Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  The clock ticked on the wall and time slowly drifted by, tick after tock, until ultimately it was her mother who withdrew first.

  “Ahh look, the tea’s cold now. Let me make a fresh pot.” Sylvia’s words were solid and safe as she stood up with great conviction to once again go about creating the age-old medicinal brew.

  Esmée rested her elbows on the table, held her face in her hands and wiped the moisture from her cheeks while watching her mother go through the ritual. Scalding the pot first before pouring the steaming water on top of generous heaped spoons of fresh breakfast tea leaves, she then laid the table with full-fat milk, white sugar, a plate full of Jersey creams, a china cup and a large blue mug. Esmée found her mother’s activity soothing and felt her pulse slow down in rhythm to the precise and deliberate movements, and the need to weep temporarily passed. Neither woman spoke, each lost in her own thoughts, as the silver strainer was placed over the mug and the amber liquid poured through its pores. Adding milk and two spoons of sugar, Sylvia handed it to Esmée with a warm smile and a biscuit. That was the wonderful thing about her mum, Esmée thought while taking the first sip of her sweet tea – her mum always knew exactly what to do, seeming to understand almost immediately that Esmée needed time to calm down, to gather her thoughts and straighten things out in her own head before attempting to vocalise them. And Esmée knew that, although they never really discussed it, for her mother the sanctity of marriage was all-encompassing and she too was using this moment of silence to absorb the devastating and morally controversial news.

  With her own delicate china cup supported protectively between both hands, Sylvia sat down opposite her daughter.

  Esmée was immediately struck by the intense look of worry, cloaked by the encouraging smile, in the depths of her mother’s piercing but sympathetic grey eyes. A look so profound that, no matter how well suppressed, it still managed to work its way through the shine of concern and affection.

  “Why didn’t you come to me before this? Has he hit you?”

  “No, Mum, it’s not like that. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Well, try . . . what has he done?” She was gingerly seeking an explanation of whatever monstrous act that resulted in this exceptional outcome. And it had better be good.

  Esmée tried to ignore the poorly veiled disappointment in her mother’s tone and, unable to hold her stare, looked up uneasily at the light that hung over the table. Watching it gently swing in the light breeze from the open door, with its woven wicker shade stained by the years of vaporous flavours from many home-cooked meals, deepened in colour to a rich tan, Esmée considered the best way to answer this simple question. She thought about the first time she had figured out what Philip was up to. Amy was three months old and cutting her first tooth. She vividly remembered the argument, the controlled accusations of insanity and the convincing denials.

  “He’s been unfaithful to me, Mum,” she declared bluntly, laying her palms flat on the table. “Not once or even twice. I’m not exactly sure how many times. For all I know, for the past four years, and maybe before that, Philip has been shagging every woman in Dublin except me.” Her head dropped low in shame, waiting for her mum to react, and when she didn’t she added: “We don’t talk, we don’t laugh, we just exist, and I, well, I can’t do it any more.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure about what?”

  “Well, sure that he’s being . . .” But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, “you know . . .” indicating through the movement of her eyes and brows the meaning of ‘you know’.

  “What? Sure about the affairs?” With targeted childishness, Esmée purposefully placed emphasis on the last word. “As sure as I know that pigs don’t fly.”

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “Of course I have, Mum – you don’t think I’ve just packed up house and home without trying to sort this out, do you?” She was beginning to lose both her patience and temper, trying hard to remember that her mum was only asking, that she knew no different and was checking to see that her impetuous daughter had, unlike during her many previous crises, checked all bases before reacting.

  As if to justify her actions and, she supposed, to help her mother understand, Esmée went through the sequence of events that led to her departure: the discussions, the arguments, the failed counselling and ultimately the icy wall of silence.

  “Each time he was so persuasive, Mum. He promised me time and time again that nothing was going on. He swore on Amy’s life, for God’s sake! And I believed him. I convinced myself that I was just being paranoid, told myself that it was all in my head. But little things just kept happening, little things that nagged at me – they just didn’t feel right: receipts for presents I never got, late nights at work, phone calls on his mobile in the evenings, his unexplained absences from work . . .” Esmée laughed bitterly while the words tripped forth.

  “And then, then one night he actually called me ‘Karen’ and I believed him when he apologised, telling me she was this new girl at work. I swallowed it, justifying it to myself by remembering how we used to call you ‘Teacher’ when we were kids! Remember? What a complete idiot!”

  As she spoke, recalling it and so reliving it, her mother sat and listened to the tale, taking it all in, trying to make rhyme and reason out of Philip’s actions.

  “It all sounds so obvious now, so clichéd . . . anyway . . .” Esmée continued in her matter-of-fact tone, lost in the narrative of the last four years of her ridiculous union to Philip, unaware of the pools that had once again built up in her sad blue eyes, “eventually we stopped making love – there wasn’t even sex any more, but I didn’t stop trying. I tried to encourage him, to instigate it. I made nice dinners, tried to dress nicely. I even overhauled my underwear drawer thinking I could bring him back, thinking if I made myself look good he’d notice me again, that he’d want me again.” Unconsciously she smeared her tears across her cheek and into her hair. Her voice shook and her chest heaved as the depth and reality of the story once again took a hold over her.

  “But I stopped in the end because it just wasn’t working and his constant rejection was killing me. You know,” she confessed quietly, “we haven’t had sex in almost two years.”

  If she was trying to shock her mother with this blatant statement of fact she failed miserably. Sylvia didn’t so much as flinch, being at a point way beyond shock. She thought her daughter’s marriage was solid – troubled but solid. A bit like hers and Frank’s. They’d had their good years and their bad years but they were rock-solid. And in sympathy all she wanted to do was reach out to her daughter, to make it better. She also wanted to castrate Philip. But on the other hand, she wasn’t convinced. He just wasn’t the type. But then, she thought, is there a type? Swallowing the concrete lump in her throat she held back, knowing that Esmée had to finish this without her and as she did, as any good mother would, she collected her thoughts and composed her reaction and advice.

  “And I miss it so much, Mum, I really do. I’m only thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m human and I need intimate contact.”

  Her mother blushed at the notion of her daughter’s sexual desires that, if she were honest, she really didn’t want to know about.

  “Sometimes I just to want to reach out to him, for him to hold me. I’m not after mad raging sex any more, I can live without that, but I can’t live without intimacy and companionship.”

  Sylvia watched and listened in complete dismay as Esmée poured out her heart and, when desperation and the tragic reality of her daughter’s circumstances became apparent, she went to her, knelt beside her and cried with her.

  “Oh Esmée,” she whispered with the love only a mother can possibly give and, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead while wiping away the tears she could catch, repeated her name softly, over and over. “Esmée, Esmée, Esmée, you should have come to me, I’m here for you. We’re all here. You might not believe me but I do understand what you are going
through. Really I do.”

  Here she paused. She had her own story. Was now the time to tell it? This was a parenting moment for which there were no instructions, no rulebook. Painful as it was to acknowledge, Sylvia accepted that there were some secrets which, ultimately, were meant to be revealed and that they, in controlled circumstances, could be fashioned to help, perhaps to avoid a repetition of errors or maybe to illustrate simply life’s big picture.

  What do I do, Frank? she silently asked the spirit that had never left her.

  Do I tell her? Can I tell her? But she didn’t really need to ask his permission. She could feel him, sense him there with her. He was a presence that passed through her, a pulse of electricity that tickled every nerve-ending on the back of the hand that gently swept the face of their weeping child. He gave his approval and taking a deep breath she knew that the confession wasn’t a betrayal but a means to an end. Now more than ever she needed to support her daughter, no matter how painful or humiliating.

  “Esmée, your father and I . . .”

  Esmée looked upon her mother kneeling at her feet, unable to explain the charge that at that moment connected them so intensely.

  “You know there were times when we drove each other mad,” Sylvia went on. “Times when we hated, even despised each other . . . it wasn’t always a bed of roses.” There was melancholy laughter in her voice as she iterated further, needing to put her daughter’s plight in context and help her see sense. “We had our fair share of problems.”

  Sylvia’s face coloured strongly and, keeping her eyes low, she stood up with a wince and set about clearing the table. Esmée’s gaze followed her with curiosity.

  “Do you remember those bunk beds?” It was a loaded question thrown over her shoulder while walking to the sink with the half-empty cups.

  “Yes,” Esmée answered with a cautious nod, sensing a revelation in the offing, her interest aroused.

  “Well, we bought those to make a spare room for your father. We didn’t sleep together for the best part of a year, you know.”

  This was news to Esmée. Her memory of that particular family event was one of excitement and anticipation. She remembered the power of her assignment to the top bunk and Lizzie’s relegation to the bottom. She remembered the fun and games that those beds brought, transformed with draped blankets and torches into caves and treasure troves. The move into her little sister’s room was made without argument – so releasing the fourth bedroom on the half landing for her dad’s new ‘study’.

  “Christ. Mum, I never realised.” She was amazed as slowly the links connected and the revelation finally dawned.

  As if proving a point, her mother nodded purposefully. “I know. We made sure that none of you found out.” Gripping the dishcloth harder, she continued. “You know, I thought he was having an affair too.”

  “Dad wouldn’t do that!” Esmée leapt up, almost choking on her own breath as she pushed out the objection, shocked that her mother could even think like that.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he just wouldn’t – because he loved you, he loved us!”

  “Yes, he did, there’s no doubting that, but like you I knew things weren’t right. I never asked him and he never told me.”

  Steam billowed from the tap as she spoke to the water that filled the sink to wash the few dishes.

  “Even when he was . . . just before he . . .” the same magnetic charge tickled her skin as she felt his essence brush by, “before he passed away, I thought about asking him but I didn’t have the nerve. What would I have achieved if he said yes? Why would I ruin what we had? Why end our time together by looking to the worst of so many beautiful wonderful years?” She passed her hand across her chest and smiled pensively, quietly lost in the memory. “In hindsight,” she eventually continued, “I doubt it was true, but if he had done I’d understand why.”

  “Mum! You’re kidding – aren’t you?” Esmée found the conversation almost too hard to take. It was certainly taking a turn that she hadn’t anticipated. She actually felt nauseous as her mother stated her case.

  “We were in a bad place, he and I,” Sylvia went on, “and people do funny things when they’re depressed.”

  Esmée’s head was reeling, having always thought, never doubted, that her parents had the perfect life, the perfect marriage. Depressed, who was depressed? Her father? Why?

  “But we got through it,” Sylvia continued as she rinsed the soapy cups under the hot tap. “We kept at it, not only for ourselves but also for you, your brother and sisters.”

  In that moment Esmée saw her mother in a very different light. She didn’t know if she felt respect or pity.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mum.”

  “There is nothing to say really,” her mother consoled her almost cheerfully. “In those days you didn’t go to counselling – you just got up and got on with it.”

  She came back to the table, drying her hands on a tea towel before throwing it over her shoulder and sitting back down. “I knew my place, and that was to be by your father’s side, through thick and thin, to support and care for him. I was his ‘other half’! I pushed him when he needed a shove and held him back when he needed to take time out. I listened to the stories from his day when he got home in the evenings and advised him when he needed help. Those stories in the evening over dinner completed my day.” She stopped to allow memories that she had blocked out for a long time now to come flooding back. “I used to host the most wonderful dinner parties for his work people, you know.” A vacant misty look came over her as she proudly remembered – as they both remembered – those magnificent nights.

  Esmée recalled how her mother would rush upstairs to get ready in the late afternoon just before her dad would arrive home, how she wore those brightly patterned maxi skirts and garish ruffled shirts with eye shadow and lipstick to match, and how she always looked and smelled divine. She remembered the way the crystal on the set table would sparkle in the candlelight, refracting through the delicate grooves on the expensive and finely crafted glass, saved for special occasions such as these. Gifts of fresh-cut flowers, boxes of chocolates tied with red ribbon and the embarrassment when she and her siblings were paraded proudly, like good children, in front of Mr and Mrs Whoever! Collectively they would smile sweetly in their best pyjamas, dressing gowns and rosy faces, before being marched up the stairs to bed like the essence of innocence, angelic children that they were! And whilst the guests enjoyed their meal there would invariably be a “mission” to the kitchen to retrieve and retreat with pickings of the sumptuous feast that would have taken the whole day to prepare: filled vol-au-vents, salads, succulent beef, crispy roasties dipped in thick gravy, chocolate gateaux, fruit salad, trifle with whipped cream and the ultimate prize – After Eights! What a coup! To creep back upstairs having successfully scored a couple of those wonderful wafer-thin minty chocolate squares was trophy indeed!

  “Your father always said his career in the Force was down to those dinner parties!” her mother said, her adult memories very different to Esmée’s. “And despite it all, the ups and downs, we were a great team!” Her tone was upbeat and ceremonious.

  They sat for a while, each momentarily lost in their disparate memories of their former years, Esmèe reflecting that her father hadn't in fact advanced much in his career before he was killed. Reluctantly her mother spoke again, breaking the nostalgia of the moment.

  “These days promotions happen over a round of golf while in my day it was over a good home-cooked meal surrounded by your happy family. Family values – that’s what counted.” Her tone was firm and authoritative.

  “Mum?” Esmée asked nervously. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m not sure. Up until now I’ve never really spoken about this to anyone – I haven’t needed to.” She paused, raising her eyebrows in recognition of the extraordinary place in which she now found herself. “I suppose what I’m trying to say is that maybe you need to try and under
stand why he’s behaving like this. Talk to him. Tell him how you feel. You can’t give up on your marriage.”

  “Did you say that to Tom when he walked out on Rachel?” The question, oozing with sharp bitterness, escaped unchecked.

  Her mother’s face reddened as she hastily replied. “Your brother’s situation is different.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that.”

  Esmée asserted there and then that she had made the right decision in not telling her mother of her plans in advance of their implementation. Either Esmée was totally blinkered or her mother genuinely didn’t understand and, while deep down she appreciated the enormity of her mother’s shocking confession and was rocked by the possibility of her father’s indiscretions, she genuinely doubted her dad had ever cheated on her mother. But one thing was pretty clear: Esmée knew why her mother had made the humiliating confession: she wanted her to stay with Philip, because that’s what a good wife does.

  Confused, hurt and disappointed, she couldn’t wait to get out of the house but she reluctantly stayed with her mother for a little while longer, to answer her questions about where she was now living, how the children were and how she actually planned to survive financially.

  “It won’t last forever, you know, and what will you do then?” Sylvia remarked. She was referring to the money Esmée’s father had left her in his will and which Esmée had put aside for a rainy day – a rainy day that had now clearly arrived.

  This final point acted as a full stop to the conversation. It was all a little too much a little too soon for Esmée and, diplomatically, using the need to shop as an excuse, she got up to leave, promising to call her sisters that afternoon.

  “They’ll be very upset you haven’t spoken to them about this before now, so be prepared,” her mother warned gently as they walked together to the front door and out to the car.