24. Helene
24
HELENE
Helene sat on the bench in the garden and blinked into the sunlight. She felt her mind clear, as though coming out of a heavy fog.
“You’re here,” she said, noticing her daughter beside her. She couldn’t remember why they were sitting in the garden, how they had gotten there. It felt like it had been both years and seconds since she last saw her.
She looked around the yard, as a recollection surfaced. She remembered sitting on this very bench, right after her granddaughter came home from the hospital with baby Louise. Barbara had been exhausted, just a child herself, overwhelmed and struggling to nurse the constantly hungry baby.
Helene had insisted that Barbara take a nap. It was late evening, the witching hour as she called it, and the baby was inconsolable, red faced and screaming. Helene walked with her, singing French lullabies, swaying her in her arms.
The memory flickered, like an old movie, and Helene fought to hold on to it. Camille had been there too, standing beside her as she walked up and down the garden path, bouncing the baby on her shoulder, until she finally quieted, her little body heavy with sleep. They sat together, watching her with deep love, because she was theirs, would always be theirs.
Helene had told Camille something important that day. She knew that. But what had it been? She searched the memory, until finally, the words rustled up like a breeze.
“It’s okay, Cami, if you don’t tell Barbara. If she never knows. Never passes the knowledge or responsibility to this little soul. And it’s okay if you do tell her. I know you’ve struggled with this since she was young. But there’s no one right answer. There never is when it comes to our children.”
“Will it lessen her life?” Camille had asked, her expression serious. “Because it has been the gift of mine, Mama. No matter how hard it has been. It’s also been a tremendous privilege.”
Helene had felt overwhelmed at her daughter’s words, the confirmation she had always needed, that healing added to her life instead of subtracted from it.
“She’s a nurse, Cami. She found her way to a life she loves on her own, a career where she helps people,” Helene had said. “And she’ll continue to find her way, with or without the magic.”
She had buried her nose in Louise’s head, inhaling the scent of baby powder, the unbearably sweet newborn smell. She understood why her daughter had kept their ability a secret from Barbara all these years. Camille believed, the way all young mothers must believe, that she could always protect her child from pain, that by the sheer force of her love, she could create a world without suffering for her. Only of course, she was wrong. The world would always find its way in. All you could do as a mother was try to prepare them for it.
Helene’s vision blurred as the scene disintegrated, until all she felt was the memory of the weight of Louise in her arms, the miracle of her existence, that a part of Helene resided in her tiny, perfect body.
Beside her, Camille looked much older than Helene remembered, her brown hair streaked with gray.
“I’m here, Mama.”
“Are you sad?”
Tears streamed down Camille’s face as Helene took her hand. She hated to see her daughter cry. It always had been that way, from the days of skinned knees and goose egg bruises.
“Yes, Mama. I’m very sad.”
Helene studied Camille’s hand. She felt like she was in a deep lake, rising slowly to the surface, and with every inch the world grew lighter and clearer. There was sunlight ahead, and she fought her way toward it.
“It’s time?” Helene said, and it came out as a question even though she saw the answer in Camille’s eyes.
Helene glanced around the garden, at the flowers and weeds, at the fat bumblebees and delicate butterflies that flew in small circles. In the distance the mountains, her mountains, fringed the horizon. She knew the land, every inch of it, as though from an old dream.
She closed her eyes as she tried to recall a different dream, a narrow wooden house with an attic bedroom, the smell of salt and fish, her father’s strong arms, her grandfather’s white beard, her mother’s scent, the kind face of a boy on a beach, a white habit in a stone church.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” Camille asked.
Helene opened her eyes. She felt herself sinking again, dragged toward the murky depths, but she struggled against it.
“I am ready,” Helene said. She squeezed her hands into fists as the current pulled at her. She needed to tell her, to say it out loud. “Thank you.”
Her daughter’s face grew distant in Helene’s vision, as though in any moment it would be gone, swept far out to sea. “For what?” Camille said.
A warm breeze stirred the hair on the back of her neck. In the distance, she heard gravel on tires, voices from the orchard. She tried to hold on to it.
“For loving me enough to let me go.”
Camille leaned her head on Helene’s shoulder. The world, her brief sense of clarity, slipped away, but for once, she wasn’t afraid.