But when it came to that ten-year gap between the first and second chapters, I was completely in the dark. I set the letter down on the bed, my mind running in circles. I had been rather young at age thirty-four when I lost my mother, but I knew in my heart that I could have got to know her better if I had tried harder. I had no excuse. I never learned a single thing about her teens or twenties. As much as it now hurt to admit, I just never asked her enough questions. Were we similar at similar ages? How much had we had in common? My mother and I shared the same eyes, facial expressions, and temperament, but that didn’t necessarily mean we were similar.
Before the letter, I never took the time to question my relationship with my mother. I certainly felt close to her. No matter the distance, I had managed to call her, even from the other side of the world. And after I gave her that laptop for Christmas, not a week went by without a video chat. But what did we even talk about, with our faces side by side on-screen? I couldn’t think of a single lasting conversation. Mum would ask about everything happening in my life and my trips around the world. But it often stressed me out to hear how much she worried about me, so I must have sounded evasive at times or, worse, wasted precious time chatting about the weather in classic British fashion.
I thought back to Michel’s blunt question as he gobbled down his scone in that drab tearoom. How was it that I cared more about people I didn’t even know than about my own family? The question stung more than a slap in the face.
Come on, Elby! How the hell did you let so much of your life pass by without finding out who your own mother really was? Was it out of respect, or because you were scared? Or was it just simple negligence? Of course, the thought that she would be snatched away so suddenly never even crossed your mind. You told yourself you’d ask someday. But someday never came. And now she was gone.
I was surprised to find tears welling up in my eyes. I’m not the emotional type. Well, at least not that emotional.
I only knew your good side. How is it that I had to get a letter from an anonymous shit with weird riddles about your bad side to finally be interested in you? Maybe that’s why you kept so many secrets: you didn’t want to share them with your selfish brat of a daughter. My friends used to get so jealous when I bragged that you were my best friend and I could trust you completely and unconditionally. I knew I could tell you anything. Anything.
But you couldn’t tell me a thing, because every time I knocked at your door, all our time together was reserved for me, and never for you. I thought of the countless times you took me to school in the morning and then picked me up at night. And the countless times you were cleaning or taking care of everything for us kids. I could hear you out there, while I lay in bed, all alone in my room, and I never bothered to venture out and show any interest in you. So proud, with my books and my passion. But the story of your life remained sealed and unread, and now I was left only with blank pages.
Just then, I heard the door to my childhood bedroom creak open, and I turned to find my father staring at me from the hallway.
“Oh, hello, dear. I thought you were at your studio.”
“Well, I just wanted to . . . I don’t know what I wanted.”
Dad came and sat on the edge of the bed.
“The comfort of home, perhaps. What’s got you down, sweet pea?”
“Nothing, everything’s okay,” I assured him.
“Come now. Those eyes of yours are way too red for ‘okay.’ Problems in your love life? Something about a man?”
“A . . . what?”
“You know, I myself was single for a long time. I recall that being the worst period of my entire life. I was always so afraid of being alone.”
“Well, how do you cope with it, now?”
“I’m not alone, I’m a widower. It’s not the same thing, not at all. And I have you children.”
“Do Maggie and Michel come to see you often when I’m not here?”
“I should hope so, as you’re not often here! Anyway, I have dinner with your brother every Thursday. Maggie comes to check on me two or three times a week, never for all that long because she is a busy woman, after all. Busy with what, I don’t have a clue . . . But you asked about being lonely? I can tell you, even when you’re far away, you’re always with me. All I need to do is think of your mother, or one of you kids, and the loneliness just skitters away like a thief in the night.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You got me. I was lying. How about you tell me what’s really got you down?”
“What was Mum doing before she came back to England? Where was she?”
“And there you have it! Silly me, thinking you came because missed your old man so much,” said Dad, teasing me as always. Then he gave a weary sigh. “I really can’t tell you much, love. She wasn’t fond of talking about that period of her life. You know that daft saying—I suppose they’re all daft, come to think of it—that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree? Maybe that one’s not so daft when it comes to you two. Like mother, like daughter. Truth is, your mother actually had a bit of a career . . . in journalism.”