Chapter 12 - My Mother Wanted The Family Photograph Anyway
At eight o'clock, I went upstairs.
Dinner was halfway through.
I did not enter the ballroom.
My mother was standing in the corridor outside it.
She had been waiting.
“Are you leaving?”
“Eventually.”
Her eyes moved to the watch.
“Anna wants it back.”
Vivian nodded.
“She should have it.”
I stared.
“You could've said that seventeen years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you give it to her?”
“It never came to me.”
“Ray says you knew where it was.”
“I did.”
“You could've collected it.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
My mother looked through the ballroom doors.
“Your father would have asked why.”
I waited.
“I had told him Anna left with it.”
There.
To correct the watch required admitting the lie.
“So you left it in hotel storage.”
“Yes.”
“For seventeen years.”
“I forgot it was here.”
I believed that.
Not because it excused anything.
Because humans are capable of changing a life with something they later stop thinking about.
“What did Dad believe until he died?”
“That Anna took it.”
“Did you ever tell him otherwise?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Vivian looked at me.
“He had already lost her.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“He was angry with her.”
“Yes.”
“You kept the anger clean.”
My mother nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
No defense.
Then:
“Did you keep Anna away from me because you thought I'd leave too?”
“Yes.”
“Did you really think that?”
“At first.”
“And later?”
Vivian's mouth tightened.
“Later I liked having one daughter who still wanted to be near me.”
That hurt because it wasn't strategy.
It was need.
I had liked being wanted too.
We had made each other easier.
“What did you tell Anna after Dad died?”
“That you were grieving.”
“Did she ask to come?”
My mother hesitated.
My stomach dropped.
“Mom.”
“She asked whether you wanted her at the funeral.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you say?”
“That I didn't think it was the right time.”
“You didn't ask me.”
“No.”
“Did you ask her what she wanted?”
“No.”
I laughed quietly.
“You have been translating us for seventeen years.”
Vivian looked down.
“Yes.”
The ballroom applause rose behind her.
Someone had finished a speech.
My mother glanced toward the doors.
Then back.
“The family photograph is in ten minutes.”
I stared at her.
She almost smiled at how absurd the request sounded now.
“I know.”
“Do you still want me in it?”
“Yes.”
Honest.
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“Not enough.”
She flinched.
I corrected myself.
“That's not the problem.”
She waited.
“You can love me and still use my presence to prove the family is fine.”
Vivian looked toward the ballroom.
“Yes.”
“Are you doing that tonight?”
Long pause.
“Yes.”
I appreciated the answer more than I wanted to.
“I’m not taking the photograph.”
She nodded.
No argument.
Then:
“Will you stay for dinner?”
I thought.
“No.”
Her face changed.
I continued.
“I’ll have coffee with you downstairs.”
She stared.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because dinner is your room.”
She understood.
“And coffee?”
“Could be ours.”
Vivian's eyes filled.
I did not hug her.
Not yet.
Behind us, a photographer opened the ballroom door.
“Mrs. Bennett? They're ready.”
My mother looked at me.
Then told him:
“Take it without Claire.”
The photographer hesitated.
Vivian repeated:
“Without Claire.”
May you like
It was a small sentence.
She looked exhausted after saying it.
