Chapter 11
Relieved I’ve made it through another day, after I’ve called home (Cassie is still refusing to talk to me) we all convene for drinks on the western terrace to enjoy the sunset before dinner, and the funny stories of my mother’s friends: Carla, the seventy-year-old woman with dark curls and lots of make-up; Maria, the one who had an affair with her gardener while her husband named, er, let’s see…
Eugenio played tennis; and finally Lucia, who…
wait, what did she do? Or rather, who did she do?
I can’t remember for the life of me, but I remember it was hilarious.
‘The important thing is that you don’t do it here,’ Carla is saying, clad in a gorgeous caftan ruined by what must be her entire collection of necklaces spilling into her tanned cleavage.
‘That’s a big no-no now, after someone was caught in the sauna a few years ago.
And they were both married, and both spouses were actual guests at the time.
Imagine if they had been the ones to walk in on them! ’
‘That must have been embarrassing,’ I muse, suddenly interested. Not that there was anyone here I could see myself having sex with – but fancy the idea of getting your leg over with someone of your choice in this beautiful setting?
‘Well, now there are cameras everywhere, so unless you’re into that sort of thing, it would be quite difficult to get it on.’
‘If I could, I’d do it in the pool late at night,’ sighs Elsa, a new entry for me but an old friend of my mother’s.
She’s in her late sixties but looks like she could be my mother’s mother.
All the years of sunning herself haven’t been kind to her skin.
For a wellness clinic, it doesn’t seem to me like anyone is trying to age gracefully.
If anything, they’re trying to cheat a natural process.
‘What about you, Susan? Where would you do it?’ Carla asks.
At that, she smiles.
‘What?’ we all say in unison.
Elsa sniggers. ‘Susan’s been here quite a while. She and Aldo have baptised every single corner of this place, haven’t you, you naughty harlot?’
My mother, who isn’t denying it, looks very smug.
‘They’re not one of the main benefactors for nothing,’ Carla says. ‘Which was the best place, Susan? Tell!’
But she just continues to smile and it is obvious that some raunchy, sordid memory has just crossed her mind.
I am stupefied to say the least. I knew she didn’t have any morals, but that is more than Mitchell and I ever did.
And even I eventually grew out of my wild child phase.
Is my mother planning to stay young and sexy forever?
And what about the rest of these ladies here, battling the inexorable advancement of time, some more or less desperately?
But I have to hand it to them for their youthful spirit.
And, to be honest, their depth. At first glance they had seemed rather frivolous, but now that I’m getting to know them, I’m beginning to change my mind.
They are turning out to be quite entertaining, but in an insightful manner.
Miriana, another new entry for me but the oldest of the lot, tells us about her boob job gone wrong and how it ruined her back, causing all sorts of balance issues.
At first, I think it’s funny, but then she tells us about all the mind-blowing pain she had to endure that her meds never fully dulled, and the ensuing infections and the scars that never healed properly, and I find myself actually flinching in sympathy with her. It must have been absolute torture.
The next hour is spent listening to everyone’s botched work: the nose jobs that had left them unable to breathe properly, the face-lifts that had left them with expressions that didn’t belong to them and the boobs that had exploded during a flight to the Caribbean.
The sores that never healed and all the money spent on suing these so-called doctors.
And all those parts of me that I’d wanted to fix one day? Forget it. Going under the knife is not for me. Unless I’m at risk of dying. That’s a different story. But to rashly give myself up into the hands of someone with a scalpel, no matter how skilled they are, is not happening.
These women have shared their stories about their most vulnerable moments with me, simply because I’m Susan’s daughter.
But to me it’s more than that. I am truly touched by each of their stories.
Marriage, unhappiness, dreams that never came true, loneliness, fighting against depression, over and over again.
We are all fighting the same battles, the same fears.
But as it all becomes more morose, my mother jumps up from the table.
‘Enough of these long faces! Time to sing and dance. Follow me!’ she beckons and catapults herself onto the piano bench in the corner, then starts pounding out and singing the first bars of ‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet.
Immediately everyone follows suit, waving their hands in the air, mimicking the drums and the sax.
‘Come on, Livvie!’ she calls out to me as I’m the only one not singing or flapping my arms around like a drunken bat. ‘You love singing! My daughter has an amazing voice!’ she calls out to everyone, who all ‘Ah!’ and turn to me expectantly.
The truth is that I can’t remember the last time I sang, even in the shower. It brings back too many hurtful memories.
‘Come on, Olivia, join in!’ everyone is saying, looking at me expectantly.
And suddenly, the smell of popcorn fills the room, and in my mind a spotlight finds me, just like that night many years ago in the school auditorium when I was left to sing alone. So I turn around and run.
*
‘So, how did it go this week?’ Dr Severini asks with a grin as I collapse, resigned, into his armchair. He’s moved me to his last slot on Friday and it’s like I can unload the entire week on his shoulders. ‘Any family dramas unfold?’
‘No more than usual,’ I say. There is no point in telling him that I still haven’t spoken to Cassie and that she’s not answering my messages because he’d only point out to me the similarity to my relationship with my mother, which I’m already well aware of.
‘I’d like to talk more about Mitchell. What happened between you two after you split up?
’ he asks, knowing that there has to be more.
Clever man doesn’t have all those framed certificates hanging behind him for nothing.
I’m beginning to think that he can actually help me.
Or maybe he can’t, but I still need to talk to someone who will not judge me (or at least not that much).
I stare at him, swiping at a tear. Slightly surprised, he holds my gaze for a minute, but then drops it to his hands, something I’ve never seen him do before. I’m probably scaring the crap out of him.
‘I… we split up…’ I begin. ‘And then I had an abortion.’
If I’m expecting an I’m sorry or even an Oh of sorts, it’s not happening. It’s an extremely sensitive topic and he knows better.
‘And how did you feel about that?’
I groan. ‘Like crap, as you can imagine.’
‘Yes.’
I’m trying not to break down, taking deep breaths and swiping repeatedly at my eyes, but I’m not doing a very good job of it.
It’s a struggle to get the next bit out, a memory that I’ve always tried to supress.
‘We didn’t keep in touch, as I thought it would be easier for both of us to move on that way.
A few months later, he died in a motorcycle crash.
A freak accident.’ And then I collapse into a heap in my chair, crying silently while taking huge gulps of air. I am definitely one hot mess.
‘I’m sorry, Olivia,’ comes his soft voice as he hands me a tissue.
I shrug, wiping my nose, trying to catch my breath, but it’s useless. The dam has come apart under all the pressure of such a long-kept secret and it’s all I can do to stop myself completely falling apart.
‘It was unbearable,’ I sob. ‘Losing him… twice… and a baby that we could have raised together.’ And then I laugh.
An unsteady, unhinged laugh. Even though I knew I had made the right decision, I couldn’t help doubting myself after that.
‘Just think, Doc, I had lost another potentially dysfunctional family right there. A second one, gone down the drain… and now my present family is falling apart… I can’t…
I don’t know how to keep it together…! I’m losing, losing on every level!
I’ve abandoned my kids for two entire months!
Who does that? I am a terrible mother, just like mine was!
’ The tears are falling thick and fast now, and I’m struggling to take a proper breath.
‘You don’t mean that,’ Doc says soothingly.
Of course I do, but what does he know? To study guilt and grief and loss was one thing, but to actually live with it, every single day? It’s not a life.
‘Perhaps your relationship with your mother isn’t just about the two of you,’ Doc suggests. ‘Perhaps it’s also due to your own burdens.’
Who knows? Is it? All I know is that I don’t want to be like my mother, never have been, and yet here I am, putting myself first, and still full of all sorts of problems.
And Cassie will never forgive me for this, just like I never forgave my own mother.
We sit in silence for a moment as I calm myself down. Doc hands me another tissue. ‘Better?’ he asks as I straighten up in my chair and blow my nose.
I nod. ‘Better, thank you. Same time next week?’
He nods as I get to my feet. ‘Same time next week. I’ll get some more tissues.’
‘Get the expensive ones, though. These ones can’t withstand a good cry.’
And I’m out of there.
I check my watch and decide that I’m going to skip the group walk up and down the mountain paths nearby and get a facial instead. Try and put my blotchy, cry-baby face back together again, as if nothing had ever happened. I’m good at that.
*
The next night is 1980s Foreign Music Night, my mother’s absolute favourite music period, as she’s been telling me all day.