Chapter 13 Audrey #4
But she would, I told myself. Once, a little boy had come to me, shy and sad, and I’d made him my brother. I’d spent eighteen years under the guidance of the world’s best parents. Mathilda was already wrapped in my love, and soon, she’d lean back into it.
Since Caroline died, Mathilda had nightmares once or twice a week, and I’d run into her room and hold her until she stopped whimpering.
Sometimes she fell asleep that way, and I drank it up, her little body soft against mine, the sound of her breathing.
I loved her so much it hurt and felt guilty to be glad that she’d been scared enough to accept me.
Awake, however, she gave me a wide berth. Every other weekend, Ephraim and Betty would drive up to take her, and every Sunday night, always past the time Clay requested, they’d drop her off, oversugared and sullen, new toys clutched in her arms, exhausted but wired.
As for marriage, I’d gone from lover to housewife wicked fast. Clay worked at one of those big furniture companies, leaving me to manage everything domestic.
There was no easing into it, no learning curve.
Suddenly, I was in charge of a kindergartener, getting her off to school, making our meals, doing laundry, painting the small rooms of our home, cleaning, grocery shopping, scheduling appointments, going to school events and doctor’s appointments and reading every book I could find on step-parenting, difficult children, traumatized children, orphaned children.
I would save this little girl. I would not be deterred.
That first month, I spoke to Mathilda, regardless of her silence.
“How was school today? I saw you talking to the girl with the Hello Kitty backpack. What’s her name?
Well, she seemed very friendly.” Nothing.
“Would you rather have peas or green beans with supper, honey?” Silence.
“Okay, well, peas it is. I think I remember you liking peas.” Nada.
“I love that dress. It’s such a pretty color. ” Nope.
On the thirty-third day of the silent treatment, I went into Mathilda’s room, closed the door and leaned against it so she couldn’t leave. She was at her desk, drawing, and glanced at me for only the briefest second, as if to notice her exit was blocked.
“Mathilda, I thought we could talk,” I said, trying a smile. “I know we’re just getting to know each other, and I know you miss your mom and your grandparents. But maybe we could be friends, what do you think?”
“I hate you,” she said calmly.
Ouch. “You don’t really know me, Mattie. I’m nice. And you know, my mother died, too.” Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears. “I understand how hard it is.”
“You’re boring,” she said, and I sucked in my breath, shocked at how much her words hurt. But she was only five. Her world had evaporated when her mother died.
“Okay, honey,” I said. “But I hope we will be friends someday. Someday soon.”
Later, I found the picture she’d been working on. Me in a cave being eaten by a monster with big teeth, her and Clay watching as they ate ice cream cones. I showed Clay, and he said, “Aw. Looks like me and her are about to save you.”
“That’s a very . . . optimistic take on it.”
“Well, baby, you know me,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “Optimistic all the way.”
As a father, Clay was firm one moment, lax the next.
He might bark, “That’s enough, Mathilda!
” and he might just as easily say, “Here, baby girl, you need a cuddle? Been a hard day, huh?” He might order her to bed at seven or let her stay up till ten.
I suggested we go to family counseling. He didn’t believe in counseling, and he wasn’t about to subject his child to “a headshrinker.” I printed out articles and highlighted words like routine, traditions, consistency, togetherness.
He read them and promptly forgot what they said.
On days when it was just the two of us, I took Mathilda to the playground, the children’s museum, the ice cream parlor.
She wouldn’t hold my hand unless we were crossing the street or in a parking lot, and even then only because I insisted.
But every once in a while, she’d forget she hated me, like the time we went to a horse farm, and a three-day-old foal nuzzled her outstretched hand.
She smiled up at me, as beautiful as a rainbow.
Once, when we were stuck in traffic and she was squirming in her car seat, I made up a song about a dog pooping on the railroad tracks, and she laughed and laughed and asked me to sing it again (she never wanted to hear it after that day, though).
When I wrapped her in a towel after her bath, her arms would go around my neck, for balance if not for love. I didn’t care. It was something.
Unfortunately, any progress I made was undone when Mathilda stayed with Ephraim and Betty.
They were gas to the fire of her resentment.
I sent them copies of Mathilda’s report cards, some of her artwork (though not the pictures depicting my death) and cheery little notes to keep them up to date.
All went unacknowledged. They wouldn’t come into the house to pick up Mattie, just honked the horn from the driveway.
I’d walk Mathilda out and say hello, but Betty wouldn’t even roll down the window.
Ephraim, at least, looked apologetic, but Betty stared stonily ahead, her jaw clamped so tight she could’ve cracked a diamond.
In my premarital fantasy, daughterless Betty and motherless Audrey would love and support each other.
In real life, she was more likely to shiv me.
Clay made sympathetic noises and said it was understandable that she’d resent me, since I was alive and Caroline wasn’t.
“I’m not the one who gave Caroline cancer,” I said, a tear sneaking down my cheek.
“But you get to raise Caroline’s child. It’s a cross for them to bear.”
“They should be glad someone is raising Mathilda.”
“Well, they did take me to court after Caroline died. They petitioned for full custody. So there’s that, too.”
Good to know, Clay. I started reading romance novels again, where happy endings were guaranteed, hoping to pick up tips on how to woo a truculent stepchild, since the books by psychologists weren’t helping.
Riding out on horseback to save her during a Montana snowstorm seemed to work best. I didn’t foresee that happening for us (though I did google winter vacations in Yellowstone).
Saving her from the pickup truck didn’t seem to count.
I stopped asking Clay to help smooth things out, because it was clear he preferred to pretend everything was okay.
And for him, it was. Mathilda loved him, spoke to him, hugged him.
He got healthy meals and a clean house, sex and free childcare.
To me, he was absentmindedly sweet. “Great dinner, hon. You look nice, babe. These flowers sure are pretty, sweetheart.”
But did he really love me? Late at night, staring at the ceiling, I pondered.
The seed that Stephen had planted on my wedding day shot up like kudzu.
As we passed our second anniversary, I wasn’t even close to my fantasy of being Mathilda’s mom.
I wasn’t even in the realm of a cousin. But her need for a mother was eating her alive, and I was right there, waiting.
My patience became practically holy, a meditation of sorts.
“You can’t tell me what to do!” Peace begins with a smile.
“You’re not my mother!” The light and love in me honors the light and love in you.
“This dinner is disgusting.” Breathe in, curse silently, breathe out.
Love was stronger than hate, right? Love always wins. That’s what they say, anyway.
Around the three-year mark, I thought I saw a flicker. Clay had worked late (again), and Mathilda sat at the dinner table, mushing up her salmon with a fork and not looking at me. She liked salmon, but she’d just come back from a weekend with Ephraim and Betty.
“Mathilda,” I said, “I have a question for you. Could you please look at me?”
She gave me a bored, detached look that would do Cillian Murphy proud, then returned her attention to her plate.
“Listen, honey,” I said gently. “Wouldn’t your life be a little bit . . . easier if you and I were friends? I love you. I love your dad. I want us to be close and have fun together. I know I’m not your mom, but I’m . . . someone.”
The mushing paused. She didn’t look up, but she was listening.
“I know you had a wonderful mother, and you miss her a lot. And I know I could never be her. But maybe I could be like a godmother or aunt. A friend.”
She looked up, and I could feel it, the air changing, the possibility hovering. Her eyes weren’t angry now, and the yes of it all pulsed between us. We were two lonely souls, and we could make each other’s lives better.
She almost agreed. She almost gave in, and love almost won.
Then Clay burst in. “How’s my little girl today?” he boomed. “Who’s Daddy’s favorite person on earth, huh? Why, it’s you, Mathilda Caroline Joyce!”
She leaped up to greet him, sparing me the briefest glance. The yes was gone.
During school days, I did a little freelance work for my old firm, but eventually they hired a replacement. I took up staging for a real estate company but couldn’t find a part-time interior design position. And no matter how she felt about it, I had to take care of Mattie.
The thrill of marriage dimmed, the butterflies I’d once felt for Clay now dry little husks.
He was pleasant, smiling, not unkind in any way, but bit by bit, I figured it out.
Caroline had been his one and only. She had been perfect and beautiful and uber-Christian and a Southern lady.
He still carried her picture in his wallet, which I understood.
It just would’ve been nice if he’d carried one of me, too.