Ellen Greenwich was tall and thin, graceful like a ballerina and strikingly beautiful with long blond hair and hazel eyes. Every movement she made looked effortless—the way she walked, the way she folded laundry, the way she ran her fingers through her silky hair. Clara often thought that her mother made life look easy—the act of giving birth no more difficult than putting a dirty spoon in the dishwasher.
The quiet humming energy exploded into mania from time to time. Always wonderful, over-the-top joy and passion that swept up the girls, twirled them around the kitchen, and danced them out the door to the back yard where they sang and clapped for their mother. But then their father left, and the mania turned ugly. Bedroom doors ripped open and nothing but screaming. What did we do? Clara would ask herself, but she never understood. And then there was no mania. Only silence as their mother lay for days and days in her bedroom, the door locked, barring any contact. The girls were left alone to feed themselves, get ready for school. And then one day they came home, and she was gone.
Clara held Beatrice’s hand as they navigated the icy walkway to the front door. It was Thursday afternoon, and Clara didn’t have to work. It was the first day in several weeks she didn’t have to work, and it felt great. She wanted to spend the entire evening with Beatrice. She missed her, feeling a space between them she didn’t like—something a little uncomfortable that she couldn’t voice aloud but knew Beatrice felt as well.
“I think we should go for burgers tonight,” Clara said rummaging through her purse for the house key. “What do you think?”
“Not at that one place, though,” Beatrice said. “Not where those girls were.”
“No, we’ll go someplace different,” Clara replied.
Beatrice shivered on the porch as she watched Clara dig around in her purse.
“Why did you take the house key off your key ring, Clara?” Beatrice asked irritably.
“I can’t remember,” Clara admitted, and she couldn’t. “Where’s your key, Bea?”
“You told me to leave it at home, remember? Because you were picking me up from school?”
Clara nodded.
Beatrice searched for other things to talk about as she waited to enter the warm relief of their living room.
“Can Evan come tonight?” she asked.
She had been asking for Evan a lot lately, and it bothered Clara. She knew why. Beatrice still didn’t feel completely comfortable with her. Not since the letter opener incident. Evan was the one who made Beatrice feel safe now, and Clara felt sore and silently angry over it. She wanted to be the comfort, the protector, the one Beatrice trusted. She worked two jobs for it, paid bills for it, made dinner for it. But she lost Beatrice’s trust when she had her meltdown, and she feared there was no way to fix it.
“Ah ha!” she said satisfied. “Found it,” and she inserted the key in the lock.
“What about Evan, Clara?” Beatrice persisted.
“I’ll call and ask him,” Clara said finally.
“May I?”
Clara pushed the door open. “Sure.”
Ellen Greenwich sat at the kitchen table looking over the bills. There was something cooking in the oven, something coated with herbs and filling the whole house with a delicious, earthy smell. Ellen looked up from the papers when she heard her daughters walk in.
“Well, there they are,” she said, and smiled sweetly.
Clara and Beatrice froze. They stood staring for what seemed like hours. Clara reached over to take Beatrice’s hand protectively, but Beatrice shrugged her off.
“Mommy?” Beatrice said in a small whisper. Then recognition set in as she screamed it. “MOMMY!” and ran into Ellen’s outstretched arms, jumping into her lap, clutching at her mother’s neck while she listened to Ellen’s soft, low chuckles.
“Beatrice, you’re so grown,” Ellen said, pulling her daughter away so that she could look at her face. Beatrice’s eyes swam with tears.
“You won’t ever leave again will you, Mommy?” Beatrice asked, her little voice quavering.
“Never,” Ellen said. “I will never leave again,” and she pulled Beatrice close to her, wrapping her tight, closing her eyes in bliss as she breathed in the scent of Beatrice’s hair.
Clara remained frozen to her spot. Her brain could not register the turn of events. She was tempted to call the police. There was a stranger in her house, and she wanted her gone this instant.
“Clara?” her mother asked.
“What?”
“Don’t you want to come over here and give me a hug?”
Clara moved automatically without thought or feeling. Ellen released Beatrice and stood up, taking Clara into her arms and holding her close. Clara kept her arms by her sides fighting the urge to hit her mother. She did not recognize her voice, her scent, her body. It was a stranger holding her, somebody pretending to be her mother, and she wanted to scream into this woman’s shoulder to let go.
“I missed you, Clara,” her mother said tenderly, kissing the top of her head.
“Did you miss me, too?” Beatrice asked. She was hungry for her mother’s attention, and Clara was in the way.
Ellen released Clara and bent down to look at her youngest daughter.
“You better believe I did,” she said winking. Beatrice smiled.
“So where were you, Mommy?” Beatrice asked.
Clara wanted to tell Beatrice to shut up and stop calling their mother “Mommy.” She never called her “Mommy.” It was always “Mom.”
Ellen invited the girls to sit with her at the table. Beatrice went willingly. Clara fumed, glaring at her mother from across the table.
“Girls, I had to go away for awhile,” Ellen said. She reached over to take Beatrice’s hand. She did not take Clara’s, sensing Clara would not let her.
“Why?” Beatrice asked.