Sleeping Brides

by fallensea

  Daan couldn’t stay. It was decided. The reemergence of old feelings I had for him mixed with his lack of remorse made it impossible to stay grounded. I couldn’t deprive Rosalind of her papa, not seeing how happy she was to have him exist to her, to be more than a curious question, but there had to be boundaries.

  “Rosalind, I need you to go to your room,” I ordered.

  She was crestfallen. “But he just got here.”

  “That’s the problem. Go. I’ll call you back down soon enough. You and Daan can have dinner together before he leaves.”

  Satisfied with the promise, she obeyed.

  “She’s a good kid,” Daan remarked, relaxing further into the sofa after Rosalind disappeared up the stairs.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” I warned. “You’re only staying for dinner. If you want to see Rosalind, I won’t stop you, but it’ll be under my supervision and under my terms. You can’t stay here, not in my home. If you’re gonna stick around, you have to find your own digs. Your visits will be scheduled to a time that suits me. No more showing up on my doorstep.”

  “Is this how you raised her?” he asked.

  “Not as strict, but there was structure.”

  “You’ve done good. You’ve kept my blood safe, like you’re doing now. So yeah, I’ll do as you ask. Your rules, Mama. But as you’re making those rules, know I’m clean. I’m straight. I ain’t here to bring no harm to my girls.”

  “Is that why you’ve waited so long?” I asked, trying to understand. “To protect us?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Keep it that way. Rosalind needs a father, not a bad influence.”

  He focused in on me. “And what do you need?”

  I was seventeen again. Everything around me—the front room, the keys in my hand, the skirt I’d worn to work—they were the memory. I was seventeen, and Daan was my harbor.

  “Nothing from you,” I asserted, vaulting my feelings.

  Daan stood and placed his hands around my waist. I allowed it, only because he kept ample space between us, like we were polar, unable to touch. “I still love you, baby. You know what we have is eternal. It can’t be destroyed.”

  Keeping my composure for Rosalind’s sake, who I was certain was listening from the top of the stairs, I politely stepped out of Daan’s grasp. “I’ll prepare dinner. Go find your daughter. Learn everything you’ve missed.”

  ***

  Daan was a risk, to my daughter and to me, but life was full of risks. I couldn’t protect Rosalind from them all. She had to feel the sun, even if it burned. She had to walk the line, even if she fell. I didn’t know where Daan called home, I never asked. It was my way of managing the risk. I didn’t get too personal. I let him have Rosalind’s time, but I didn’t give him mine.

  He attempted to live up to his promises, in the way I expected him to. He floated in and out of Rosalind’s life, sometimes spending days with her, sometimes making her wait months before she saw him again. I had never considered Rosalind a very trusting child, her inquisitiveness was an extension of her skepticism, but her love for Daan was automatic and believing, even when the years transformed her into a sensible, governed young woman.

  When Daan disappeared a few months before her graduation, and when he failed to show up at her ceremony, my heart broke for her. Rosalind played it off like it was nothing, but I felt the tears she did not cry. I was livid, not for the time they would miss together, but for the nights she’d wasted waiting for him to return, sitting at an empty table.

  Chapter Eleven

  While Grandpa Sleeps

  “I can’t believe our little lucero has graduated,” Babetta lamented into her cigarette. “I’m not happy about it.”

  I moved away from the smoke, trying my best to abstain. “That she graduated?”

  “That she’s grown and about to head off to university. Can’t we convince her to stay and work here? What young woman wouldn’t want to be tied down to a desk job in a company that could go under any day?”

  I couldn’t avoid the smoke. It sought me out, tempting me like cake to a starving beggar. It didn’t matter if the cake was burnt; I was hungry. With Rosalind months from moving out, panic was my new normal. I was losing my daughter, my friend, and there was nothing I could do. Before I caved into my craving, I grabbed the cigarette out of Babetta’s hand and smashed it into her desk.

  “Murderer,” Babetta pouted with her blood red lips.

  “They want to ban cigarettes in the workplace. Get used to it.”

  She flicked the butt onto the floor. “That must be why Rosalind insists on leaving. She knows how irritable everyone in this office will be if the ban is ever forced on us. My poor husband. Richie will have to have a cigarette waiting with my slippers when I get home.”

  “He already does,” I reminded her. I never knew a husband as devoted to his wife as Richie was to Babetta. Richie didn’t look pretty and he didn’t speak pretty, he was a large man with a foul mouth, but the way he treated Babetta was flawless.

  “I envy Rosalind,” Babetta admitted. “When I left Spain, I planned to take over the world. I only made it to the Netherlands.”

  Realizing she truly was upset, I took Babetta’s hand and rubbed it. It calmed her, like a cat having her ears scratched. “If you had taken over the world, you never would have met Richie. And if you never met Richie, you never would have settled here. And if you never settled here, you wouldn’t be working for Mr. Hartono—probably the only boss in Europe who lets his employees swear, smoke, and take extra-long lunch breaks.”

  “That’s because he hasn’t given us a raise in ten years,” she retorted, but she sank into her seat, succumbing to my hand rub. “I’m going to get you a dog,” she decided. “A big ole mutt to fill the house when Rosalind is gone. And I’m going to come over for dinner every Sunday. I don’t want you to be alone.”

  “Dinner is fine. A mutt is not. I don’t want to clean up after a dog on my days off.”

  Babetta nodded. “That’s why daughters are so great. They clean up after themselves.”

  I huffed. “Don’t believe everything you read in the magazines. I feel sorry for whoever her roommates will be.”

  “Has she been assigned a flat yet?”

  “No, all she’s received is her welcome letter. The rest will be taken care of over the summer.” Tired, I set her hand down.

  “I am glad I never took over the world,” Babetta determined. “I love this job. I can’t imagine I’d be happy anywhere else. If this place does go under, I don’t know what I’ll do. I mean, I can’t imagine actually showing up to work on time. It’d be like living in a burlap sack.”

  She joked, but I could see how real her fears were. “We’ll be okay,” I assured her. “The company won’t go under. Mr. Hartono is holding a parasol over our heads.”

  ***

  The cul-de-sac was mellow. From the steps of my porch, the sole noise offending the night was the rustle of my daughter running around the house for reasons I did not know. Her footsteps were comforting, but they would not last. She would leave soon, and the house would fall into a stoic silence. It was difficult to let her go, to bear the silence, but there was also a dignity to her leaving.

  I did it. I raised her.

  When Mr. Hartono had hired me—a drowned teenage mother with no identification, education, or references—he’d saved me from losing my daughter, a fate I was not sure I would have survived. In the beginning, before I found the office job with Mr. Hartono, when I was broken and alone and destitute and living in the motorhome, I was not sure I’d be able to keep Rosalind. I was where I wanted to be, living amongst the farmlands, determined to make it, but determination was not enough to feed a starving pair. We needed food and a place to grow, but we had none of those. All we had was the motorhome.

  It had worked out, but I still could not keep her. Soon, I would have to hand Rosalind over to the unknown, and I would have to do so with the gratitude that I had go
tten to watch her grow.

  There was forgiveness for a parent who believed they were doing right by their child by offering them to the state, but there was no forgiveness for Daan. He also could have watched her grow, but he declined. He’d handed the jackpot back to the house. Rosalind was the best thing in his life, and he refused to acknowledge it. To Rosalind, her papa was a maverick. To me, he was a fool.

  I had not realized there were tears down my cheeks, not until Franklin—the Golden Retriever Babetta had given me—was licking my face with his puppy intuition.

  “Stop!” I howled, but he had yet to learn the command.

  “Isn’t that cute?” Rosalind noted from the doorway. “Is there room for me?”

  “Always,” I said, and I scooted over, leaving as much room as possible for her to sit next to me on the narrow steps. It had been a lot easier when she was little, before we were both wider around the hips, built like Renaissance women. In Rosalind’s hand was a packet.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s from the university.” She didn’t sound happy. My daughter let her logic rule over her emotions, so she didn’t stress easily, but she was stressed talking about school.

  I put an arm around her, a blanket to put out the fire I knew was smoldering inside her. “Tell me why you’re more excited about the new jam in the fridge than you are about leaving for university.”

  Discouraged, she threw the packet to the ground. “I made a mistake. I don’t want to go. It makes my stomach hurt.”

  “From nerves?”

  “From lack of will. It’s not for me.”

  Keeping my own emotions under control, I took a moment to process what she was trying to tell me. “What is for you?”

  “I don’t know,” she bleated, clenching her fists. “That’s what makes this so frustrating. I don’t want to go to university, but I want to do something. There’s so much more I want to learn, but I don’t think I can learn it sitting in front of some stuffy old professors who determine my academic success based on a primitive system of lectures and testing.”

  Seeing the knot she was tying around herself, I tried to break the tension. “You want to yodel, don’t you? I hear you yodeling in the shower all the time.”

  Her hands remained clenched, but she cracked a small smile. “I don’t want to yodel.”

  “Rap?”

  “Mama!” she protested. “I’m not dreaming about the Eurovision.”

  “I know,” I surrendered. “Listen, you don’t die with your graduation cap on. There are many paths someone can take in life.”

  I felt her shoulders relax beneath my arm. “You’re not mad?”

  “Of course not,” I said, and then I stood. “Follow me.”

  I led her into my bedroom and pulled down a box from the top of my wardrobe. In it were souvenirs I’d kept throughout the years, including the magazine I’d stolen from the clinic in Amsterdam with Rosalind Franklin on the cover. I handed the magazine to her.

  “This is who you named me after?” she asked, flipping through the magazine with interest.

  “You and the dog.”

  She skimmed the article. “You must have really idolized her.”

  “I did. I was fascinated, but not because she was brilliant, like you. And not because she had a lot of fancy degrees. I was fascinated because she was a woman who followed her own path. She stood tall, despite the current pulling at her feet. I want you to know that same freedom, to do what you want to do.”

  Rosalind held the magazine to her chest, as if she’d had it for years. “How do I figure it out?”

  “You just live. It’ll come to you.”

  It was like a drifting cloud talking to an entrenched flower, its roots firmly wrapped in the soil. Rosalind wasn’t so carefree about her future. “I feel like I need a plan.”

  I thought about it. “Why don’t we go traveling? I have some holidays saved up.”

  She was intrigued, but she held back. “We don’t have the money to travel.”

  I took the magazine from her and returned it to its box. “My daughter, if I can teach you one thing, it’s that money has no authority over anyone. If you can talk, you can sing. If you can wave, you can paint. And if you can walk, you can travel. Plus, we have Grandpa,” I added, referring to the motorhome parked in the garage.

  “No, not Grandpa,” Rosalind moaned. “That thing is so old!”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “He works. That’s all that matters. So, you ready to walk?”

  Rosalind was spellbound by the box in my hand. “I’m ready to run.”

  ***

  The sea, persuasive and endless, stretched around the ferry, a force greater than land. It was a peaceful sea, but the passengers on the ferry were well aware that, as they told their stories around bolted tables and ate their crisps and sandwiches, the sea could crush them in its fists. Unafraid, I leaned against the rails on the outer deck, absorbing the waves with all of my senses before they hit the ship, enjoying the sprays of water that brushed my face. The sea would not harm me. I was its underling.

  Having traveled through Belgium and France, we were on our way to Wales. The ferry was a needed break from the motorhome, which slept in the belly of the ship. I wanted the sea, as much as it wanted me. I’d never sailed on the sea, only the boats on the canals. I’d never left the Netherlands before. Moving with the ship on our way to Wales was transcendental.

  “A woman as beautiful as you belongs in the brine, selkie!” a drunken passenger hollered as he passed me on the deck.

  “I wish I was,” I called back, but he had slipped away, probably on his way to another pint.

  Rosalind was in the lounge charging her laptop—a gift from Mr. Hartono. He had surrendered to the inevitability of computers. The company was finally entering the Age of Technology. When I returned to work, a computer would be waiting on my desk. It was a mixed blessing. My wrist would be saved the ache of writing, my fingers the calluses of a pen, but I would have to input data from previous logbooks into the new software, creating an archive. It would mean long hours that offered no overtime. I would be as bolted to my desk as the tables in the lounge.

  I had never been wary of bolts. I had been a vagabond in my youth with Daan, but I enjoyed the home I had created with Rosalind. And yet, traveling across borders was life as I had never experienced it before. It was a rush. A murmur, like powder. When Rosalind left—and she would, once she knew where to go—I could sell the house and leave, mold my own path through the waves.

  I could… but I would not. I wouldn’t do that to Rosalind. I encouraged my daughter to fly free, but I wanted her to have a nest she could always return home to. I never wanted her to feel homeless.

  I stayed out on the deck for a good portion of our voyage, long enough that my absence summoned Rosalind, empty-handed.

  “Where’s your laptop?” I asked.

  “The cute barman is watching over it while it charges.” She closed her eyes and faced the wind, coveting the spray as much as I did, the daughter of a selkie. I watched it transform her, crumble the stone away, revealing a joy within.

  “Isn’t it stellar?” I asked. “The sea gives us new lungs.”

  My words hit her deep, inspiring a revelation. “It does,” she agreed. “I need new lungs. I think this is what I want to do.”

  “Sail?” I asked.

  “Captain a ship. I mean, it makes sense. I always loved boats. Remember the day we visited Den Bosch and rode the boat around the canals? It’s one of my favorite memories from childhood.”

  I was in awe she had held onto such a small moment. “I never knew that. We should have gone again.”

  “Once was enough.” She looked out past the water, to a place impervious to the horizon. “I want to captain a ship. It feels… predestined.”

  “Then you’ve found your plan.”

  The revelation didn’t ease her. “How do we do this?”

  “You’ll have to transfer to a maritime
academy.”

  “I meant money.” She looked at me, searching to make sure I was truthful. “I’m not sure we’ll get a refund back from the university, and I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to secure a scholarship or a loan.”

  “The tuition isn’t a great loss. We’ll figure it out,” I assured her. “There’s always a way.”

  “I feel bad leaving you,” she admitted.

  “You’re not leaving me,” I said steadily. “You have to go live your life.”

  “And so do you,” she resolved. “No more waiting around for Papa. And no waiting for me.”

  She wasn’t talking to me as my daughter. She was talking to me as an adult, but I wouldn’t let her logic win over my sentiment. “You are my life. I’m living it. And I have no regrets.”

  ***

  The summer had faded, taking with it Rosalind. She was gone, locked in a classroom at a maritime academy, taking the tests she dreaded but doing so knowing she was on her own path. Coming home from work, I looked up into a dark, empty house. Franklin waited for me, my keeper, but it wasn’t enough. The house felt sunken.

  Knowing what needed to be done, I went to Rosalind’s room and installed a new light, one that shined brightly across the neighborhood. Every day that she was gone, her room would stay lit, like a lighthouse, so that my daughter could always find her way home.

  Chapter Twelve

  Happiness Amongst Beasts

  Three Years Later

  The café I sat in was stale, tasteless, as if all efforts to decorate it had stopped after the first coat of paint. The walls lacked color, as did the symmetrical little tables and chairs. I felt stiff sitting alone in the café, like a butterfly trapped in a cocoon for too long. The only other person in the café was the barista, and he looked as bored as the countertop he stood behind.