by Sandra Cunha
Everywhere I look, I see white. Bright white. I’m freezing, and my body is aching from being contorted into a weird shape.
Where the heck am I? Have I been kidnapped? Is this . . . is this heaven?
Oh, right, I’m still in the bathtub. I must have dozed off.
What time is it?
I reach for my phone: 4:44am.
There’s something about being awake at four-anything in the morning that gives me an uneasy feeling. It’s almost as though I’m caught in-between two worlds: the sleeping and the waking. The feeling is amplified by the fact I’m in an enclosed space.
I stretch out my sore limbs, then pull back the shower curtain. As I open the bathroom door to make my exit, I narrowly avoid stepping in poo. Dog poo.
Coco!
I deserve it. I never took her out for her walk last night. After I clean it up, I find Coco sleeping soundly in her little bed. I stroke her head softly so as not to wake her.
Then, I return my mom’s diary to the hall closet without reading the last entry. I’m too tired and anxious to read more.
Once in my room, I lie on my bed. I know I won’t be able to fall back asleep, but I want to at least rest a bit before Gloria gets here in a few hours.
Maybe there’s still a chance for me to get answers to some of those unanswered questions.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“NATALIA? WHAT ARE you doing here?” I ask as I open the front door. I was expecting Gloria, her sister, to be on the other side.
“For the meeting. Is not today?” she asks, making a confused face.
Crap. I forgot about our monthly team meeting. I guess some things really never do change. But I’ve been so preoccupied, it hadn’t crossed my mind, and now I haven’t prepared anything.
Because we can’t all work out of the condo anymore, once a month we meet in-person to see each other’s faces and discuss any important issues. I try to make the meetings fun, given that I hated them back in my cubicle days.
“No, no, it is. Sorry, “I say. “Come in, come in!” Another thought occurs to me. “I forgot to get the donuts.”
“No worry, querida. Sophia say she bringing loukoumades, is like donuts.”
Actually, better than donuts. They’re like, super Greek donuts. Oh, and Natalia calls me querida, too. I think it’s an older generation Portuguese thing. I mean, I am their boss, and they go around calling me “sweetie” all the time. But I don’t mind. It’s a term of endearment. There’s something motherly about it, something protective. Especially, how they pronounce it: lower than their regular tone of voice and drawn out.
As I’m closing the door, I see Sophia coming down the hall, carrying a covered aluminum tray.
“Hi, Sophia! Long time no see!” I say. It does feel like I haven’t seen her, or my team of ladies, in a long time.
“Erin! You look tired. You work too hard,” she says as she approaches me.
Sophia doesn’t call me querida, probably because she’s Greek, not Portuguese. But she has her own special way of talking to me. Half the time, I’m not sure if I should be offended at the stuff she says, but I know it also comes from a concerned, motherly place.
I thank her for bringing the loukoumades, taking the aluminum tray from her so she can get settled in. I bring the tray into the kitchen, where Natalia is already getting plates and mugs out of the cabinets and placing them on the counter.
“I start the coffee,” she says, smiling.
How could I not love them?
They take care of me.
I go into the sewing workroom to setup chairs around the large table for the meeting. I’m a chair short now that our team has grown so much. But that’s okay, I can stand.
In quick succession, everyone else arrives. First, Trendy, the new social media intern. Then, Mila, carrying a bunch of bags of secondhand clothes for the seamstresses to take home with them. Followed by, Leo, the new freelance photographer. Then, the two new part-time dressmakers, Patricia and Ming, arrive. The new team members seem to be shy at first, but slowly, they start to mingle with the others.
But where’s Gloria? She has to make it. I need to talk to her once the meeting is over.
After several more minutes, she finally arrives.
“Sorry, sorry! There was an accident on highway,” she says breathlessly as she rushes in through the door.
Once everyone is settled in the sewing workroom, I look around. It’s still weird to think I have a staff.
I’m about to begin the meeting when Mila asks, “What about Betty?”
Oh, yeah, Betty.
I dial Betty on my phone, putting her on speaker when she answers.
Another several minutes pass, as everyone asks Betty how she’s doing. They’re (almost) as excited as I am about the twins. The twins will be the first babies from the Lady Bettencourt team. Possibly, the only ones for a while, given our older demographic.
When the chatter dies down, I finally begin the meeting.
Item number one on the agenda is to properly introduce the new members to the rest of the team, as this is their first face-to-face meeting with everyone. (Except for Betty, who met them when she helped me interview them for each of their roles.) I always worry when I bring on new people. We all get along so well, I don’t want to wreck our dynamic. But I can already see they’re going to be a fit. They have that Lady Bettencourt vibe. I can’t define what that is, but I know it when I see it.
I tell the team about some upcoming orders were getting, then share the designs I worked on over the summer for our fall line-up, which is going into production the following week. I mention the space issues we’re having, and say I’m working on a plan to address that. I’m nervous Betty may let something slip about the vintage shop, but there’s nothing for me to be nervous about. Betty doesn’t let things slip.
Once everything has been covered off, I ask if anyone has any issues or concerns. There aren’t any, so I call the meeting to be adjourned. No, really, I actually say, “This meeting is now adjourned!” Then, I slam something heavy down on the table to make it official.
What? Not professional?
Whatever.
If we have to have meetings, and we do, then there has to be something entertaining about them. And there also has to be donuts, or, in this case, yummy loukoumades.
After everyone has filed out, Gloria and I are left alone in the condo. I wait as long as I physically can before I bring up the subject.
“Gloria, can I talk to you about something?”
She stops cutting the pattern she’s working on and looks at me. “What is it, querida? You okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just—it’s just I remembered something.”
“What you remember?”
“I remembered living with you for weeks when I was almost twelve. And I know Betty and I were with you, not because our mom was on vacation, but because she was sick.” I wait, but Gloria doesn’t respond, so I go on. “I’m sorry to put you in this position. But my mom isn’t here for me to ask her these questions. I just want to know the truth.”
Before I can stop them, I feel the tears beginning to form.
Don’t cry, Erin. Don’t cry!
But it’s too late, a few tears have already escaped. I can’t help it. For one, I didn’t sleep very much last night, which makes me extra emotional. And for another, all that I’ve learned from my mom’s diaries is getting to me. It’s a one-way form of communication. I can’t ask her, why this? Or, why that?
It’s not fair.
“I told her to tell you girls. I told her.” Gloria shakes her head. “But she didn’t want you to worry. I promised on my children’s life I say nothing.” She stops for a moment before continuing, “But . . . maybe a promise like that breaks when someone dies. I think, anyway. So, yes, she was sick, and you girls stayed at my house. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you! Do you—do you know who Victor was?” I ask, pushing my luck.
“Her boyfriend.”
<
br /> “For how long? Was he still her boyfriend when she died?”
“No—unless they getting back together when I lose touch with her. They broke up a little bit after your mom’s operation.”
“Do you know why?”
“Not really. He was younger. Maybe he want kids, and your mom couldn’t have them anymore.”
Something occurs to me that has never occurred to me before: Gloria knew my mom more than anyone else I know (except for Betty and I). She also knew her on another level, a woman-to-woman level. She’s a potential wealth of information—if she’s willing to give it.
“What about her mother, my grandmother? Did you ever meet her?”
“Once. She was rich! A big shot.”
“And?”
“And what? She was not a nice lady. I’m sorry, querida, I know she was your grandmother, but she don’t take care of your mom when she was sick. She never want to see you girls. When she died, she left nothing for any of you. Nothing for her only daughter! She only ever think about herself. And everything was about money, money, money.”
Maybe it’s better that I never got the chance to meet her. Although, to be fair, Gloria’s information is based on what my mom told her. And at that time, she was really angry with her mother.
“Anything else?” Gloria asks.
So much else, but nothing immediately comes to mind. But then, I do think of something. “Did my mom breastfeed us? Betty has been wondering.” I figure Betty should get something out of this, too.
“Let me think . . . She did! I remember talking one time about our boobs and how they used to be nicer.”
I start laughing. I can’t help it. Gloria joins me.
When we stop, she comes over to me and places her hand on my cheek. “Anytime you have questions about your mom, you ask me, okay? I think she would be happy for me to do that now.”
I place my hand on top of hers, look into her eyes, and thank her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“MS. BETTENCOURT, there’s a delivery here for you,” the concierge says, as I enter the building foyer after taking Coco for her afternoon walk.
“Ooh, I wonder if it’s those new scissors I ordered!” I say excitedly at the prospect.
He doesn’t smile. I guess he doesn’t think new scissors warrants this level of excitement. I thank him as he hands me the box, which is larger than what I imagined a box containing scissors to be.
Did I order something else?
I must have. I’m always ordering something for the business. But only my name and address appear on the box; there’s no other label to give me a clue.
When I’m inside the condo, I check on Gloria, who’s working away in the sewing workroom. I go back to the kitchen counter to open the box, carefully removing the label and packaging tape. I love being able to reuse any boxes I receive.
Inside, I find a piece of paper and some folded clothing.
I definitely didn’t order this.
As I look closer at the paper, I see it’s actually a typed letter. A typed letter signed by—my eyes must be playing tricks on me, but it’s signed by Carol Devall.
Yes, that Carol.
Why would Carol send me a package? And how did she get my home address? There’s only a postal box address on the Lady Bettencourt website.
Oh, right. I gave it to her.
After I was fired and moved in with Betty, Betty told me to contact my former employer with my new address so I wouldn’t miss receiving any final tax documents.
The only phone number I’d had was Carol’s, so I’d left her one of my famous, early morning, unscripted voice messages. (I’d pretended to be someone else calling on my behalf, using a fake accent. But then, I kept slipping in-and-out of other various accents. Let’s just say, I’m pretty sure she knew it was me calling.)
Before reading whatever Carol has written in her letter, I feel the need to take a seat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter. It could be anything, and I still find her kind of . . . scary.
Erin,
I saw you on television. I’m glad you’re finally making something of your life.
This box contains clothing that I’ve held onto for far too long. I needed to either rid myself of them or have them turned into something useful. I have chosen the latter.
They belonged to my daughter, Emily, so please take great care with them. They mean the world to me. I’d like you to make me something I can wear to remember her by. But not a dress. I don’t wear dresses.
I trust your judgment—in this matter.
Once completed, please send to my attention at the office, along with how much I owe you for your time. Cost is not an issue.
Regards,
Carol Devall
I try to take in what I’ve just read.
Carol has a daughter?
I knew she was divorced, but she said she didn’t have any children. I remember thinking she was so cranky because she didn’t have a life; all she had was work. Or maybe, Carol had a daughter. She did write “to remember her by.” Her daughter must have . . .
Carefully, I remove the clothing from the box.
My heart breaks.
There are cute jumpers and patterned dresses, with tags from newborn to nine months. There’s nothing past nine months.
Tears come to my eyes.
I worked with Carol for almost five years, day-in and day-out, and I knew nothing about her.
Maybe she was cranky, not because she didn’t have a life, but because she’d had one, and it was taken away from her. Maybe Carol and I aren’t as different as we always assumed we were.
How little do we know about other people. We only know what they tell us . . . or what we eventually find out.
Of course, I can’t help thinking how little I knew of my own mother. How I’m finding out aspects of her life only now that she’s left us with some pieces of a much bigger puzzle.
And I realize, I’m ready. I think I’ve been subconsciously putting it off because I know it’s the last diary entry. There won’t be any more words after I’ve read it. My mom will be taken away from me, once again. But I’m ready now to read those final words she wanted to share about her life.
So after Gloria has gone home for the day, that’s what I do.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
> Diary Entry <
AUGUST 24, 2008
Dearest Elizabeth,
Erin is back from Europe! How I’ve missed her! Betty, Matt, and I went to the airport to pick her up. As she came out of the arrival gate, I could see the sadness behind her eyes, even though she welcomed us with a great, big smile. I don’t think she found the answers she was seeking while she was over there.
She thinks I don’t know why she went to Europe. But I know my daughter. Before leaving, she’d said she wanted to backpack across Western Europe, taking the train from country-to-country. But I knew which country she really had her mind set-on: France.
I’d just hoped Jacques wouldn’t be too cruel; that her father wouldn’t completely ruin all expectations she had of him. I’d wanted to stop her from going, to keep her all to myself for these last few months I have remaining. But she didn’t know that I was sick and that are time was limited. And I knew this was something she had to do. So I let her go.
Like her, I’d hoped they’d reunite. They’re so similar in many ways. I wanted Erin and Betty to get reacquainted with their father, now that their mother was the one leaving them. He’s all they have left.
But alas, things don’t always go the way we plan or the way we hope. Now I have to tell her that I have to leave her and her sister, too. And I have to do it soon because our time together is running out.
Perhaps it’s been running out from the first time I became sick. And I was only ever granted an extension until my girls were old enough to manage on their own.
Love you always,
Lizzie
***
She knew. My mom knew the reason why I went to Europe.
/>
But how could she have known?
Because it’s true: she knew me better than anyone else. She understood me.
I’ve never admitted to anyone the real reason why I went to Europe, not even to Betty. It was such a foolish (and expensive) thing to do. I’d actually believed my father would want to see me, to get to know me. I’d thought now that I was older, we could be, friends or something.
Unfortunately, he turned out to be nothing like what I’d built up in my mind. He wasn’t this charming Frenchman. He was an insensitive jerk.
I don’t want to think about him now, though. Or that other thing that comes to mind whenever I recall my trip to Europe. I want that particular secret to stay in Europe forever. (And to stay inside Mila’s and Frankie’s heads, who somehow found out what had happened.)
But this isn’t about an uncaring father or poor decision-making while travelling, it’s about my mom. The one who stayed. The one who gave up her dreams for us. And even though she wrote in her letter that she didn’t regret anything, I regret it for her.
What I regret the most, for myself, is that while I was searching for my father, who didn’t care about me, I could’ve been spending that last summer with my mom, who love me unconditionally. I hope one day, I’ll be able to forgive myself for that.
But I didn’t know. I didn’t know.
I’m so sorry, mom. I’m so sorry.
It’s starting to get dark, a hint of summer’s impending end. The sign states that the gates close at eight. I check my phone, I have twenty minutes. Thankfully, I got here in time. I needed to come here tonight, after what I’d read. After everything I’d read.
I didn’t have any flowers at home, and there wasn’t enough time to pick some up on the way. All I have to offer is me.
And Coco. I brought her along with me for company, for comfort. (Definitely not for protection. Coco would totally save herself.)