Chapter 36 #2
The waiter approaches as she scans the options.
It’s Sabrina again, sunny in a white t-shirt with yellow daisies.
She’s from Malaysia, always cheerful, despite working all hours and studying English in between.
I’d sit Sabrina down for a chat with us in an instant if I didn’t think she’d lose her job.
She could tell Phoebe about her own barefoot childhood, so far away, her own troubles making ends meet in a new city. Maybe they could be friends.
Phoebe stares at the menu and begins to speak.
“I’m okay. It’s okay. Jaxon’s from Oregon. We met at a party. Nothing like how you and Dad met.”
What am I supposed to say?
Phoebe replaces her cup in the saucer and turns it around and around. She spotlights me again, her gaze unfiltered, vulnerable.
“How do I know if he’s the one?”
“Oh. Well.” I’d love to have an answer, but I’d thought Bart was the one, and now look at me. She’s waiting, eyes on mine. “I don’t know, Phoebe.”
“But ...”
“You’re different to me, and I have no doubt Jaxon is very different from your father.”
“Did you think you’d be together forever?”
I nod.
“That’s what marriage is, Phoebe. It’s a public promise – a commitment to be together forever, and I wanted that.
But you’re right about the house. I did love it.
Maybe too much. Maybe it became a distraction.
And then, in a way, a kind of ... consolation.
I loved your father, but we saw each other less and less.
He was in demand day and night, on screen and off it.
I worked alongside him in the early years, but then I was busy raising you. ”
“So now it’s my fault?”
“No. Not at all! We couldn’t love you more. Phoebe. I tried to keep our family together. And I failed. But I wasn’t alone in failing. It takes two to honor a commitment.”
“Dad says you lost interest in him.”
Did I? I loved being a stay-at-home mum – meeting Phoebe at the gates after lessons each day, walking her home, hearing the news, laughing at her stories, offering her comfort through the bullying years, helping with her school assignments, doing the makeup for all her school plays.
And as she became more independent, I turned my attention to the garden, to my shabby chic business, then starting Lucy’s Lamps.
“Maybe we lost interest in each other, Phoebe. Your father had a very interesting career. I don’t really know why he stopped loving me. It scares me, that love can be so transient.”
“So you don’t trust love?”
Suddenly I understand why Phoebe has agreed to see me. And I lean across the table and take her hands again as she waits for my words.
“Love is the best, Phoebe. Don’t ever let what happened to me and your father stand between you and your own boyfriend, or any future boyfriends for that matter.
You are two completely different people.
And you do know the old saying, that ‘it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,’ don’t you? ”
“Platitudes.”
“Sometimes platitudes are all we’ve got, Phoebe. Besides, love has a way of sneaking up on us, whether or not we’re looking for it.”
“Have you moved on already?” Phoebe’s gaze is hard as a brick fence.
“Yes. No. Well, things happen, Phoebe. You meet people.”
“You’ve met someone?”
“I didn’t say that. But your father has clearly moved on.” I’m not yet ready to tell her about Dirk. There’s nothing to say about him, anyway. He’s a neighbor, a friend, an acquaintance – a mere distraction. That’s not true.
Dirk is a force. Compelling. Impressive. Okay. I have more than a crush on my silver fox neighbor. But I have no idea how he feels about me.
“I won’t rule out marrying again, Phoebe. Not at all. The break-up with your father made me question everything in my life and it hasn’t been easy. But that’s no reason not to love again.”
She listens, lets me speak.
“I’m so, so sorry you’ve been hurt, Phoebe. It hasn’t been great for me either, you know, but I’ve thought about this carefully. It’s over. So now I don’t want to waste a moment being bitter. Life is beautiful. It’s an adventure. It will never be the same as it was, but it might even be better.”
There’s the hint of a smile from her, sunlight between clouds, and my heart lifts, but then she turns away.
“I’ve had to move on and fill my life with new ideas and new people,” I say.
“Most of my friends were part of Bart’s crowd of admirers.
” I don’t want to go there. It’s not for her to hear how shallow those friendships proved to be; how most of them simply shifted allegiances and stuck with Bart and the Minx.
I have to be careful what I say. Donna has told me Phoebe likes the Minx.
They’re not that dissimilar in age – they know the same bands; are both on TikTok.
The Minx invites Phoebe to concerts when she gets free tickets.
I’ve turned my back on her, but Phoebe can’t.
Not if she wants to see her father. I don’t want her to have to choose between us, to demonstrate loyalty to me.
That’s irrelevant now. I’ve voted with my feet.
I tell her about my apartment, how I’m hoping to buy it.
“It’s in an old block, solid, comforting, with lovely light, and district views, and there’s even a bit of a garden I’m working on. I’d love you to visit. Maybe next time?”
She doesn’t agree; nor does she disagree. She pours more tea for herself, hesitates, then fills my cup, too.
“Thank you,” I say. “And thank you so much for coming to this café. Did you see all the beautiful boutiques and bakeries and wine bars? There’s room for you in my apartment. You’re welcome any time. You have my address. Bring Jaxon. I’d love to meet him. When you’re ready.”
She’s silent, but she’s taking it in. I’m grateful. Baby steps. My baby, all grown up.
“I’m proud of you, Phoebe,” I say. She’s been brave, to move on by herself.
I want to kidnap her and take her shopping, to buy her new shoes, take her to a movie, make pancakes for breakfast with her, and laugh at the voices and music on the crazy cartoons.
I want to pick her up and twirl her around as I did when she was four, until she’s so thrilled and laughing and full of joy she knows nothing but love.
“Keep in touch,” I say. Already her eyes have edged away from me, towards the distance. Our precious time together is almost over.
“See you,” she says, as she stands, but it’s just an expression, habitual, not a promise, and she waves one hand and turns away. I fight the impulse to run after her and tackle her to the ground and cover her with kisses until she giggles – my beloved child.
She turns back to me for a moment, as if she can read my mind.
“I have to go, Mom. I have class. See you next time.”
I want to ask when we’ll see each other again, but she’s already gone, the rest of her tea slowly going cold on our table.