“Who wouldn’t like that kind of freedom?”
Me, for one, though I don’t bother telling her that. She already knows.
“What’s in there?” I ask curiously, nodding to the black case by the sofa.
“My jewelry.”
“Can I see some of it?”
A faint surprise flashes in her eyes. “You want to see my jewelry?”
“Sure.”
She hefts the case onto the coffee table and unlocks it. She opens little compartments and drawers to show me dozens of pieces—gemstone necklaces, beaded earrings, shell brooches, dozens of the woven bracelets and anklets I remember from years ago.
“The detail work is beautiful.” I study a blue-and-white bracelet woven in a crisscross pattern.
“I took a few classes, learned some new techniques.”
I look at a necklace with wire-wrapped green stones and a brooch painted with the image of a flower. They’re pretty, obviously done with care and more expertise than I can recall Crystal possessing.
“Aunt Stella once said you wanted to be a fashion designer.”
My words come out unbidden, almost as if someone else had spoken them. I tighten my fist on the brooch and look at my mother.
She doesn’t respond right away, but the edge of her jaw tenses. “So?”
“Is it true?”
“I wanted a lot of things, Liv.” She puts a few earrings into a drawer and slams it shut. “Doesn’t mean I got any of them.”
I’m struck with the urge to apologize—I know her life didn’t turn out the way she wanted because she got pregnant with me. But I can’t apologize for having been born. I have to swallow hard to push the I’m sorry back down.
She continues putting the jewelry back in the case. “So what else has Stella said?”
“She said my… my father regretted how things turned out.”
The words my father sound unfamiliar in my mouth. I don’t talk about him at all. Don’t think about him. He’s a ghost, there and yet not there.
He was in my life for seven years—long enough for memories and images to bury themselves like seeds in my mind. But they never grew because Crystal was the sun, bright, hot, blinding. Whatever memories of my father I’d wanted to cling to withered under the force of her light.
Now, unexpectedly, they push through the dirt. There’s a man with close-cropped hair and a youthful swagger. Tall and broad, a silver chain around his neck. He smelled of sawdust and sweat. Worked as a carpenter. He died in a car accident when I was eleven.
Crystal turns to put the bracelet away, slamming the little drawer closed.
“Your father should have regretted a lot of things,” she says.
“Do you?” Again, it’s like someone else is speaking.
“Jesus, Liv.” Bitterness discolors her voice. “My whole life is a regret.”
The next morning, after I tell Crystal about the Wonderland Café, she comes with me to see the building. I take her on a tour of the interior, telling her our plans for the lower-level Alice in Wonderland theme and the Wizard of Oz rooms upstairs.
“When you were a kid, you used to love places like this,” she remarks, peering out the upstairs window at the view of the lake.
For some reason, the band around my heart loosens a little at her remark. It’s an odd comfort to realize that she remembers something about me when I was a child. Maybe I hadn’t been as invisible to her as I’d so often felt.
“Hi, Liv.” Allie’s cheerful voice precedes her entrance into the room.
“Allie, this is my mother,” I tell her. “Crystal Winter.”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were in town.” Allie extends a hand to my mother. “Liv showed me your commercial a while ago.”
My heart drops. Tension rolls through Crystal, straightening her spine.
“I didn’t even know Liv had that tape,” she remarks.
Allie glances at me with uncertainty, appearing to sense that this is forbidden territory. “Um, it was fun to watch.”
“I’m sure it was,” Crystal says.
“So, Allie, isn’t Brent coming this morning?” I ask.
“He should be here any minute,” she replies. “I’m going to finish up in the front room.”
She gives me an apologetic glance before leaving. Crystal is still looking at me.
“I thought I got rid of that tape years ago,” she says. “I distinctly remember throwing it away.”
“I… I got it out of the trash.” I’d been nine years old. Crystal had gone out for a singing gig at a nightclub, and I’d rummaged through greasy TV dinner trays to retrieve the tape from the garbage.
“Why did you do that?” she asks.
I have no idea. I didn’t understand my mother. I just wanted something of her, even an old VHS tape of a cereal commercial. A cherub-faced blonde girl who looked so happy and seemed like she had a bright future.
“I wanted to keep it,” I finally admit. “You can have it back, if you want.”
“No.” Her voice is chilly. “I don’t want it.”
A clutter of voices drifts up the staircase. I tilt my head toward the door.
“We should probably go,” I suggest.
“I thought you needed to work.”