Trying To Endure

Chapter One

"Give him space to breathe," Lin laughs. Duke, the bossy one, steps back and barks at Atlas as if telling him to calm down.

"Are you hungry, Sir?" asks Gareth.

"Yes." I straighten. "Is my aunt here or ...?"

Lin fights with a smile, exchanging a witty look with Gareth and the rest of the Staff. Remaining quiet, Lin leads me to one of the living rooms. A few maids giggle. Don't tell me Aunt Marlene organised a surprise party. As elaborate and sophisticated as her celebrations are, she tends to make them cheesy.

We promenade on a four-hundred-year-old Iranian rug that a deceased relative of mine acquired at an auction in 1856. 

The Tate Manor is an arcade of enduring history, prospered since the sixteenth century. Some hallways — the ones that have not been renovated — creaked choruses, as rays of the chandeliers illuminated our faces like brushstrokes. 

Nonetheless, each hallway is delineated of frames, old and new, paintings and photographs — one is a black-and-white picture of Grace Beatrice Everston: on a harbour, a towel enclothed her cowering body, her smile forced and frail, her eyes traumatised. She survived the Titanic. Her husband, on the other hand, heroically died in the wreckage. Weeks before it occurred, she dreamed of it. 

My Lord was scorned, she said in her diary, which I read thirteen times. Stories are engrossing, particularly if they are by your ancestors. He graciously apprised me. I should have listened.

Lin opens the entrance to a strident burst and rain of confetti.

Jackson is hiding behind the door, teeth-grinning like a maniac, his greys shimmering with contentment. I step forward and he smacks my shoulder blade — a little too hard. "Finally, you're back!"

People leap out from their hiding spots. The vast parlour is inundated by cheers, whistles, whoops, claps and laughter from the Staff, my family, friends and their parents. I couldn't stop an appreciative smile, heat crawling into my cheeks.

Aunt Marlene steps forward from the small congregation, swinging out her arms, speed-walking. Arms around me, she instantly leans back with crossed brows. "You ... transformed."

Chuckling, I hug her. She levels with my nose. With a flood of uprising tears, she embraces me so tightly as if frightened I'm a reverie. We both look alike: black hair, blue eyes, eyebrows that often slant to seriousness, fair skin, pale lips that struggle to be genuine. She pecks my forehead. "I'm so proud of you."

I would've shed a tear, but I hate being vulnerable before a crowd.

Sandra Lieselotte Sterling, my grandmother, is on a sofa. 

She comes from an opulent German family, however not as wealthy as her divorced name, nor as my father's name. In her early seventies—never let her age deceive you. Despite her cane needed to walk, her strength is adamant, her character assertive and strict. One of the most courageous individuals in humanity, to be certain. Tall, slender as grace, naturally-fair hair of a debonair bob, eyes feline akin to her daughters, son and grandsons. 

She used to be a model in her twenties and is one of the first and few women to serve in the Army during the Second World War.

I kneel in front of her. Her scarred smile wrinkles the corners of her blue eyes, her shrivelled hands encasing my rough ones. She tilts her chin in a firm, brief analysis. "You have changed," she says on her tongue.

"Fasting," I respond in my first language.

She's strictly religious, and titters at our little inside joke. Before I was in rehab, she paid me a visit and confirmed the summer was my walk in the desert. "For that, God has blessed you greatly, as He would to His favourites. Well done. Not many can do that."