“And then there’s this one Grandparenting Skills for Beginners—” Samantha passed it over. “And this one. Nanny or Nanna? A Guide to Building a Relationship with Your Grandchild. She’s really been trying.” And it didn’t make sense. Why then had she been so careless around Tab?
“Have you seen this?” Ella was flicking through one of the books. “She’s written notes in the margin.”
Samantha glanced over her shoulder. “And underlined passages. ‘Remember you’re not the parent.’”
“‘Be careful not to impose your views.’”
“I should have paid more attention to that part.” Their mother’s voice came from the doorway, and they both turned, guilty, books still in their hands.
Gayle stepped inside the room. “I ordered those books the day you came to my apartment in Manhattan. I was determined to get it right, but I underestimated how hard that would be. I’m sorry for what I said about—” their mother broke off and glanced over her shoulder, checking that Tab wasn’t nearby “—you know who. I promise I’ll find a way to join in with the magic. I’ll try harder. I can do this.”
Ella made a sound, dumped the books on the bed and hurried across to their mother. “I know you can. We’ll find a way. I overreacted, because I’m protective of Tab.” She put her arms round their mother, while Samantha sat there, stiff and awkward, envying her sister’s ability to show her emotions so readily.
She watched, feeling out of her depth as her mother patted Ella’s arm.
“You don’t have to be sorry.” Gayle pulled away. “You wanted to give your baby a magical moment, and I almost ruined it. Hopefully I didn’t. Brodie seems to be a quick thinking person.”
Had her mother been crying?
Her eyes looked a little puffy and swollen.
Ella obviously thought so too, because she gathered up the books from the bed and then put them down again. “Are you all right, Mom? You look—your eyes are a little red.”
“Allergies. Probably the dog. I’ve taken medication.” Gayle paused and then closed the door of the room. “Actually, that isn’t true. I have been crying.”
“Oh Mom!” Ella’s voice thickened. “I am sorry I upset you so badly.”
“Not you. I managed it all by myself. And I think it’s time I talked to you both. Properly.” Gayle sat down on the chair. “I should have done it a long time ago.”
“Talk to us about what?”
“About your father.”
Ella sent a guilty glance toward Samantha. “Honestly, you don’t have to. I shouldn’t have asked. I—”
“Sit down, Ella.” Gayle spoke quietly. “This isn’t going to be easy to say, but it isn’t going to be easy for you to hear, either. Let me speak, and when I’ve said everything I want to say, you can ask your questions. And I promise to answer them. All of them. Anything you want to ask.”
Ella sat back down on the bed next to her sister.
Samantha couldn’t shift the sick feeling in her stomach. Was she the only one finding this uncomfortable? Her mother was about to make some sort of confession, but she couldn’t help thinking that they didn’t have a solid enough relationship to support that level of intimacy. It meant adding another dubious ingredient to the already unpalatable soup of emotions that were sloshing round inside her.
Gayle kept her hands in her lap. Fingers locked. Knuckles white. “There are things I haven’t told you.”
“About Dad?” Ella shifted a little closer to Samantha.
Instinctively she took Ella’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Looking out for her sister stopped her having to think too hard about her own feelings.
“Just tell us, Mom.” She wanted facts, so that they could deal with them and then talk about the past. And she was determined that they would talk about the past.
“Your father died in exactly the way I described, but what I haven’t told you is everything that happened before that.”
Samantha held tightly to her sister’s hand as her mother started to talk.
Next to her, Ella gasped, reacted, made sympathetic noises, responded to everything their mother told them. At one point she stood up and poured her mother a drink, the water sloshing over the sides as she poured with a shaking hand.
There, drink something, take a break, this must be so difficult for you.
Still Samantha sat, feeling like an observer not a participant, not knowing what to say.
All these years when she’d pictured her father, she’d imagined a benign, loving figure. She’d imagined how her life might have been different had he lived.