Page 80 of Unforeseen Affairs
Charlotte looked out the window; the sun had fully risen. They’d better get on with it, then.
Masking her disappointment behind lips set in a firm line, she reached for the same bit of toweling she’d used to wash up the night before. She dabbed it in the ewer, in the same stale water, and began to clean herself up. She took extra care between her legs, where she felt quite sticky. The toweling came away bright red.
Blood.
She stared at it in her hand as a queer feeling came over her. She shut her eyes, trying to steady herself.
When she opened them again, she was surrounded by blinding light. The small, spartan room of the Fairhurst inn had vanished, and she was backstage in a theater, watching her mother out on the boards. Footlights ringed the stage, and the pungent smell of kerosene lamps hung thick in the air.
“Mama,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Her hand stung.
Charlotte looked down, and she started. A long gash cut across her palm, oozing bright red blood. She looked up again.
Her mother wore an outrageous gown, an over-the-top whirl of fripperies in garish colors. The costume projected its tastelessness all the way to the back of the balcony, carrying alongside her mother’s clear, resonant voice.
“Mama,” she whispered again.
Why would she not turn around and look at her? Why would she not help Charlotte with her hand?
Charlotte’s vision blurred as tears welled up and threatened to spill. She shut her eyes tight, not wanting to appear childish, but one tear managed to escape down her cheek.
When she opened her eyes again, it was all gone. The stage, the lights, the kerosene. Her mother.
She was back in Fairhurst, in the small room with whitewashed walls, dimly lit by the sunrise. Her hand, once again unblemished, held the rough scrap of toweling painted red by the loss of her maidenhead.
“Charlotte?”
No. Panicked, she shut her eyes again.Mama, come back! Look at me!She opened them to find herself still in the present. Distraught, she tried it again, the tears flowing freely now.
“Charlotte? What is it?”
No, no, no…she’d been so close. So close to what she’d been seeking these past several years. And now—
A firm hand took hold of her arm, tugging her backward into a warm embrace.
Colin.
“What is it?” he whispered, his voice urgent, agonized. “Are you… do you regret it that much?”
How to explain it?
You could try, a little voice suggested. Charlotte quickly dismissed it. This was her own private sorrow; she saw no reason to invite others into it.
Even with her father, the only other person in her life who had known her mother, she remained close-mouthed about her grief. He sometimes made attempts to speak of it, in his own roundabout way, but Charlotte always resisted. In a strange way she felt possessive of it, as if keeping her pain and longing locked away, all to herself, meant that her mother could never truly leave her.
She sighed, and sank into Colin’s hold.
His arms tightened.
“No. Of course I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His head dipped, resting against the back of hers. It felt quite nice.
“There’s something troubling you, though.”
“Only ghosts,” she murmured. It was truth enough.
