Page 85 of Come Back To Me

I live in a small house in Manchester. You’d hate the color, beige. But the front door is bright blue, a cobalt. It looks like a home, a home that I never provided you with. There is more than Frosted Flakes in the pantry, and there are pictures on the walls. I’m not very good with art, but I’ve hung things that I think you’d like. There is a jacaranda tree out front, and I think of you every time I look at it. I keep my curtains open, even at night when people can see into my living room—just so I can always see it. That tree is you. It sounds so stupid, doesn’t it? It doesn’t matter. That tree is you, Yara. My lost daughter. Do you remember how you loved jacaranda trees? How you always wanted to run through the blossoms when they fell to the street. All of that purple.

I work for a Catholic primary school. I am the headmaster’s secretary. I see all of those little faces every day and I think of your little face—all of that white blonde hair. You would look at me like I wasn’t a terrible mother, like you were waiting for me to look back at you. I never did. It hurts me so terribly. What can I say, Yara, except that I was a selfish, depraved woman and I didn’t know how to be a mother to you. I had another baby. You were about seven years old and I don’t know if you understood what was happening. It was a boy. A couple from Ireland adopted him. I held him once before they took him, and I remember thinking how much he looked like you. Only he had black hair, Yara. So much of it. He found me about a year ago, showed up on my doorstep with a handful of daisies. His name is Ewen and he lives in London. I often wonder if the two of you pass each other on the street. That is if you still live in London. I hired someone to find you with no luck. I don’t know where you are, but I can feel you. I was wrong, my love. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I pray you will. I pray one day you will come find me so I can look into your eyes and ask you to forgive me.

Your mother,

Grace

I close out the internet window and turn off the monitor. I can see my reflection in the dark screen. My lips and teeth are stained purple from the wine. My heart is stained with hurt. If you love me, why’d you leave me? It’s the question that nags at me even though I know the answer. I suppose it’s a sad song that a lot of women could relate to. I wasn’t the first woman in history to have a lonely childhood, and certainly my childhood wasn’t the worst. She didn’t leave me physically, she left me emotionally. I did the opposite to David, fleeing across the sea to get away from what he made me feel. In the case of both my mother and me, it boiled down to our insecurities. That we couldn’t be enough. And instead of staying to fight, we shriveled up, defeated.

I have to forgive her so that I can forgive myself. Sometimes people just get stuck and they need a David Lisey to break them out of their stuckness. My mother never had a David Lisey; so many women don’t. And that is the saddest thing of all. I pick up my phone and dial his number.

“David,” I say when he answers. “Will you come? I need you.”

“I’ll be right there,” he says.

He drives me to my mother’s house. I know which one it is before he pulls the car against the curb, just the way she described it. We sit outside in the car for a long time; me with my arms wrapped around my knees, staring at the little single story with the jacaranda tree outside. Her window boxes are filled to the brim with flowers. I inherited her love of plants but not her skill with them.

“Finished looking for today?” David asks.

I look at the clock. Twenty minutes have passed since we pulled up.

“Yes,” I say.

He drives me back to my hotel.

“How did you know I just wanted to look?” I ask later when we’re lying in bed. My head is on his chest and he’s been holding me like this for the last hour without moving a muscle.

“I know.”

“Yes but—”

“I know,” he says, firmly. “And I’m sick of you not knowing that I know.”

“Fine,” I say. “I know that you know.”

“You don’t.”

I lift my head to look at him. He’s frowning. I suppose we have a lot to say to each other.

“Okay,” I say, “let’s talk about things.”

“Now’s not the time. We’ll have this conversation when you’re done grieving,” he says.

I sit up. “We’ve been grieving each other for years. Now’s the time.”

“No. You think you can handle this right now, you always think you can handle everything. And then you know what happens? Tomorrow morning I wake up and you’re gone. Off to serve caipirinhas on a beach in Brazil.”

He stands up and walks toward the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

“Can we at least have sex?” I call after him.

He opens the door. “No.” And then he shuts it again.

I fall back against the pillows smiling.

For the next week we do the same thing every day. We have breakfast in the hotel room and then David drives me to my mother’s house where we sit outside for exactly twenty minutes before I ask to leave. We spend the rest of the day walking. Very few words are spoken, and I know he’s giving me quiet for my thoughts. On the morning of the eighth day I decide that enough is bloody enough. I want to have a conversation.

“I have caused you so much hurt, for years,” I say. “Please forgive me for leaving. I don’t know how to be what you need and I’m afraid you won’t let me try.”

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