Did I do that? I stare in horror at the woman on the floor in front of me. I pushed my own mother down and screamed at her. Why? I feel myself melting inside, wanting to flee again. To hide. But I also want to explain. I want her to understand.
I want everyone to understand. But when I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out right.
I bolt up the back stairs, into Sylvie’s kitchen, and grab my painting. The still-wet paint leaves dark smudges on my fingers. I bring it back down to the shop, where Mom is still on the floor. I hold the painting in front of her face. As something dawns in her eyes, I understand what Sylvie meant when she said that when you create a work of art, you’re saying something to the world.
Slowly, as if she’s in a trance, Mom reaches out with a shaking finger to touch my painting. She whispers something, too soft to understand. She takes in a sudden, sharp breath of air.
Then, she speaks, her eyes never leaving my painting.
“So little,” she whispers. “You were so little. My baby.” She draws in a ragged breath. “I lost you in the big store. One minute you were with me, and then, you were gone.” Tears pour from her eyes. Her voice shakes. “The people in the store, they looked for you, we kept calling your name, but you didn’t answer. They called the police, but you were gone, my baby was gone . . .”
Mom presses her hands over her face, and then her whole body folds in on itself. Zander kneels beside her and wraps his arms around her, holding her while she sobs.
Someone sniffs. I turn to see who it is. It’s Ansel, watching me with tears in his eyes. And suddenly, this time when I open my mouth, the words are all there; ready to spill from my lips, and once I start, it’s like a dam breaks, and I know there’s nothing I could do to stop this rushing wall of words.
Looking into Ansel’s dark eyes, I speak to everyone. Sylvie, émile, Ansel, Mom, Zander, and Mrs. Thackeray. I tell how my first taste of freedom felt. How I found Sylvie and émile and chose them to be my new family. Why I thought there might be a permanent place for me here and how I didn’t understand what happened to Ansel. I even tell them about Jada and the horrible things I said to her. I tell how my dream of being “normal” in France came to a crash that day I couldn’t even order a sandwich, but I still didn’t want to leave. It was better than being home.
My words become more and more tangled, but I keep talking. I talk about lightning on the wall, paintings and letters. I tell about Thomas and what happened the day I cut off my hair. I describe how I found Marguerite’s portrait.
And suddenly, I’m done.
I collapse into the nearest chair and close my eyes. I am empty. Now, I’m the crumpled balloon.
Zander breaks the silence.
“You lock her in her room, Darla?” he says, in a voice so soft I barely catch the words. “Literally lock her in, so she can’t get out?”
I open my eyes. Zan and Mom are still sitting on the floor, no longer embracing. Their eyes are searching, traveling over one another’s crumpled forms, seeing things they never have before. Mom’s tears have stopped but her face is a mascara-smeared wreck. She hugs herself.
“I do it to keep her safe, Zander,” she says in a trembling voice. “To keep her safe,” she wails, her voice echoing through the shop. “I couldn’t stand the thought of ever losing her again!”
Zander catches my eye. I try to smile but can’t. His lips twitch for a second or two. He’s doing exactly what I’m doing; trying to make his face look like he’s okay when he’s ripped up inside. But that would take both of us way more than we’ve got, so we drop the facade and just stare at each other.
I cannot believe what I was about to do to him. My voice has gone into hiding, so I mouth the words instead.
I’m sorry.
Zander’s face is still. His eyes are pools of sorrow. Then, his lips press together and curve upward, forming a tiny smile.
“I saw my entire life flash before me, kid,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Thank you for telling the truth.”
He turns back to Mom.
“I helped Rosemary do this, Darla,” he says. He rolls his eyes. “Well, not this,” he says, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate the shop around us. “I wasn’t aware she was going to travel to Nice, but I helped her get to France because I felt like she needed to be on her own for a while. To gain more confidence. To believe in herself. Frankly, I think it worked.” He scoots closer to Mom. She doesn’t look at him. “Don’t you think so, Darla?” Zander adds in a whisper.
Mom doesn’t say anything. She keeps her head down. Tears fall onto fists clenched tight in her lap.
I put my face in my hands. She doesn’t get it. What if she never does?
At first, I hear nothing but the soft whir of the machine that breathes for Ansel, but then, there’s a shuffling sound. I open my eyes. Mom is crawling across the floor. She reaches me and takes my hand. I start to pull away, but freeze when I see her face. Something is different. The hardness is gone. So is the anger.
“Rosemary,” she whispers. “I’m the one who should apologize. I am truly, truly sorry. Please forgive me.”
Twenty-Six