All of These Things Read online

  A shudder resonates around the room, and I blanch. My mother’s words are often a kick to my teeth, so why is it everyone turns to stare me down at times like these, as though I have any control over the woman?

  Mom glances in my direction.

  “Oh, Caroline, stop that,” she pesters. “We’re fair-skinned you and I, and people like us can’t go into shock. It doesn’t suit us. And don’t frown, Princess. I don’t understand why you want to age before your time. You risk expression lines every time you do that.”

  A muted snarl escapes me.

  Seven are partaking in today’s circle, not including Jed or two other family members unrelated to Mom and me, and each drop-in has come to know Mom well. On any given week, she’s either detached and aloof or perturbingly loquacious. Her mood swings—my mother’s awkward preoccupations and spectacularly ill-timed contributions to a conversation—are more than tricky for me. More often than not, they require some level of damage control which I admit can exhaust and embarrass me in equal measure. To be honest, it’s the main reason I waver to set a date with Ryan for our parents to meet.

  Mom’s red pumps sneak out from her black, flared pants. I notice Hugo’s eyes rolling in unison from across the room. He’s in a trance following the rotation of her foot. I clasp a hand on Mom’s knee to arrest the movement, but maybe too abruptly because Lianne jolts in her seat. Realizing what I’ve done, I immediately revoke the gesture. My hand lands harshly against my own chest, and again, Lianne flinches.

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry. “Hands on me”, I know. I’m so sorry, Lianne. Sorry, Jed,” I say. “Mother,” I whisper sternly, “be nice or else… no Sephora for you today.”

  Mom’s mouth falls open, but no words come out. The beauty emporium has become a valuable bargaining chip of late, and I want more than anything to reprimand her for being so uncouth. Tidying up after her mess has always made me feel like a mother collecting an errant child from school, but in session I must resign from the process I know too well. Here, the circumstances are different. It’s Jed’s job to guide and intervene, and once the ninety minutes conclude… well, then it’s back to me picking up the pieces left behind.

  “Amalia,” Jed utters in a way that tells me he’s about to express displeasure followed by a benevolent reminder, “we vetoed the word “crazy”. You helped Amy with the approved wordlist, but you still used it in the message to your daughter. Our wordlist is an esteemed accomplishment for the group. Do you no longer think so?”

  “Yes, yes. We’re very esteemed,” she says dismissively. “Nora, Raina, I can help you. Trust me. I know colour more than Christie Brinkley knows Cover Girl. Just ask my daughter. Isn’t that right, Princess? Tell them.”

  I shrug. “Yes, actually. That is true.”

  “See.” Mom grins, the heavy side-part of her shiny, blond hair covers an eye, shielding half her face and red-orange lips. The pin curl waves would make Veronica Lake jealous; I’ve only known my mother to be particularly fixed on neat, chic, retro styles. I glance over to Jed, surveying him.

  To be honest, I’m growing increasingly annoyed by his incompetence to steer discussions back to topic—not that I’m eager to hear more of my mother’s note. It irks me that she’s being given any momentum to openly criticize these people. Unlike Jed, who is an amateur compared to the others I’ve met at Catherine’s House, Amy Walsh would definitely have a handle on this situation. The others in the group are obviously inept or uncomfortable to defend themselves at this point in their lives. Foregoing all I have to do today before leaving on holiday with Sofie tomorrow suddenly seems like a bad idea. Actually, it’s the first time I’m not referring to the trip itself as a bad idea. I look intently at Jed Rosenberg and communicate a pleading thought to move on.

  “Right,” Jed jumps in. “So, Amalia, may I read the rest of your letter?”

  “It’s not a letter. I don’t want a response.”

  “Alright but don’t you want Caroline to hear—”

  “Jed?” Lianne calls from the yellow sofa. “Jed, why doesn’t Amalia write in a journal like the rest of us?”

  “I’m hardly twelve, Lianne. I don’t keep diaries,” my mother rebukes, barely keeping her impatience at bay.

  Generally, the group annoys her. She refuses to recognize they may walk on common ground—that they could be an alliance rather than a provocation. Mom will refute the notion she shares a bond with any participant and resents them as much as she does Jed or even Amy and Dr. Toussaint. Frankly, she despises anyone who has anything to do with the place. She’ll criticize its orderlies, cooks, ground keepers, and every last person of the rancid bunch, and is absolutely convinced they’re conspiring to make her life miserable.

  “It’s all the same,” Jed explains, “on paper or in a book. That’s not a big detail for us, folks. Besides I’m sure Amalia spoke to Amy about her choice. What counts here is that we’re doing the homework.”

  “But why don’t you want to write in a book? They sell real pretty ones in the gift shop.”

  I narrow my gaze in Lianne’s direction. The mousy slip-of-a-thing manages to potentially be a major source of an explosion. Her incessant observations and commentary necessitate frequent mediation, and from what I can see radiating from my mother, I think Jed may have to defuse another ticking bomb.

  “Because, Lee-anne,” the top of Mom’s cheeks flush, “I don’t want a damn book! If you ask me, those journals are positively annoying. My daughter gave me a journal once, and it was absolutely the worst gift.”

  Promptly, my shoulders sink with the rest of my torso.

  “That book teased me, the way it sat there waiting for me, showing off every single one of its blank pages. Well, what if I don’t want to write in it? What if I don’t have anything else to write other than what I put down on the first page, huh?”

  I’m rattled, my pulse speeding to match a pounding heartbeat. I notice my mother’s hands are fists, and the veins in her neck jut against the skin. My eyes feel glassy, and I press my lips together to keep them from quivering. Mom continues, unaware, or too ill-equipped to recognize her own daughter’s mounting anxiety.

  “What if all I want to give is right there on the first page, and I have nothing more to offer? Maybe I want to be done with the book after one, single entry and keep the rest empty forever. Did you ever think of that, Lee-anne? That book drove me crazy sitting there, needing more from me all the time. What if I don’t have more? What if I don’t want to give more than the first page?”

  I hold a breath to fight the tears threatening to crash down my cheeks. Squeezing my lids together before my eyes snap open, I sedate my racing thoughts. I need a moment to step out of my body like the professionals have advised me to. Everyone gains when you put on the oxygen mask first. Help yourself before helping anyone else. Sometimes I want to run away so I can smash things—anything—a lot of things. That would feel so good right now: to hurt things when Mom and I hurt like this.

  “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay,” I say. “I get it. Paper does make more sense.”

  Through the open window, from the rear of the room, a breeze carries in a bouquet of tranquility. A potpourri of fresh cut grass and lavender calms the space’s lively colour scheme. I can’t completely explain it, but I think I understand why paper is less intimidating for Mom. A book with dozens of pages reeks of expectation, and she doesn’t need an extra load of anxiety. I wish I had chewed on that before handing her the empty book months ago, but as much as I’ve come to know the monster, it’s still totally unexpected when life conforms to its menacing shape. It’s just the way it is in our small, dysfunctional family.

  Exhausted to my very bones, I opt to head out for a walk in the fields. The birds sound busy, happy, and like the perfect distraction. I decide I don’t want to hear the rest of Mom’s message. I don’t trust myself not to cry today. Leaving her behind, while I frolic on so
me holiday like there’s nothing here for me to do, is too unsettling, and really, I just want to go outside and seek some kind of resolve. It’s not like me to disrupt circle, but today—with tears always at the surface—I know I have to.

  “I’m sorry, Jed. Mom can tell me about the note on our drive home. We need to get some air right now.”

  I collect my grey leather tote, a birthday present from my father and his girlfriend of ten years, Sandrine.

  “Are you going to the gift shop to buy Amalia a journal?” Lianne’s voice comes from behind. A snarky remark flits in my head, but I look to Mom, instead, flashing her a strict look not to respond. “Sephora…” I croon.

  Chapter Three

  A muffled bleep vibrates from the dark pit of my handbag. It manages to break through the music of woodwind instruments and the reverberating melodies of spilling water. I ignore it, realizing I neglected to silence my mobile before group, Besides, there are almost certainly three people it can be.

  For one, my father, which is extremely unlikely because even for an emergency he’d wrestle the instinct to disturb group. Two, Sofie, who, of course, knows exactly where I am every Saturday but generally acts before she thinks and is probably firing more enticing images of Maine and the house we’re to take over in twenty-four hours. Finally, there’s Ryan. From time to time my boyfriend fails to grasp not only how rude and off-putting it is to break away for a phone call or text message, but it could possibly be interpreted as uncooperative behaviour on my part. My short stroll reaches a halt.

  Dizzy, I park myself by an iron garden table to pick up my wits, allowing a slow, lungful of air to reach my brain. My bloodstream feels like it’s made of molasses.

  The thing is, I’m actually beginning to regret my little exodus. I fear the kind of impression I may have left behind in there. It’s not that I’m forced to sit in with my mother, but over the years I’ve remarked that she’s somewhat more contributing when I am present. Some weeks, I’ll volunteer an entire day to the clinic, prompting Mom to join classes and workshops offered onsite, but during rare, self-pitying feasts, I’m moved to blubbering waterworks alone in the car. However comely and serene this milieu is, I’m bound and obligated to it and my mother’s condition.

  “There you are!” Mom cries.

  Clearly, the woman has no misgivings about disturbing the peace. Her hands are at her waist, and she’s visibly upset but still manages to look unruffled. Her white and black polka dot blouse is opened two buttons more than I consider appropriate and is tucked neatly into slim, high-waist pants. Dramatic lips pair well with her red heels, but it’s the black, Jackie O glasses that bring her outfit to a meticulous finish. Somehow, in this day and age, my mother makes it work.

  “I told you I’d be in the garden,” I say from where I’m sitting.

  “And I told you that I didn’t want to come here today. I told you I was in no mood for it, but you just had to have your way. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you, Caroline? You had to force me against my will,” she says, sitting across from me. “How could you leave me in there?”

  I baulk. “What do you mean I left you there? Mother, we left the group together. I practically stormed us both out of there because, yes, yes today Lianne was getting on my nerves, too. And Jed… he’s too sloppy for leading group. But the point is I needed a break, and I knew you could use it, too.” I shake my head slowly and disbelieving.

  “You’re probably concocting some plan with Jed and Amy,” she mumbles.

  “Really. That’s what you really believe? And what kind of plan would that be?”

  “You’re going to let them kidnap me.”

  I bite my lower lip to pin down the beginning of a smile. “Mom, trust me. No one wants you that bad.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well I’m the mother, Caroline. I know. They want me to stay here, Princess. They want me to live here, and they want me to join arts and crafts.”

  “Arts and crafts can be fun.”

  “They want me to draw!”

  “Drawing is relaxing.”

  “They want me to plant and knit and live with a bunch of crazies!”

  “Mother,” I say, looking serious. “We don’t say crazy. I was five the last time you had to stay here. You needed the extra rest and care, then. No one kidnapped you.”

  “Well, they could have kidnapped me,” she cuts in, “and you would have been none the wiser. Of course, I’m not shocked. It’s not like you care.”

  My eyes dart to the paved ground.

  Dad was driving a black Toyota then, and to this day the sight of that emblem is disconcerting. It throws me immediately back to when I kick-started the habit of dwelling on worst case scenarios for all the possible what ifs in my life. I suppose Mom’s blurred lines prompted it all.

  She thought I was insufferable, but she couldn’t resist sharing every thought with me. I irritated her, but I was also her princess. She hated my father until she loved him desperately. My father was my father until she decided he wasn’t. Back and forth, up and down, and round and round she went, but that natural gravity filling the space between a child and her mother pulled me in for the ride. Mom was the Sun and I the Earth. I couldn’t help wanting to orbit closely around her even when I knew she’d eventually side-step me of her own accord, dodging me until withdrawing totally out of reach.

  Noni Sara had turned up at the apartment early that morning when I was five. Outside was still dark as night, and she came to collect me while Dad gathered Mom in his arms and carried her into the Camry like he carried me when I fell asleep away from my bed. He attempted to provide me solace, but his words were perplexing. Dad’s voice sounded odd and whispery thick. His dark eyelashes were soggy over squinting and rapidly blinking eyes. Mom quaked and winced in his arms. She attached herself to him like a frantic bloodsucker, and Noni compelled me away from the living room window when they left. She said she didn’t want to pack my suitcase without me and meritoriously edged my thoughts away from the vision of a mother who was acting like bugs were creeping on every inch of her skin.

  The only consoling news Noni offered was that Aunt Mara was bringing Sofie later that morning, and the three of us could sleep in Noni Sara’s bed. That’s really all I needed to hear because seamlessly my grandmother snapped my chain of thought.

  Mom’s spine straightens against the intricate iron work on the back of the garden chair. Her feet coil, and her legs tilt to a sophisticated angle. She’s a remarkable vision amid a backdrop of pale blue and soft purple flowered hedges, but underneath, her air of mystery something always screams.

  “Did you hear them in there?” she asks. “They’re unbearable—lamenting like that all the time.” She looks away from me, in the direction of a stone bench. It’s a hallmark of hers, talking to but not looking at me. I feel her gaze shift, and I peek up at the imposing figure from beneath hooded lids. My mother looks lovely, sitting there just so, and it’s a wonder how her skin remains unsullied by a bright and muggy day.

  “Oh, Caroline. They’re coming. They’re coming, Caroline!” She makes a startled jump, grasping my hand. She tugs at my wrist and is barely holding back from dashing off. “Caroline? Caroline. Move! Get up!” she shrieks. “I knew it. I just knew it. You’re going to leave me here, aren’t you? You ungrateful, awful brat.”

  “Mom, calm down. Please—”

  “I will not! Oh you’re a terrible child. I don’t know what I did to deserve you but… No. Caroline De Andreis, get up this instant.”

  “Mom!” I interrupt her harried thoughts. “Mom,” I try again, “look at me. Do I look worried to you? I’m not worried, and I’m right here with you. These people are not after you, Mom. They’re family members or staff and volunteers. They have every right to roam the grounds. It’s a beautiful day, and they probably want to be outside like we do.”

  “I don’t want to be outside.” />
  “Okay. They want to be outside like I do. They’re not after you. It’s just a warm, sunny day. Why wouldn’t they come out? Think about it for a second,” I say, placing a hand over her heart. “This is beating too fast. Why don’t you take a deep breath like we did that time during yoga hour?”

  “I hate yoga.”

  “Fine. Then take a deep breath in, like there’s a field of your favorite flowers at your feet.”

  “Tulips rarely have a scent.”

  My chest hitches, and I release a boisterous breath. Maybe I should consider buying that painting from the clinic and carrying it around with me for back up. My thoughts drift back to the odd man with the art work but speedily come back to the present.

  “Then how about like a bottle of Miss Dior, Mom?”

  “Are we still going to Sephora? Because I need that lipstick for my collection, Caroline.”

  “Only if I hear you breathe.”

  Her gaze rises from my nose—a similar reflection of her own dainty feature—to somewhere over my head.

  “Breathe, Mom.”

  Her chest expands, straightening out as though her heart is opening, and she looks ready to comply before heaving a long, rough puff of air into my face.

  I toss my head back in exasperation.

  “Now is that mature?” I ask. “I’m trying to help you. You’re nervous, and I’m trying to help you through that.”

  “I’m the mother. Not you, Caroline.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I’m here with you, aren’t I? I’m always here. Can’t you, for one minute, make it bearable for me? Will you ever make things easy for me?”