Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance
Page 21
“You don’t need to explain. We are together and no one is going to change that.”
Shortly after, I get out of the car and start walking towards this gloomy home. When we finally reach the door, I feel even more surreal; my head can’t get around the fact that behind that door is my real father. Ethan gives me a warm smile, and then I knock. It’s a firm and loud knock. There is someone in the house because I hear steps and my breathing accelerates.
Then a tall, elegant woman opens the door.
The wife.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Arwen
“Can I help you?” she asks in French. She is pretty, wearing a navy fitted dress; her hair is dark, falling on her shoulders in wicked waves. Ethan nudges me with his elbow, letting me know that I should start talking.
“Yes, we are looking for Mr. Pevez,” I say, nearly enough choking on his name. She smiles again, wider. It’s a fake smile, I can tell.
“You’re looking for my husband? Unfortunately he’s out at the moment. Would you like to come in? He shouldn’t be long,” she asks.
I exhale and look at Ethan. Is it wise for us to talk to her while my bastard of a father is away? She’s a stranger, but I want to know if she is his reason. What the hell is wrong with me? I should be happy that I’m here. Ethan is staring at me intensely and I’m aware that I have been standing there without saying anything for quite some time.
“Yes, right, we will come in, thanks,” I finally say.
“My name is Brigitte, by the way,” she adds. The house is yet again nothing I would have expected. Plain and simple. In the living room, right on the main wall, there is my father’s painting. My breath hitches in my throat as I know that I hadn’t made any mistakes. I have found him. On the wall I spot pictures of his family: Brigitte and a girl possibly four or five years younger than me. She has the same black straight hair and pale complexion. The world around me starts to spin, because I realise that I have a half-sister. This woman Brigitte—she is her mother and I wonder how much she knows, how much my father had revealed to her.
Ethan stares mesmerised at the original painting that he got to know so well.
“Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? My husband is very fond of it,” she replies, walking us to the large open-plan living room. The house doesn’t look anything like I would imagine; even the wooden table seems like it wasn’t picked out by him. “Please, would you like to sit?”
“Thank you, Brigitte,” Ethan mutters and I try to suppress my nerves.
“So is there anything that I can help you with?” she asks, looking at Ethan, not me. Maybe she finds him attractive and she thinks that I’m his daughter or something. What’s wrong with her? Can’t she see that I look like her husband?
I start flexing my fingers and after some time I realise that no one is saying anything. The awkward silence is stretching. I look at the kitchen, the living room, trying to picture this family living a normal life, without me and my mother. The questions… I came here to ask questions and find reasons why he abandoned me.
“Arwen, I think you should start.”
I take a deep breath and begin, wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I should wait for my bastard father. After all, I have no idea if she knows anything or not. When I meet her eyes, there is no warmth or suspicion.
“I’m here because of your husband. He’s my father.”
There. I said it. I wait for her to digest my words. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t react. Maybe she doesn’t believe me or doesn’t want to. She is super-calm and this is freaking me out.
“Your father?” she repeats, almost like she wants to pretend that she didn’t hear me.
“Yes, my father and now your husband. He abandoned me when I was ten years old. Me and my mother. We lived in Saint-Malo.”
She takes a deep breath and her eyes shift into recognition, then anger.
“How did you find him? How did you know that he was here?” she asks and I’m pretty sure that I’m losing her.
“Well, he had vanished—disappeared on us. My mother refused to explain anything and she didn’t want to talk about him. This went on for years and by the time I was eighteen I managed to track down his friend, and he revealed that my father was back in Brussels.”
Brigitte stops breathing then and her pupils dilate. Her eyes wander down to my lips and hair. It feels strange to be sitting in front of her. Of course there was another woman, a different family. It looks like I wasn’t the daughter that he wanted.
“But you found him,” she says quietly.
“I had nothing; no leads or address. I enrolled at the university here and I was determined to find him,” I explain. “That painting on the wall, that was the only thing that I remembered. Some art dealers helped me to locate him, so here I am.”
“Yes, and here you are,” she says with irritation in her voice. “And that’s why I don’t get it. Why didn’t you just leave this whole thing alone? It’s been years.”
“Excuse me, but don’t you think you’re being a bit insensitive? I had him in my life when I was a child and then he just vanished, never to come back again. Do you think that’s okay, growing up and not knowing?”
I’m losing my cool with her; my heart is pounding away, skin crawling with fury.
She shakes her head. “It was your mother that took him away from me. We were engaged, happy, when she walked into our lives. But of course, she could never admit to what she’d done. Yes, your perfect mother had broken our engagement. Shortly after that they moved away and then nine months later you were born.”
My head is swimming with confusion. This can’t be true; the bastard always said that it was my fault. My mother is a good woman; she wouldn’t run away with someone else’s fiancé.
“Is that what he told you?” I ask her, smiling, like I’m truly amused.
Brigitte doesn’t like it and her eyes grow bigger and angrier. “Your mother took him away from me and used you to make him stay with her. Years passed by and I moved on, started seeing another man, and I finally got over him,” she explains, throwing it in my face. “Then he shows up after four years telling me that he isn’t happy, that he made a mistake.”
“Arwen, I think we should go. You shouldn’t be speaking to”
“No, Ethan, I want to hear it. I want to know everything.” I cut him off and turn to face Brigitte again. “I want to know why he vanished. Why he has never tried to visit me.”
Brigitte purses her lips.
“Because of your mother. She couldn’t keep him, so she gave him an ultimatum. She told him he could leave, but then she wouldn’t let him see you ever again.”
I can hardly breathe, trying to figure out if she is only saying this in anger. This can’t be the real truth. Ethan shifts on the chair next to me and I don’t dare to look at him.
“My mother would never do something like that.”
Brigitte laughs. “I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but it’s true. They were having problems for years. Ronan talked about the fact that he made a mistake marrying her. She didn’t support him in his art and creativity. She was always so cold and distant. We talked for years, and when my other marriage broke down, Ronan came back, leaving his old life behind.”
Ethan wants to say something, but I give him a sign that I’ve got this, that he doesn’t need to interfere.
I’m trying to breathe steadily, but this whole thing is overwhelming, crushing down on me like a pile of bricks. I don’t want to believe in any of this.
“Why would she say that? I get it, the marriage wasn’t great, but I was his daughter and he abandoned me.”
“He had no choice,” she adds dryly, looking away.
There are so many more questions, but I came here to close this chapter of my life behind, to get some sense of relief.
“Tell me, was I the reason that he left? He always said that I was a mistake, that I shouldn’t have happened.”
“Arwen,�
� Ethan says, but I shake my head, silencing him. It’s better if I know the truth now.
She glances at Ethan briefly and then back at me. “Your mother wanted to keep him, so she got pregnant. He wasn’t ready to be a father, but I guess he tried in the beginning. I’m sorry, but we loved each other deeply and your mother destroyed it. I don’t regret anything and he doesn’t either. It’s your mother; she’s the one who destroyed your life”
“That’s enough, Brigitte,” Ethan says, getting up and cutting her off. He looks livid. I’ve never seen him like this—red face, fists clenched and shallow breaths. His amber eyes meet mine and there I see it. The concern, the sorrow. “You shouldn’t even be speaking to her. We should go back.”
My stomach churns and I feel like I’m going to throw up right now. “I have to use the toilet. I think I’m going to be sick,” I say.
Brigitte gets up abruptly. “I will show you. Come,” she snaps.
When I’m finally alone, behind the closed doors, I hear Ethan and Brigitte arguing. My breathing comes in staggered gasps, so I run the cold water and start splashing some all over my face. My pale and hollow reflection reminds me that this is not the end. Dad pushed me to create art. Then he disappeared and left me with a sadness that hung over me for years. I remember that day when I woke up and felt like I couldn’t carry on with my life. My body felt alien, like it didn’t belong to me, like I had to end it.
I reach out, remembering that time three years ago. It was the day of my secret episode…
Unknown dismissive voices are reaching me, slowly spinning inside me. I’m a waste. My indecisive nature poisons other people. I stand in my kitchen overlooking the wide row of trees behind my house, observing as the wind swirls their branches. I feel like I’m in a bubble, not feeling anything at all apart from my own heavy misery. For one precious day I want to become a tree, just become an inanimate being; rooted deeply into the earth, grounded and solid, protected from falling, not caring about people’s opinions and their intrusive stares. It’s been years, seven maybe, but with each passing day the sadness keeps growing, pulling me back into the gloom, numbing me to life—to living.
I stare back at the prescription drugs that I managed to get. Mum doesn’t know, she doesn’t suspect anything. Right now she is shopping with Francois. It’s not her fault. I don’t blame her for anything. I’m the problem, the reason that my father vanished from my life, the reason that my paintings are useless, uncreative. Every day my darkness creeps in further and further. It’s like a dark creature stands over me, watching and waiting, preying on my soul. In the morning, I don’t have any energy to get up, knowing that I will never paint as well as my father. So what’s the point?
I take a few deep breaths and then drop a number of pills into a bowl, mixing them all together. I have thought about my options. The doctor isn’t much help. He thinks that I’m simply stressed. Mum has her own life. She is worried about me, I know that she is, but no one will ever understand what’s happening to me. I can’t go on like this, feeling unattached to anyone or anything. My head is going to explode.
I force the tears away and pick up the bowl, slipping as many pills into my mouth as I can. I’m choking, but that’s okay. No one said that this would be easy. I swallow, drinking some water, and keep shoving more pills into my throat. I’m losing count of how many there are left in the bowl.
My stomach revolts, but I’ll ruin my plan if I vomit and spit them out. Another couple of gulps of water and the pills move down my throat.
The thrill of excitement rushes through me. It’s funny; for so long I haven’t felt good about myself and now I’m starting to feel lighthearted. Sadness and gloom have been my companions for as long as I remember.
I don’t bother with cleaning. Mum won’t be home for a while and by that time it will be too late. Now it’s just a case of going through with the rest of the plan. I run upstairs, knowing that all these pills are inside me now. In a matter of minutes I will be feeling dizzy. I need to hurry.
I reach under the bed and pull out a thick brown rope, staring at it for a couple of seconds. I want to lose myself, end all this. My heartbeat speeds up. I reach out and flip the rope over the joist that supports the first floor ceiling. It should take my weight. I tested it earlier with some heavy bags of clothes, and I was satisfied. I’m slowly getting dizzy, so I wrap it around my neck and stand on the chair.
My vision is blurry and tears are starting to stream down my cheek. Now sadness rips me from inside.
This is the only way. There is nothing I can do or change; the dark creature is closer. My father will never know. The paintings are locked in the cupboard, but I didn’t want anyone enjoying them, so I poured red paint over them. My head is filled with raging pain. I can’t keep my eyes open. Just a few more seconds and the sadness will fade away.
On the chair my feet giving it an abrupt shove, and I push it out from under me. I start choking. The rope digs into me, cutting into the skin around my throat. I’m suffocating, jerking my legs, hoping to bring the chair back, panicking. The pain is unbelievable, but real. There is no more oxygen. The pills were supposed to save me from my own self.
Shadowy darkness, the digging claws of death, the pieces of my heart on the floor underneath me. Everything comes together at once. There is nothing anymore. I choke, painfully hanging in my own house, slowly drifting.
“Francois, oh God … please help me!”
Why am I hearing my mother’s voice?
The rope digs deeper into my skin, but the pain subsides. I’m losing touch with this cruel world.
Several weeks later my mother told me that she had a feeling that there was something wrong and she asked Francois to bring her home. A few more seconds and I would have been dead. I was seventeen at the time. I woke up days later in the hospital, in the psychiatric unit. I couldn’t speak or eat anything for weeks. My throat was damaged, raw and painful. The doctors diagnosed me with depression. I had days to think about what I’d done. My plan didn’t work and the sadness didn’t simply go away. It was a desperate cry for help.
For days, my mother was crying, blaming herself, and I promised her that this was to be my only attempt. Then the therapy followed. I was hospitalised for months. I started taking monitored medication, the therapy helped, and I was slowly lifting myself up. The world was slowly opening up for me. It took me over a year, but eventually I was better. I have never shared this with anyone outside of my family and I never will.
Right now, sitting in my father’s house, I keep taking deep breaths, knowing that it’s the past and a bitter reminder of the pain. I want to live, and now I can finally move on. My bastard father is going to show up here at any minute and he will confirm everything Brigitte has said.
In that one moment I feel sadness, anger, rage—and in another I’m relieved. Now I have my answer, so maybe I should leave. The man who now calls himself Ronan Pevez might be my father, but right now he is just some stranger.
Several minutes later I open the door to the bathroom, feeling much more like myself again. From the living room I hear the quiet conversation. It looks like Ethan has calmed down, and they are no longer arguing.
“Mr. Rivera—well, Ethan. I don’t wish her to speak to my husband. We are happy, and this visit will only disturb the peace. I think you can convince her”
“Arwen …” Ethan doesn’t let her finish, saying my name loud enough for me to hear him. I can’t move. The rest of his words are spoken quietly and I can’t make out what he is saying.
“She has probably found it hard,” Brigitte says, “but what can I say? We didn’t like to talk about the past.”
“Brigitte, we both know that everyone always gets what they deserve. She … an emotional mess, a human being starving for affection and love.”
What is he saying? That I deserve this, that it’s actually my fault that my father left? But Ethan always tried to convince me of the opposite. What made him change his mind about me?
“Our connection is deep and meaningful. Yes, there are challenges on the way. I’m shifting my career and sometimes I wonder, what if I have to go away for months, to Paris or Amsterdam to whatever …”
I press my palms to my ears, not wanting to hear any more. Ethan has doubts about our relationship. I can’t let him leave me. I must do anything to keep him.
Ethan
Arwen shows up in the living room and I get up instantly, not wanting to talk to this unstable creature anymore. She is upset, very upset, and I know that I shouldn’t have let her talk to Brigitte. I’m sensing that this woman isn’t telling us the whole truth. She is hiding something.
“I want to go, Ethan,” Arwen says with a strange strain in her voice. I nod.
Brigitte looks flustered. “Will you be back? I mean, I know what I said, but it’s better if I knew.”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Brigitte. I need some space,” Arwen responds and heads to the door.
“You can’t just turn up here again with” Brigitte shouts after us, but then she stops, looking ahead.
There on the pavement, a young woman, probably her daughter, is walking towards us. My own internal voice screams at me to get Arwen out of here because this won’t end well. The girl spots Arwen first, and then she walks past us, staring.
“Mum, what’s going on? Why are you shouting?” she asks in perfect French. She has the same long straight hair as Arwen.
Arwen presses her mouth in a hard line, not saying a word. Tears fill her eyes.
“It's nothing. It’s all okay, honey. Come inside,” I hear Brigitte say.
Arwen gets in the car after a moment. I put the key into the ignition and start driving as soon as I can. She will meet her sister, but not like that, not without knowing the whole truth. My hands are shaking, and as soon as we are away from that house, I pull over on the side of the road.