Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part II

Chapter 111.1: 1995, Georgina

Chapter 111.1: 1995, Georgina

The lights were off now, a soft glow in the kitchen was between us, a Yankee Candle smelling of melons and lemon. We were sat across from each other. Ruiz, poor thing, was finally asleep in her room. The clock read 3:22 the last time I looked at it. Who knew how long we'd been sitting here.

Finally, Cha Cha spoke. Small voice, full of sadness.

"I do not know what to do about that one."

Those words, cut off. No more. My tea with milk and lemon was untouched, but in my hands on the table. She'd drank some of her's, but her voice was still scratchy. Tired, spent. Emotional.

I nodded, hoping she'd say more. She didn't have to. I just wanted to hear her voice. That sad voice.

She paused, and opened her mouth again. "How... How can a mother do that? A mother? You know... Or maybe you do not know... But when I was her age I put that word on a pedestal. I forgot where I came from. I wanted to be one. I wanted to be the best one. I was so lonely. But now seeing her? What her mama did to her? It reminds me of where I came from. And I can not...there are no words."

I nodded at this, looking down at the floating lemon in my tea. It looked almost happy swimming in there, happy yellow slice. It made my eyes fill, but I hoped she wouldn't see that with just the candle. Maybe she was looking away. Because I knew what she meant. We weren't so different, she and I. Ruiz, too. All of us. We'd come from the same place, almost. Different circumstances, surely. But we were the same.

I wanted to say this, but I didn't have the words.

Cha Cha went on, before I could finish my thoughts.

"I remember the days when I got bruises on my face from my mama," she said, almost in a whisper but with a slight harassed tone in her voice. "I remember that. I would get it just for being me, like Ruiz does. Nothing has changed. Absolutely nothing. My mama would call me names. She was upset, because my brother left us. My papa left us. She was afraid of losing me, but she was pushing me away. I do not think she knew how to keep somebody. Does that make any sense? I don't- ...I don't know." These last words were melancholy, a long, secret pain. A giving up.

I nodded, taking a chance look at her. She was staring at the candle, maybe inspecting it from her place across from me. Thinking, maybe lost in herself.

I breathed in and out slowly then quickly, took a sip from my tea. It was getting lukewarm.

She shook her head, in her thinking. "There are so many reasons for mothers to do this. So many things in their heads, they do not know what they are doing. Yet, I have not forgiven her. I can not forgive my mama for hitting me. I can not forgive her for not loving me like I felt I should be loved. Does that make any sense? Did I expect too much? Is it really my fault?" She sat back in her chair, arms folded over her chest, a defensive position, but there was vulnerability there.

I just shook my head slowly. No, it's not your fault. It's not your fault she hit you. That's her fault. She did those things for her own reasons. I know, because my mom hit me for it. She chased me around our apartment. We were screaming at each other. The curtains were wide open, but she didn't care who saw. She took her rage out on me. She was mad about something all the time after my father died. She had so many reasons to be mad, but I didn't know any of them except that she hated me.

She went on. "My mama tried so hard. But she did not know what she was doing. Did you know, I wrote to her? I wrote to her maybe five times. I still have those letters. They were sent back to me. I hope she moved and that is why she did not read them. Isn't it funny? That I would rather she not read them at all rather than have sent them back herself? What if she does not know anything about me? It is funny." But she wasn't smiling.

I just stared at her, hoping my face looked sympathetic. My mother's face was before my eyes. My blue eyes, my blonde hair on a different, but familiar face. Her voice. I never forgot it. Long ago, when she left that message on my answering machine. Listen, uhhhh... Don't you call here again. The number is no longer, uhhhh, in service. I'm getting married to Brian. Don't you, uhh, call this number no more. Uhh... Yup. That's it." Brian. An Irish name. Her Irish accent mixed with New York. Erasing her Italian family, her previous life, in one message.

I didn't know what I thought about my mother. I didn't care if she knew anything about me. She didn't know I was "some kind of dancer", which is how I would have phrased it to her back then, to make her understand. She didn't know what I looked like, even. And it didn't matter. None of it mattered, because she threw me away.

All I could feel now was pity for these two in this apartment. How they still cared about what their mothers thought. Still trying to impress them so they would care. There was no use. I wanted to tell them that, but even though they might not understand me, I still had no words. How do you explain that? You can't.

So I reached across the table, my fingers mixing with her fingers. The candlelight made us look more yellow than usual. Flickering, just our two hands as one. She seemed to calm, I could feel her pulse in her wrist. Her heart was slowing down. Just like when we came inside from the car.

She was staring at our hands, just breathing. I knew that pain in her heart. Maybe we were slightly different, or just slightly the same. But I felt I could feel that pain with every one of her breaths. A hot, raw pain. Still an open wound these many years later. Someday, it might be a big ugly scar somewhere deep inside. Just like mine. Yet another scar that our mothers gave us.

After a long moment, her mouth went firm and she looked at me. Her eyes were a begging. My own softened, unexpected.

"We have to support her. She's going through it. It should not happen, but we have to help her. She's young. We're not young anymore."

A small smile flickered on my face, as quick as the firelight.

"I am young," I said, trying to be sure in my words, but trying to make her smile, too.

She did. She squeezed my hand. "That's my Georgina," she smiled, her eyes following it. A true smile. She breathed deeply. "Let us go to bed, yes? I will help you change your clothes, and we will get all cozy. Can I sleep in your bed tonight? I just want to be near someone. It will be like a sleep over. Is that good?" She was trying to sound cheerful, at my joke. But her voice was still sad and long, like a wilting flower. Almost dead, but still hanging on.

I nodded, still smiling, trying to keep her smiling. I couldn't think of anything better.