Chapter 98
W
hen I got back from the college earlier, both doors to Gemma's room were closed. I could hear her inside. I thought maybe she was talking to someone on her phone, but maybe she was talking to herself. About me?
I poured a glass of wine and went out onto the deck. The sky had been darkening since midday, and now there was the distinct feel of rain in the air. Several inches were predicted. I hoped the repair done to the roof at the end of the winter would continue to hold. It had cost a lot, but a leaky roof isn't something you can ignore.
Money.
With Gemma to support, a good income is more important than ever, so if the course I'd planned for the fall were actually canceled, I'd have to make up for the lost income somehow. I could always wait tables, though with so many restaurants closing down for a good part of the winter, the jobs would be scarce. In the old days, after Alan had absconded with Gemma, I worked as a housekeeper in one of the big hotel resorts during the off-season. I'm not too old or too proud to scrub someone else's floors, but honestly, it's not something I'd looked forward to doing ever again.
More immediate to consider, if less important, is the issue of the damage done in my studio. The broken easel could be repaired or replaced at the college's expense, but the sight of it lying there on the floor, one leg snapped in half, had made me feel incredibly sad. It seemed to symbolize what I was scared might have happened to my relationship with my daughter. And unlike the easel, a relationship could not so easily be repaired, and it could never be replaced.
Marion's mother's vase, I'm sad to say, is a lost cause. I wonder if Gemma heard it fall.
Back to the chaos in my studio. The thief or thieves had indeed overturned the largest bookcase, the one I had built, causing every single book to spill out. The police, after dusting for prints, had righted the bookcase. (Really, I should ask college maintenance to nail it to the wall.) While I was putting the books back onto the shelves according to categories like Greco-Roman art, Medieval European art, and contemporary American sculpture, I found that one of my favorite books, a volume of images from the British Museum's permanent collection, had been badly damaged. The spine had broken, and several pages had been folded and heavily creased. I remember the day I bought that book at a wonderful secondhand shop in Portland, not long after starting my job at YCC. I hadn't bought myself anything unnecessary or frivolous since Gemma had gone missing. I hadn't thought I was worth a gift for having been so stupid about Alan and his intentions, so blind. Buying that book for myself had been a landmark, an act of partial self-forgiveness, and the start of a more normal stage of my life.
If any stage of my life since meeting Alan can be considered normal.
I felt a drop of rain on my head and then another, so I went back inside the house. There was still no sight of Gemma.
I lost my temper with her this morning. That's not an excuse; it's just the truth. All the frustration and fear I'd been feeling about Ellen and Richard courting Gemma, the only half-acknowledged resentment I'd been feeling toward Gemma herself for choosing to spend time with them instead of with me, the one who had waited so hopefully for her for seventeen years, it had all come to a head after that upsetting phone call from Martin McGinty.
I thought everything had been going so well. Had I been fooling myself, thinking we were finally bonding?
No, I don't think so.
It was such a stupid fight, the kind of fight all people who live together experience, no matter if they're married or roommates or like Gemma and me, child and parent. Would she understand that? That a big stupid fight didn't need to be the end of a relationship?
It's wrong of me to demand love and respect from my daughterâdemanding love, if not respect, is Alan's big problem, or one of them. I wonder. If he had called this morning as he was supposed to, would Gemma and I have argued?
If I hadn't gotten the call from Martin, would we be in this sad state of alienation?
Silly questions. And what do they matter now?
Now we have to pick up the broken bits and start over.
Easier said than done.
Chapter 99
S
he didn't come out of her room for dinner. When I finally went to bed at eleven, she still hadn't emerged. I left a note telling her what there was to eat. When I came down to the kitchen this morning, the note was still there, but nothing in the fridge had been touched. Not even the last doughnut from the bakery in town. The doughnuts had been a treat for Gemma.
I started the coffee brewing and took a carton of eggs from the fridge. And then I heard the back door to Gemma's room opening, and a moment later she joined me in the kitchen. She looked exhausted. She looked as if she had been crying. I wondered if she had slept. I hadn't, not much anyway.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
That was a start. “I thought I'd make omelets for breakfast.”
Gemma shrugged. “Don't go to any trouble.”
“It's no trouble,” I said. “Cheese and ham, okay?”
Go gently,
I told myself. Slow and careful. I began to assemble the ingredients: salt and pepper, oil for the pan, a chunk of ham, and a few slices of Swiss cheese.
“I've decided I'm going to live with Ellen and Richard and go to that academy.”
The knife I'd been using to slice the ham seemed to stop in midair on its own accord.
In the space of less than twenty-four hours, the wonderful life Gemma and I had been building had come crashing to the ground.
I put down the knife and turned to face her, trying very hard to hide the shock and pain and hurt I felt. Gemma wouldn'tâcouldn'tâmeet my eyes.
“You don't have to go, you know,” I said.
“I know.”
Did she, really?
“That fight. It was stupid. I'm sorry.”
Gemma shrugged again. “Yeah,” she said. Not an apology, but oh, I think she would have apologized to me if she could have! I could feel her sorrow like a physical presence in the room.
This has to be about Gemma
, I told myself,
and not about you. Be the adult!
“I want what's best for you,” I said. I could hear the trembling in my voice, but I was too weak to get ahold of it. “I want you to be happy, and if it will make you happy to leave here, then I won't stand in your way. And if it will make you happy to stay here, with me, then I'll welcome you. We can start all over again.”
“I already told Ellen. I called her yesterday.”
But nothing is set in stone!
I wanted to say this, to argue, to plead, but what I said was: “I guess then I should talk to her.”
“There's no rush.”
“It's only a few weeks until the fall term begins. There'll be a lot to do beforeâ” I swallowed hard before going on. “Before you have to leave.”
“I guess. Yeah.”
I turned back to the stove and went about preparing our breakfast. Gemma remained leaning against the dishwasher. Neither of us said anything more.
When the omelets were cooked and the bread had toasted, I brought the plates to the table.
“Breakfast is ready,” I said. “Come and eat.”
Gemma sat in her usual seat. “Thanks,” she said, and began to eat, though not with her usual gusto. She didn't once look up at me.
The food was tasteless to me, but I made a show of eating along with her.
Normalize the situation
, I told myself.
Don't create drama
. “I have confidence in you, Gemma,” I said, pouring her a cup of coffee. “Confidence that you're mature enough to make an important decision for your future. And for your happiness.”
The words were inadequate. I knew that. And I wasn't even sure I believed what I had said, that she was capable of making good decisions for her life. But I felt I had to say something positive.
Gemma didn't reply. I have no idea if
she
believed me.
I think that was the saddest meal I've ever shared with anyone.
Chapter 100
I
didn't even feel hungry, which is not like me at all, but I ate the omelet and a piece of toast and drank a cup of coffee like it was any other day in our bungalow on Birch Lane, and Verity and I were going to hang around, doing something fun or nothing more exciting than living our life.
Our life.
She was so calm when I told her I was going to live with Ellen and Richard. Like she had expected it all along, but I don't really believe she did.
I don't really believe she wants me to go. Not all of her, anyway.
Then why is she letting me go through with this decision?
Why isn't she saving me from myself?
See, I think I made a mistake in calling Ellen yesterday.
It was just I was so upset.
I remembered what Verity once said about Alan's being one of those people who consistently make decisions against their own best interests. Maybe I'm one of those people too.
A loser.
Verity said she believes I'm mature enough to know what's right for me.
If she really believes that, she might be seriously wrong about me.
There's this old expression. “You made your bed; now you're going to have to lie in it.”
That fight was stupid. Verity was right about that. And she said she was sorry. But I couldn't say I'm sorry to her, though I
am
sorry. Because those words can't change anything now.
I've made my bed.
Chapter 101
A
s soon as breakfast was cleared awayâGemma had gone back to her room and shut the door, gently this timeâI drove over to Annie's house, first writing a note for Gemma and leaving it on the counter by the microwave.
Be home soon,
I wrote.
Call me if you need anything
.
If you need me.
“Why do you think she's doing this?” Annie said, taking a seat across from me at her kitchen table. My confessional.
“That's what I've been wanting to ask you.”
“They've been pressuring her. Ellen and Richard.”
“Maybe, but I never thought Gemma would succumb to pressure.”
“She is still just a kid, remember. And with all that's been going on with Alan? Maybe she just snapped.”
“We had a fight yesterday, right after Alan missed his weekly call. It's the first time he's done that. And then I got a call from Marty telling me there'd been a break-in at my studio and that the course on metal patination I proposed for the fall probably won't happen. And then, the next thing you know, Gemma and I were at it.”
“Nice timing,” Annie said dryly. “What exactly were you at it about?”
“Nothing and everything. Hurtful things were said. Doors were slammed.”
“You think one fight might have tipped her over the edge? Do you think she's decided to leave to punish you?”
“Oddly, no, I don't think that's it. She'd be exultant if that were the case. Instead she seems depressed.”
“Well, this is a mess.”
“I checked them out, you know,” I said. “Ellen and Richard. Back when they first came to town. One of the lead detectives on Gemma's case, Bill Morrison, he's retired now, but he was happy to help me dig for some dirt. Except there isn't any dirt. Ellen and Richard are squeaky-clean. No criminal records. Pillars of their gated community. Regular churchgoers. An income that makes me want to choke. There's nothing wrong with them.”
“Except that they're not Gemma's parents, and you are her mother.”
“Kids do just fine growing up without their biological parents.” Whom was I trying to convince? “They do just fine growing up with grandparents or an aunt and uncle.”
“We're talking about Gemma. Not anonymous kids.”
“I know that! Sorry. I didn't mean to shout.”
“If I were you, I'd be screaming.”
I think I managed a smile. “We're walking on eggshells with each other. And I'm absolutely miserable.”
“You could refuse to let her go. She's still a minor. You could put your foot down.”
“No,” I said more firmly than I felt. “I have to believe in that idea of loving someone enough to be willing to let her go. Giving her the choice to stay or to leave.”
“But what if she doesn't come back to you? Are you willing to accept that possibility?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I have to
make
myself willing.”
“Does Alan know about this?” Annie asked. “Not that he'd be of any help to you, or to Gemma, for that matter. Especially not now that he's rejected a plea bargain and proven once again he's an idiot.”
“Gemma hasn't even told her father that his cousin is in her life.”
Annie sighed. “Have you told Marion yet?”
“No. I think I'm hoping Gemma will change her mind and Marion won't have to know we almost lost her again.”
“Do you think Gemma will change her mind?”
I shook my head. “Honestly? No. She's proud. She's stubborn. And for all I know, she really
does
want to get away from me.”
“Then maybe you should tell Marion before Ellen does. Marion's delicate. Ellen is not.”
“Ellen wants nothing to do with Alan's mother. She won't go near her.”
“All right, your call. So, have you spoken to Ellen since Gemma's announcement?”
“I'm going to call her later today. I'm dreading it. I'm not at all sure what I'm going to say.
Congratulations, you won? If you hurt my daughter, I'll kill you?
”
“Do you want me to be with you when you talk to Ellen? Moral support.”
I shook my head again. “Thanks, Annie. But this is something I should do on my own. If only I knew why Gemma wants to leave!”
“Maybe she thinks she's doing you a favor.” Annie shrugged. “I don't know, I'm just throwing stuff out and seeing what, if anything, sticks.”
“But I thought I've made it clear to her that I want her with me. We were getting along.”
“You hardly know Gemma, Verity,” Annie pointed out. “None of us do. Sorry, but that's the truth. For all we know, she's always been . . . inconsistent.”
Would Alan have insight into Gemma's unexpected decision? The thought surprised me.
Abruptly, I got up from the table. “I should get back,” I said. “Thanks, Annie.”
“I don't know that I've done anything to deserve thanks.”
“You listen,” I said. “What's better is that you really hear me.”