Simone
SIMONE
S imone drove Remy home and even walked her to the house. She considered depositing her on the doorstep and leaving, but once Remy unlocked the front door, a heavy cloud of perfumed incense escaped, causing Remy to gag. “My mum,” she explained. “I used to like the smell.”
“Well, you can tell your mother the smell upsets you, now that you’re pregnant.”
“Shh! I can’t tell my mum yet.”
Simone considered Remy. “I’m trying to decide if I find your chaos endearing or annoying.”
“I’d prefer endear—”
“I’m almost certain it’s annoying,” Simone continued, interrupting her. “This is ridiculous, Remy. You’re not fifteen years old—you can’t spend the next few months hiding beneath large jumpers and a sullen attitude. You have to tell your mother. You live with her, after all!”
“Keep your voice down!”
“And who is this?” A woman wearing a caftan, headwrap, and stacks of bangles running musically down both arms emerged.
“This is Simone,” Remy said. “Simone, this is my mother, Ada. Mum, Simone and I used to go to school together.”
“Nice to meet you,” Simone said. “Remy wasn’t feeling well so I’ve just dropped her home. I’ll be on my way. Enjoy your evening.”
“Nonsense!” Ada announced. “Come in—I was just having a little snack and I’d welcome the company.”
Remy’s mother did not wait for Simone to answer but instead turned, allowing the batwing sleeves of her caftan to billow behind her.
Whenever a day that had been meticulously planned went awry, it made Simone stiff and frustrated.
But her manners would not allow her to simply walk away from such an innocuous invitation, so she entered the Baidoo residence.
She followed Ada into the dining room to find that her “little snack” consisted of a charcuterie board made from salami, cheese, pita, hummus, and slices of vegetables.
Remy’s mother turned to Simone. “Now that Melissa, Lin, and Nova are no longer regular guests, Remy never has friends over.”
“I’m not sure I’d categorize us as friends,” Simone said slowly.
“Perhaps not yet.” Ada offered a seat and waited for Simone to sit, so Simone had no choice but to acquiesce, cursing her ability to be blunt but never callous. “Give it time,” Ada sang, taking the seat opposite her. “Remy’s an introvert but warms up delightfully. So, what do you do, Simone?”
“I’m a primary school teacher.”
“I see,” Ada said, picking up a carrot baton. “I’ve never been a proponent of the education system.”
Simone had yet to find a parent who thought this way and found herself reaching for slices of bell pepper and hummus. “Why is that?”
With a captive audience of one (Remy stayed at the end of the small table, perhaps trying to keep the lemon water down), Ada sat back and proceeded to share her numerous opinions.
“I believe what makes people discover their truest selves is creativity and individuality,” she began.
“If there exists any institution desperate to eradicate the two, it is the education system. There is nothing individual about being taught the same thing over and over again, and being praised for reaching the same answers and conclusions agreed upon by very boring people decades ago. And don’t get me started on how schools explore creativity; the idea that one can be graded on art or music indicates there’s a correct and incorrect way to do it; a process that must be adhered to in order to be graded high marks is oxymoronic in itself.
How can you say, go forth! Be creative, young minds!
Let it flow from within your heart and soul…
but make sure you achieve X, Y, and Z, otherwise you won’t have done it right.
Rules, by way of the grading system, and pure unadulterated creativity do not coincide, Simone. ”
“Mum,” Remy warned.
“Don’t stress, Remy,” Ada said. “Every second of worry takes a minute off your life. You’ll only make it to seventy at this rate. Besides, Simone isn’t offended, are you, dear? After all, she isn’t the reason schools are the way they are.”
As she listened to this manifesto, Simone kept her eyes focused, staring at, or rather, absorbing Remy’s mother. No, Simone was not offended; whether she agreed or not was irrelevant because there was definitely something about Remy’s mother that Simone enjoyed.
After a similar speech about university, the workforce, and then the cameras above supermarket self-checkouts, Remy’s mother clapped her hands. “It is getting late. Shall I read your palm before you go?”
“You read palms, Ada?” Simone asked.
“As of two weeks ago, my love,” she answered proudly. “I’ve gotten quite good at it. I started off by studying my own palms for hours and I guessed everything right.”
Simone furrowed her eyebrows, unsure if Ada was joking, but Remy’s tight smile indicated that she was not and that there was no point in refusing. Ada pulled Simone’s hands toward her and traced the lines beneath her fingertips. Simone was surprised by her gentle touch.
“I just need to know your age and star sign before I can begin.”
“Well, I was born May 21st, so Gemini, I believe?”
“Ah, the star sign most known for its dual nature.” Remy’s mother took a deep breath with her eyes closed before looking down at Simone’s palms again.
“Yours will be easy to read,” she declared. “I couldn’t make sense of Remy’s for days, her palms were so silent, but yours scream at me.”
Simone looked down at her hands; this was the first time she’d paid so much attention to them.
She’d never noticed that her palms were exceedingly different from each other; they were the most fraternal of twins.
On her left hand were multitudes of faint lines, almost like deep-set wrinkles etched into her skin, traveling in all sorts of directions and often crossing the paths of others.
Amidst them stood three stark, separate, and curved brown lines.
“These three lines,” Ada began, “represent the three loves of your life. How close the lines are to one another leads me to believe the three loves in question are close to one another themselves. Friends, perhaps? No? Lovers? No—what a shame. Family members, then?” Simone didn’t think she’d given anything away, but Remy’s mother had caught something indiscernible.
“Yes, family,” she stated confidently. “Three family members you love.” Simone’s palm began to itch but she couldn’t remove her hand, not with Remy watching (and Remy was watching intently).
Thankfully, Ada moved on to Simone’s right palm.
It featured the same faint lines and even the same three brown lines, but on this hand, two had joined at the end, reminiscent of two roads merging.
She pointed to it. “You see these two lines joining to form one? They represent the two sides of your person and the two worlds you exist in approaching one another. They were separate at first, but are desperate to join. Where they join marks a period in your life when these two worlds will collide.”
Simone snatched her hand away. Remy stared but her mother only arched an eyebrow. “The dichotomy in you was evident the moment you walked through the door, dear.”
Simone could not break eye contact with Remy’s mother, who continued talking.
“I could argue one’s most authentic self is multifaceted,” Ada said.
“To be one thing, one way, all of the time spits in the face of human emotion and its complexities. However, how different these two personas are, only you can tell me.”
Just then Ada’s phone rang and their gaze was broken after she threw her arms in the air in delight. “That will be Sorrel! She had a date tonight—younger man.” Ada winked. “Then we’ve got to book our rooms on that cruise! Safe travels home, Simone. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Ada sauntered out of the room, answering her phone as she went. Simone entertained the possibility of Remy’s mother being a witch.
Simone could not make eye contact with Remy just yet so she wandered around the living room to shake off the palm reading. “Your mother is… interesting.”
Remy held her hands up in surrender. “Simone, I’m going to tell you what I told my Year Nine maths teacher during one parents’ evening: If I couldn’t control coming out of her vagina, you can bet I can’t control what comes out of her mouth.”
Simone fought a smile and lost. “That’s vulgar.”
Remy shrugged while Ada’s voice drifted down the stairs.
“She’s going on a cruise?” Simone asked, studying the books on the shelf.
“Yeah,” Remy answered, “it’s been on her bucket list for ages and she’s making her way through that list very quickly.”
“Is she dying?”
With mock somberness, Remy replied, “We’re all dying, Simone.”
Simone rolled her eyes.
“No, she’s not dying,” Remy said, looking back at the stairs. “In fact, I think she’s finally living.”
Simone nodded and then pointed toward a photo album on the shelf. “May I?” She paused. “Or… is that too intrusive—”
“Knock yourself out.”
Simone took a seat on the sofa and began slowly turning the pages. “Why are you so reluctant to tell your mother?” she asked softly, smiling at the photos. “She doesn’t seem the type to admonish you.”
“She wouldn’t,” Remy said, taking a seat beside her. “I know she’d support whatever decision I made. She’s not a regular mom, she’s a cool mom .”
Simone stared at her blankly. “Was that an American accent? And if so, why?”
“You don’t get the reference?” Remy asked. “From the film Mean Girls .”
“Oh.” Simone shrugged. “Never watched it.”
“You haven’t? That’s insane.”
“Many things in this life are insane, Remy. Having missed a cult classic is not one of them.”
“Maybe one day we’ll watch it together and you’ll see what everyone talks about.”
Simone surprised herself by saying, “Maybe.” Then she returned quickly to the photos. “May I ask, did Ada’s experience as a mother put you off being one?”