Mothers and Other Strangers

by Gina Sorell

  She stared at me for a moment as if she didn’t recognize me. “And you never thought to tell me?”

  “No, I didn’t think you cared about my dancing. It’s not like you came to our final show.”

  “It was in New York,” she said, as if New York was halfway around the world and I was being ridiculous.

  “The other parents came.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and stood as tall as I could.

  “Well, I guess I am not like other parents.”

  “I guess not,” I said, and turned to leave.

  “You have no idea!” she shouted, stopping me on the spot. “No idea!”

  I slowly turned around and saw her standing up, shaking her bad fist. Her face was bright red and her eyes were wide and staring past me, like she was looking at something else, something that only she could see.

  “Mother.…”

  She exhaled slowly, taking her bad fist in her good one and holding it tightly to her. After a moment she spoke. “As you seem to no longer need my parental guidance, then you won’t mind that I am going to continue traveling with Philippe on behalf of the Seekers, and when we are not traveling, he will be staying here with me.”

  Her voice was even and robotic, and although she was looking at me, she avoided making eye contact.

  “Okay.…”

  “And I do hope that you finish your studies, Elspeth. You are very fortunate to have found something you are good at and get to do, but life sometimes has other ideas; you never know what your karma is, so if I were you, I’d have a backup plan. Every woman needs one.”

  I wanted to yell that fortune had nothing to do with it, action did; not karma, not fate. I had worked hard to make this happen, and I deserved it. I was sick of hearing how things were the result of her karma, as if she had no control over her own future. But as much as it infuriated me, it troubled me that she believed it so strongly, and that made me worry that it was true.

  “Are Philippe and the Seekers your backup plan?”

  “No Elspeth, they are the plan. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “You’re right, I don’t understand. I don’t care if you call them your brothers and sisters, they’re not your real family. They’re not even a real religion, you said it yourself. Just a bunch of lemmings following some guy nobody has ever heard of who thinks he’s the second coming.”

  “That’s enough!”

  “What about me? Why can’t we be a family?” Hot tears streaked my cheeks, and I wiped them away.

  My mother stood still and looked at me. Her face softened, and she seemed older than her years, and sad. “We are Elspeth. We are. Not everyone’s family looks the same.”

  She looked down and wrung her hands. “Philippe needs me. He’s committed to building a center for the Seekers, and he needs my help. I owe him that.”

  “You don’t owe him anything,” I said bitterly. I thought of what Henri had told me about the other women, about the younger mistress in Montreal whom he wanted to keep secret. “How do you know he isn’t just using you for your money?”

  My mother stepped closer and surprised me by reaching for my hand. “Everything in life has a price. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Philippe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I whispered. I couldn’t remember the last time we had touched like this.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but then shook her head and let go of my hand, and I watched as the softness in her face hardened back to the usual impenetrable mask.

  “Finish your studies. You’re young and you’re beautiful now, but as you get older you’ll see that life sometimes has different plans for you, and a woman needs to find other ways of keeping herself interesting.”

  Beautiful. It was the closest to a compliment she’d ever given me, and I felt my face flush with pride. My mother was beautiful. I had always known it and others had, too. It was a given. But I had never considered myself to be, and to think maybe we shared something, and she saw it, touched my heart. I wondered what her plans had been when she was young, and whether her studies of art and religion and philosophy were really for her, as I had always assumed, or if they were her way of making herself more interesting as she got older. I knew she feared aging. I’d caught her a few times looking in the mirror, holding the skin on her face back, smoothing out the wrinkles that only she could see. She wasn’t just making herself interesting, she was making herself useful; traveling with the Seekers and supporting Philippe in any way that she could, be it with her body, her money, or a place to stay when in town. I suspected she was more concerned that I might cramp her style when Philippe was around than not consulting her about my decision to go on tour with the company. I vowed to make myself scarce during Philippe’s visits and hopefully avoid his lecturing as well.

  I had nothing to worry about. Philippe decided to support my decision, telling my mother I was in search of my destiny and the sooner I got started the better. Whatever. Outside his world of followers and devotees, his words seemed hollow, his presence oddly theatrical, like an actor who behaves as if he’s onstage even when he isn’t. He needed an audience, and I didn’t plan on giving him one.

  I placed the dance program inside my bag and took one last look around the apartment. Go, a voice inside me pleaded. Just go, leave now. Don’t look back. Don’t think anymore about that summer. Leave this building and those memories behind. I watched myself turn off the lights, close the door behind me, and move in what felt like slow motion down the hall. I opened the trash chute and moved to put the book Spiritual Rehab inside when I saw Henri’s face staring back at me. I snatched it back and looked at the author bio. A father of three children, he was married to a loving wife, and he owed it all to his daily meditations with the Seekers, his yoga practice, and his healthy diet. When not traveling the world giving talks and helping others, Henri resided in Paris and oversaw the Wellness Center. The photo could have been of Philippe. Clean-shaven with a neat haircut and a deep tan, in a crisp white linen shirt, his eyes piercing, his face full of confidence, Henri looked just like Philippe did that fall when he moved in with us. My head started to spin, and I placed my hand on the wall and tried to breathe deeply, as if I could will the memories that were rushing forth to stay in the past. But it was no use. They were here, and I was naïve to think I could just throw them away and be rid of them.

  I had just gotten out of the shower after my run one Saturday morning when I found Philippe sitting on my bed facing me.

  “Elsie.”

  “Jesus Christ!” I shouted, quickly rewrapping my towel around me. “What are you doing in here?” I looked out into the living room, which was dark.

  “Devedra isn’t here. It’s just me.”

  Devedra. I rolled my eyes after he said it. I had to hear it all the time now, and it got on my nerves. “You could try knocking! You scared the shit out of me,” I said, pulling my towel tighter.

  “I have something I need to discuss with you, something private,” he said, patting the place next to him on the bed.

  I ignored his invitation and continued to glare at him.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just, well, it’s important, and this was the only chance I had to slip away from your mother. She’s getting her hair done.”

  Saturdays 9:00 to 10:30 a.m. It was a standing appointment she’d had for years.

  “Can I change first?” I saw that he had a stack of postcards next to him. The postcards I had sent Henri.

  “Where did you get those?” I asked, reaching for the postcards with one hand and holding my towel with the other.

  “Please sit down,” said Philippe, his shoulders sagging and his eyes heavy.

  I held my ground and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Those are private,” I said, snatching them out of his hand. “You have no right to spy on us!” I started to shake, my wet hair dripping down my back and dotting water on the carpet. Philippe stood and took my robe off the back of the door an
d handed it to me. I put it on over the towel, tying it at the waist and letting the towel fall to the floor.

  “Thank you,” I muttered. It was hard to be indignant when half-naked and soaking wet. “Does my mother know?”

  “No, of course not. This is between us.” He sat back down and put his head in his hands, took a deep breath, and spoke. “I am sorry you think I was spying. I wasn’t. Not on you, anyway, at least I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know you were the girl he was getting letters from.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay. You still shouldn’t be reading his mail. Some things are private; you of all people should know that.” I thought about all the secrets Henri had been asked to keep of his father’s, of the burden it had put on him and how his father had violated his trust. “After everything he’s done for you, following you around, keeping your secrets, this is how you repay him?” I was shaking, my fists balled up at my sides.

  “I don’t have secrets.”

  “You’re married.”

  “Yes I’m married, but we haven’t been husband and wife for many years, and that’s okay. We’re still friends, and she knows about your mother. Did you know that?”

  “What?” I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. His voice was low and calm, but his words shook me.

  “Henri is not well, Elsie. He hasn’t been for a long time. Most of the time he’s okay, if he stays on his medication, but if he goes off of it, then, well, his mind gets the better of him and he starts to lose touch with reality, and he begins to imagine things.”

  “You’re making this up,” I said, my mouth getting dry. “It’s not true. He cares about me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course he does. That is real. But so is the rest of it too, I’m afraid: the paranoia, the fear that people are out to get him. He believes it, but it isn’t real. That’s why I asked him to travel with me, so I could keep an eye on him and make sure he stays on track.”

  I leaned back against the wall, my knees weak, and looked down at the stack of postcards. I had told him everything about myself, believing him to be a kindred spirit. If Philippe was telling the truth, then what part of Henri’s spirit had I connected with? Was it really the sick part? And if so, what did that say about me?

  “How long has he been off his medication?” I asked, my voice barely audible above the growing lump in my throat.

  “Months maybe? The night we went out for your birthday I started to suspect something had changed. He was acting strangely gregarious one moment, secretive the next, and I didn’t make the connection. And then a few weeks later, I heard he’d been receiving letters, and that’s when I figured out he must have a girlfriend. It’s not the first time.” He exhaled deeply and was about to speak, but then shook his head and stopped.

  “What?” I asked.

  “He has trouble getting an erection on the medication, so, if he has a girlfriend, he might stop taking it.”

  I dropped the postcards on the floor and watched them fall around my feet.

  “Get out.” My hands trembled with rage as I pushed my door open wide for him to leave. I didn’t want to be talking about Henri’s erections with his father. “If you’re concerned about your son, you should be talking to him, not me.”

  “You’re the one I am concerned about,” he said, standing up and walking toward me. “He can be dangerous, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  The word dangerous rang in my ears, and I tried to remember if I’d ever felt worried for my safety around Henri. I hadn’t, or was it that I hadn’t yet?

  “I don’t need your concern,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I think I’ve been doing just fine without it.”

  “You really don’t think I care about you? I do. Your words are so full of pain and loneliness. So much sadness for such a beautiful young woman, but then again with such an old soul, it’s no wonder. Henri might be too young to understand what you’re going through, Elsie, but I’m not. You are working through your karma from a past life. It’s why you feel so alone, why you don’t feel at home anywhere,” he said softly, placing his hand on my cheek.

  “Those postcards were private,” I said, as tears of humiliation threatened to spill down my face.

  “I don’t need a postcard to tell me that you are special, Elspeth. Anyone can see that. Why do you think your mother is so jealous of you?” He lifted my chin and stared into my eyes, not blinking, and I felt the heat coming off his body.

  My mother. He had compared me to my mother, and I had won. Hadn’t Henri done the same thing? But now, suddenly, I was to believe that Henri couldn’t be trusted. Slowly the tears started to fall.

  “You should go,” I whispered, steadying myself by leaning my back against the wall.

  “I should,” he said, taking a step closer, closing the gap between us until I felt him against me, “but I want to stay.” He pressed his pelvis into mine, and I could feel him harden against me as he slowly lowered his hand from my face to my breast. “I want to,” he whispered again, his lips on mine, “don’t you want me to?”

  “I… I.…” The room started to move, and my body felt like it was unraveling. The well of sadness had opened up in me, and I was falling into it.

  “You’ve wanted me from the moment you met me, Elsie. The way you touched my hand at the meeting, the way you let me kiss you on the sidewalk, even now half-naked in your robe, waiting for me to touch you.”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t want to…” I said, pushing his hand away, and the second I said it, I knew it was true. I may have wanted a lot of things, an older man to find me attractive, my mother to be jealous of me for once, an experienced lover, and to believe that I was as old and mature as I yearned to be, but not this. I didn’t want this. I cared about Henri, and as attractive as I may have first found him to be, Philippe wasn’t who I thought he was.

  “You do,” he said, quickly kissing me and undoing my robe, “you do.” He reached between my legs with one hand and undid his pants with the other.

  My hand shot up from my side and punched him in the stomach, but he caught my fist and pushed me down on the carpet. “Don’t fight it, you wanted this, you’ve always wanted this, it was meant to happen.” He raised my arms above my head and pinned me against the floor.

  “Get off me,” I said, as I tried to push against him, unable to free my body from beneath his weight.

  “It’s going to happen,” he said, looking me in the eye, and I knew he was right. I wanted to cry out but wouldn’t let myself. I didn’t want to give Philippe anything. Not my body, not my voice, not even the silent tears that poured down my face as he forced my legs open and thrust himself back and forth inside of me. I bit down hard on my lip and tried to be as quiet and stiff as I could. His face swayed above me, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see Henri’s features in his, didn’t want to think of how he was erasing the memory of the first time Henri and I had made love on the floor of this same apartment. I heard a sob escape from deep inside me, and I hated myself for it.

  “It’s okay, let me heal you, I can heal you, I’m healing you,” he said as he came inside me and collapsed his body against mine before leaving.

  I don’t know how long I lay on the floor after he left. I just remember hearing the door close and then going in the bathroom to throw up. I closed my eyes and tried not to see Philippe’s face, but it was there, glassy-eyed and breathing heavily into mine; I leaned over the toilet again and heaved, the violent rush of vomit a scream that was unleashed from within me. With each hurl his face got a little bit fainter, the ringing in my head a little quieter, and when there was nothing left, a hard-earned calm washed over me, and I felt comfortably numb.

  I thought about calling the police but was worried how it would sound: my mother’s boyfriend, a man I’d kissed on my sixteenth birthday after a night of underage drinking, only an hour before I lost my virginity to his son, had forced himself on me. Hadn’t I let him stay in my room? Wasn’t I naked under my robe? What
if they thought I was leading him on? After all, I hadn’t screamed. Philippe had told me it was what I had always wanted, and what if they believed him? I thought about my mother finding out, I thought about how Henri would feel and was sure he’d want nothing to do with me, and I realized it would be best to try to forget it had happened.

  After I vomited, I showered off the evidence of Philippe’s crime and made myself go to dance rehearsal, and that night when I returned home, and my mother announced that Philippe had suddenly left on business for the Seekers, I got into bed with a fever and stayed there for days. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and my mother, who never worried about me and who didn’t even believe in Western medicine, grew concerned and actually suggested we go to a doctor. But I didn’t want anyone to examine me, I didn’t want anyone to know, and when she started to insist, I got out of bed. I shampooed the carpet, threw out the robe I had been wearing that day, and tried to pretend nothing had ever happened. But every time I stepped out of the shower, I’d listen for Philippe’s footsteps, my body going cold at the memory of that day, bile rising in my throat. Unlike the carpet, the stain on me could not be washed out. And so one day, I packed up my belongings and moved into the house where the other dancers lived.

  “Elspeth, are you all right?” asked Mrs. David, who was coming toward me. My body was shaking, and the familiar feeling of saliva filling my cheeks returned. I was going to throw up. The first time I’d felt like this was the morning Philippe had forced himself on me, and I’d been grateful for the chance to purge him from my body. Throwing up had made me feel clean again, and it wasn’t long until I began puking throughout the day, whether I was thinking about Philippe or not. I put my hand in front of my mouth now and willed myself to swallow.

  “Yes. No,” I answered, taking the hand she offered me and squeezing it tightly.

  It had been years since I had vomited; Ted and a lot of therapy had finally cured me of trying to drown my sadness in a toilet bowl, but I knew I was never all that far from the porcelain’s edge. I tried to talk myself down like my therapist and I had practiced, telling myself it hadn’t been my fault, that I wasn’t dirty and didn’t need to clean myself from the inside out. I was good, I was clean, I was strong and whole and beautiful, and I didn’t deserve to be raped.