“Anyway, I had it hauled out and I rubbed it down myself every night with oil for a month. It was a cathartic experience. Better than therapy.”
Something incongruent caught my eye. Something massive and royal blue.
“What is that?”
“My oven. Come see. It’s an AGA and it’s my favorite thing in the whole house. It’s always on and always warm. It heats this room all by itself. I had to take a class to learn how to use it. You can’t adjust any of those compartments.”
She stepped away from the stove and went through the motions of preparing coffee. As soon as it was steeping in her French press, she turned back to me. “While this rests, we’ll tour the other floors then come back down here.”
The first floor—an American’s second floor—was equally transformed. The bedrooms no longer sported peeling wallpaper, water-stained ceilings, and soiled carpets.
The floors here were an interwoven parquet. Mom had used very few rugs. That struck me as I recalled always feeling damp and cold during my short visits. She grinned when I commented.
“The floors are heated. I did it throughout the whole house. It not only keeps everything drier—eleven percent drier—but it feels wonderful. I just couldn’t bear to cover them.”
Mom led me through the four bedrooms flanking the sides of the house, saving the front center room for last. I turned back at the doorway.
“Why’d you pick that corner one for your room? You should have this one.”
She smiled, small and mysterious, as she led me around the doorway into the room.
It was mine. So clearly mine.
It was not exactly like the room I’d grown up in, but of the same value and texture if you’d combined mine with my sister’s. She had used our colors—greens for Amelia, purples for me—but in a far more sophisticated manner. The walls were covered in a cream paper, with hand-printed, raised white stripes running down every few inches. The curtains hung straight, with no tiebacks or frills, and puddled onto the wood floor. They looked as if someone had taken a bridal bouquet of deep, rich flowers and thrown them onto the fabric. The flowers had scattered and, rather than assault you with chaotic color, they teased you closer. The bed was draped in white with the same floral fabric covering three Euro shams across its headboard. A chartreuse reading chair and ottoman sitting in the corner brought out the greens. The room also had a small desk.
“I hoped you’d come someday.”
I turned to her. Unable to speak, I nodded. Then to fill what felt to be an uncomfortable silence growing, I did what I always did. I pushed Jason between us. “What did Jason say?”
Mom smoothed over the comparison I hadn’t explicitly made. “Ten years is a big age gap. I was so different for you both. We were all different after Amelia, and I made so many mistakes . . . We’ll talk.” She squeezed my hand. “Come see the rest of the house.”
I swallowed. I blinked. I followed my mom down the hallway.
As we made our way to the top floor, I envisioned the abandoned nursery, the playroom, the series of servants’ quarters, and the dark wood–paneled attic that had occupied my last thirty hours of thought.
The west half was now one long open room. Its walls were painted a warm cream, and it held reading chairs set in the dormer window bays. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a massive, high wood table stood in the center of the room.
“I designed this myself. I come up here to work on things, wrap gifts and such. It’s nice to be able to stand.”
She opened double doors to the east side, revealing a fully appointed one-bedroom apartment. I raised a brow.
“I planned this floor for Jason’s family or yours someday to have privacy when you come to visit.” She smiled. “Or for someone to live in when I get old.”
“Mom.”
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. I may be ten years younger than your dad, but it’ll happen.” She pushed open a panel of wall where I hadn’t noted the outline of a door. “The attic is still back here. I had it thoroughly cleaned and sealed and added lighting and better shelving, but for the most part, I left it untouched.”
“It’s really nice, Mom.”
I stepped back into the large room with the high table. It was a stunning house, and only up here, looking at a worktable—the most basic thing in the home—did I realize how enormous it was and how lonely she might be.
She must have trailed my thoughts. She shrugged. “I also come up here to sit or when life feels big. Sometimes we need smaller spaces to confine us, comfort us. I refinished it first and even lived up here for a couple years while working on the rest of the house.”
“Mom.” I sighed. Something hard softened within me.
She smiled. It was less buoyant this time. “None of that. It’s so good to see you. I . . . I have so much I want to say.”
“I came to talk about Grandmother and that letter we found all those years ago.” My reply felt curt. It sounded curt.
“I see.” She tilted her head. “Let’s head back downstairs then.”
Nothing more was said until we sat at the broad table, coffees in hand, with a slice of homemade zucchini bread sitting in front of me. I wasn’t hungry—and hadn’t been for the last couple days.
“I can’t believe you’re here.” Mom’s eyes widened as if she was absorbing every detail of my face. “Tell me about life. How’s your job?”
“Good.” I nodded. “It’s busy, but good.”
“But?”
I wrapped both hands around my coffee, unsure how to start, how to explain. My relationship with Mom had been fraught for years, but in some ways it was more honest and forthright than my dealings with my dad. She’d been more open and approachable once upon a time, and that memory lingered—as clearly did my longing for that time because she could still sneak in between the chinks in my armor. It was both soothing and disconcerting.
I drew a deep breath to keep focused on the here and now. “I like it, but it’s not what I want to be doing. I loved the law. It fit how I think, and it felt personal. What I do now might help humanity, but I never see or know the individual.”
I picked at a corner of the zucchini bread, surprised I’d shared so much and made myself vulnerable to her opinion, or to her dismissal.
“You’re twenty-eight.” She reached for my hand and squeezed her assurance. “There’s still time to find what you want and where you want to be.”
“Not so much.” I chuckled, hoping it didn’t sound as disillusioned as it felt. “Jason sent me a terrifying article that these years aren’t the throwaways everyone says. They’re ‘formative.’” I made air quotes to make light of an article that had kept me awake for two nights after I read it.
“Oh, your brother.” Mom laughed. “To have three parents is not easy, dear.”
“But he’s not wrong. A couple of my friends have babies. Two more are finishing law school. My college roommate is the youngest partner ever at Bain and Company, and the medical research Callie is doing is groundbreaking.”
“Okay, not that much time.” She lightened her comment with a smile. “What brings you here? Why do you want to talk about the letter?”
“I came to set our family ablaze.”