Dreams of 18(103)

But she does.

She sits on the edge of my bed – my old bed in Connecticut – and for the first time ever caresses my hair. She strokes it and I have to blink back tears while I’m lying on my side, with my hands under my cheek.

She tells me that my real father was this charming guy she met at her country club. He lived in New York City and was in town visiting some friends for a while.

“We fell in love,” she says soothingly. “Or at least, I did. I even wanted to leave your father for him. For Christopher. We spent lazy afternoons together when your dad wasn’t here. I thought he was going to marry me. He said he loved me and I’d never felt that before. Your dad doesn’t love me. I don’t love him either. Never did, never will. Anyway, I’d never been in love before, you know. So I thought I was finally getting a chance at it. I was finally getting that dream that I didn’t even have for myself. I never thought I’d fall in love. But then, his trip ended and he left. And when I found out about you, I tried to contact him. He told me to move on. It was an affair and it was over. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him about you before I found out that he had a family of his own.”

My tears sluice down to my pillow but hers are still at the edge, filling her pretty eyes with pain.

“So I decided that I’d never tell him. I decided that I hated him. It was easier to pretend that than actually face the fact that I was a bored, easy suburban wife who fell in love with a charming man from out of town. It was easy to pretend to myself that it was an affair like all my other affairs.”

So we’re a lot alike, then. My mom and I. We both pretended to be okay. We both were living a lie.

And for the first time ever, I feel like my mom’s daughter. As painful as it was to hear, this story brought us closer.

“You look like him. You always did. Brown hair with golden strands that look blonde and chocolate brown eyes. It was hard for me to look at you. To look at the reminder of my broken dream. It’s not an excuse but I want you to know that. I want you to know why I was an awful mother to you. Because I was in love with your father. Maybe I still am.”

She wipes my tears off and it causes this wound in my chest, my soul to gape open. He does that.

He wipes my tears off, even if he’s the one to give them to me.

Swallowing, I grab her hand and squeeze, my already broken heart breaking for her a little. “Thanks for telling me.”

She blinks back her tears. “You can’t be like me, Violet. Do you understand? I won’t let you be like me. He’s not coming back, Vi. He’s not coming back for you. He called me, remember? He told me where you were. He sent you away. You have to give up hope, okay? Give it up. You have to pick up the pieces and move on because if you don’t, you’ll end up like me.”

This isn’t the first time that she’s said it. Give up hope, I mean.

She told me this five days ago when she suddenly came to Colorado.

After Graham left in his truck and I ran after him, she found me in the woods. She lifted me up, helped me up to the house, calmed my sobs down. She packed my bags while I just sat there on the couch, wondering what just happened.

When she told me that we were leaving, I refused. I told her that he’d come back and we’d talk and all of this would be over.

Surprisingly, she agreed and we waited.

We sat there for hours, with my journals scattered around us – I didn’t let her pack those.

Give up hope, Violet, she said, after a while. He isn’t coming back. I know men like him. He’s a predator who’s looking for innocent girls like you.

I asked her then, about the article in the paper and if she was behind it. She said yes.

“And now, you have proof. You’ve seen it with your own eyes that he’s not coming back. He discarded you. So let’s go. Don’t pin your hopes on him.”

To make her happy and to not argue with her anymore, I did leave. But I didn’t give up hope.

I haven’t. I won’t.

I trust him.

As crazy as that sounds after what happened. After he pulled that move on me, called my mother like that.

But the thing is: I didn’t before. I didn’t trust him, not completely – he was right. I hid things from him and I lied to him because even after everything he did for me, there was a teeny-tiny part of me that thought he’d be like everyone else in my life. I was too scared.

I’m not scared now.

I mean, I am. Of course I am, a little. But I’m choosing to be brave. I’m choosing to be what he made me realize I am.

I even tell Nelson that when I go for our session. We sit on our respective couches and he smiles at me.

I smile back.

Then he inches up his glasses and asks in his friendly, non-threatening voice, “So how was yoga camp?”

There’s an amused glint in his eyes and I let out a broken laugh.

Moon and magic.

I hear his words in my ears and the answer slips out. “Magical.”

“Was it?”

I nod, picking at the threads on his sofa. “I learned a lot.”

“What did you learn?”

I glance up at him. “That I’m in love with a man who ended up sending me away.”

He nods at that, gravely. “How do you feel about him now?”

I shrug. “I love him. I know he’ll be back.”