on her skirt and looked at me, her blue eyes glistening. “My darling girl, I so want to tell you. I’d love to share my whole life with you . . . but . . . I’m not sure . . .”
My mind went back to our walk on the beach and her emotional reaction to whatever it was Dolores had said to her.
“Don’t hide anything from me, Mom. You’re the only family I have left.”
She smiled, polishing off her scone and remaining silent while I wanted to shake her and get her to talk to me. The frustration rose up through me, but I knew better than to try and make her talk to me. My mother was like that – the strong silent type. We were close as a family, the three of us – in a kind of Christmas-card way. We did things together – went bowling, or shopping. We ate Sunday lunch together. We went to Green Acres at least once a month for a family afternoon, even though I was now well grown and it wasn’t necessarily cool. I went to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving and Christmas – New Year’s I had spent with Craig, for the three years we had been living together anyway. But Mom and I? We didn’t really talk – not the deep stuff. We talked soaps and politics and recipes from time to time. She was my biggest cheerleader and my fiercest critic. But heart-to-hearts, we didn’t do those.
Not even when Dad was given his diagnosis. Not even on those nights when we sat up into the small hours mopping his brow and watching him sleep. I’m not sure what I had expected – perhaps my mother to regale me with stories of how she loved him, how he was everything to her, how they met and fell in love, but for most of those nights she sat in silence, staring at him. I imagined she was having some sort of silent conversation with him, that inwardly she was telling him all the things I hoped to be able to tell the love of my life someday. I even felt jealous on occasion and would go home, when morning came and the desire for sleep became too much, and curl up beside Craig as he slept off a nightshift and inwardly tell him I loved him and hoped that he loved me too – the way I deserved to be loved.
“Can we go for a walk?” my mother said, after she had finished her tea and visited the restroom.
“I thought that was the point of today,” I said, perhaps a little sharply.
She gave me a look, the kind of look which would have withered me if I had been even mildly afraid of her – and still eight years old.
“Sorry,” I smiled.
“You’re not too old to avoid a clip around the ear,” she laughed, linking her arm in mine. “Let’s just go for a walk and I promise I will try and talk to you – but you have to let me take it slowly.”
* * *
Slowly, as it happened, was no exaggeration. We walked the City Walls – a mile-long trail around the very centre of the city – steeped in history. My mother talked – of course she did – but
It all looked so different to Meadow Falls, darker and gloomier if the truth be told, but friendlier too. I had already noticed that: how people smiled at you, how people you had never met before in your life seemed genuinely pleased to see you – even those who were not obliged by genetics to do so.
I caught my mother’s gaze and she smiled at me softly.
“It’s amazing, sweetheart, how quickly the memories come back,” she said. “I thought this part of my life was all boxed away somewhere, but so much is coming back.”
I reached over and took her hand. “Tell me about it, Mom. Tell me about this city – all your memories. You know, I wish I had done that with Dad more – talked about things. Talked about his life more. We did at the end, but it was awful knowing that we were trying to cram all those memories into his last few weeks. I want to know more about you – about Auntie Dolores – and how you were together. I want to know all about your life.”
Mom brushed at a few crumbs on her skirt and looked at me, her blue eyes glistening. “My darling girl, I so want to tell you. I’d love to share my whole life with you . . . but . . . I’m not sure . . .”
My mind went back to our walk on the beach and her emotional reaction to whatever it was Dolores had said to her.
“Don’t hide anything from me, Mom. You’re the only family I have left.”
She smiled, polishing off her scone and remaining silent while I wanted to shake her and get her to talk to me. The frustration rose up through me, but I knew better than to try and make her talk to me. My mother was like that – the strong silent type. We were close as a family, the three of us – in a kind of Christmas-card way. We did things together – went bowling, or shopping. We ate Sunday lunch together. We went to Green Acres at least once a month for a family afternoon, even though I was now well grown and it wasn’t necessarily cool. I went to my parents’ house for Thanksgiving and Christmas – New Year’s I had spent with Craig, for the three years we had been living together anyway. But Mom and I? We didn’t really talk – not the deep stuff. We talked soaps and politics and recipes from time to time. She was my biggest cheerleader and my fiercest critic. But heart-to-hearts, we didn’t do those.
Not even when Dad was given his diagnosis. Not even on those nights when we sat up into the small hours mopping his brow and watching him sleep. I’m not sure what I had expected – perhaps my mother to regale me with stories of how she loved him, how he was everything to her, how they met and fell in love, but for most of those nights she sat in silence, staring at him. I imagined she was having some sort of silent conversation with him, that inwardly she was telling him all the things I hoped to be able to tell the love of my life someday. I even felt jealous on occasion and would go home, when morning came and the desire for sleep became too much, and curl up beside Craig as he slept off a nightshift and inwardly tell him I loved him and hoped that he loved me too – the way I deserved to be loved.
“Can we go for a walk?” my mother said, after she had finished her tea and visited the restroom.
“I thought that was the point of today,” I said, perhaps a little sharply.
She gave me a look, the kind of look which would have withered me if I had been even mildly afraid of her – and still eight years old.
“Sorry,” I smiled.
“You’re not too old to avoid a clip around the ear,” she laughed, linking her arm in mine. “Let’s just go for a walk and I promise I will try and talk to you – but you have to let me take it slowly.”
* * *
Slowly, as it happened, was no exaggeration. We walked the City Walls – a mile-long trail around the very centre of the city – steeped in history. My mother talked – of course she did – but
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