Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(10)

Meg sang along, and everyone joined in but Elle, who was convinced she couldn’t sing (this was a lie; I had heard her on occasion when she thought no one was listening, and her voice was quite lovely). But she swayed. She swayed and she smiled, her eyes twinkling like Mama’s.

I made a big show as I broke it all the way down with the rolling, wild ending. And when I finally gave it up for good, they cheered.

I laughed and curtsied invisible skirts as they shouted Brava and Encore!

Aunt Susan was smiling so wide, I could almost count her molars. “Annie, that was wonderful!”

“Why, thank you.” I bowed deeply this time with the sweep of my arm. “I’m here all week. Try the prime rib!”

“Do another!” Meg bounced. “Do Bowie!”

So I did. I played “Oh! You Pretty Things” and The Beatles’ “Rocky Raccoon” with a little “Killer Queen” for good measure before I finally called it.

They clapped, and I stood for a final bow.

We chatted as we turned for the door to the room, but Mama touched my arm.

“May I talk to you?” she asked, her voice low.

Everyone kept walking out, not having heard her.

“Of course, Mama.”

We moved to the armchairs where I sat, and she pulled up next to me, her face drawn.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong; that’s the thing I’m trying to keep in mind. Ever since you were born, I’ve been afraid. In fact, I can barely remember what it’s like not to be afraid, and I can’t recall what it’s like not to feel guilty. You’ve missed so much, and it’s my fault.”

I reached for her hand. “Mama, I—”

“No, no. Let me finish. You see, every aspect of my job as your mother falls under one of three cardinal rules: to love you, to protect you, and to respect you. Sometimes, to do one, I have to betray another. In my effort to protect you, I haven’t respected what you want. Baby, I’m happy you’ve found a job. I want for you to find independence and a life outside of me, outside of us. But I’m scared, too, and fear is a beast not easily slain. Sometimes, it’s not even a beast you can look in the eye.”

“I know,” I whispered, squeezing her hand.

Her gaze dropped to the carpet and through it. “It doesn’t make it any easier that I’m not myself. I don’t even know what that means anymore—myself. Who I was is gone, and I’m left a stranger to myself. I wake up every day with a glimmer of who I used to be hanging on to the edge of my mind like a dream, and I live the rest of my day chasing that vision. But it’s impossible to catch, and that impossibility is almost more crippling than my ruined legs.” She took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Being here is easier though, isn’t it? When every little thing is different, it feels like a fresh start. If we were back home, I don’t know how any of us would get out of bed in the morning.”

“I’m glad for the distraction, and I’m grateful you’re all right with my working.”

“Well, you’re an adult, as hard as that is to believe.”

I snorted a laugh. “I don’t feel like an adult at all. Six months ago, I was taking chemistry finals and getting ready to graduate from high school. And the second I had that diploma in my hand, I crossed the threshold into adulthood with no idea what I was doing.”

“Well, let me give you a hint, Annie.” Mama leaned in, her smile small and conspiratorial. “None of us knows what we’re doing. Nine out of ten people you ever meet are faking it.”

The thought was comforting.

“I really am happy for you,” she said. “Just bear with me if I occasionally lose my mind.”

I moved to hug her, hooking my chin over her shoulder, her glossy blonde hair against my cheek and her arms around me.

“Thank you, Mama.”

“I love you. No matter what, no matter where, no matter how, I love you.”

I sniffled and stood.

“Well,” she started, hands on her wheels, “I think I’ll go see after lunch. You coming?”

“I think I’ll head to my room for a bit.”

She nodded and backed up her chair, turning it toward the door. “Let me know if you want a plate made up.”

“I will,” I said, and we parted ways in the hallway.

Once in my room with the door solidly closed, I let out a sigh that felt like it aged me. The afternoon sun cut into the room in a wedge, diffused by the sheer curtain. The wooden princess set my father had made stood in its beam on the desk, the sunshine gleaming off the shiny varnish of each piece.

He’d made it for me when Mama was pregnant, carving each piece with the same gentle hands and love he later gave me. The castle was made of blocks that fit together, and he carved little figures to live there—a princess and knight, a king and queen, a dragon and cave. They were the only things I’d packed besides clothes and the stuffed animal I’d slept with since I was in a crib. The rest of our possessions wouldn’t get to us for a while, but this, I didn’t want to be without.

I picked up the princess, running my thumb over her wavy hair and the details of her dress, imagining my father with a half-carved block of wood in his hand and his face scrunched in concentration. I’d seen that look a thousand times in my life; one of my greatest fears was that I’d forget the sight.