Chapter Sixty-Four
Backstage on show night had its own kind of music, a wild, breathless symphony of thudding boots, creaking ropes, and increasingly frantic voices.
It didn’t matter how much they rehearsed, how much they prepared – it always felt like this.
Always felt utterly impossible until the moment the lights dimmed, and the curtains drew back, and it all began.
Ava sat in the relative peace of her mother’s dressing room, glassy eyes upon the mirror. The room was still barren – Lillian having point-blank refused to return anything before opening night was over – although Bertie had crept inside earlier, a small brown package in her hands.
‘For you,’ she’d said. ‘I thought you might want it for tonight.’
Ava undid the twine carefully, the paper falling open to reveal a delicate silk gown, and her breath caught in her throat.
‘She was never gunna just toss them all away,’ Bertie said, taking off her cap.
‘She loved your ma too, you know. Grieved her, when she died. For all she talks big, I don’t think she wants her to disappear either.
She still has all her cuttings from the papers saved in a file in her office.
I see her take them out and read them sometimes. ’
‘Thank you Bertie,’ Ava said, fingers tracing the soft silk. It was the colour of forget-me-nots, the colour of summer skies, and sparkling seas.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Bertie, opening the door and letting a burst of noise into the room – men calling to one another about the gas lines, and the rigging, and the props – and above them all was Miss Lillian’s cane, clacking back and forth. ‘And then she wants everyone readied in the wings.’
‘I’ll be ready,’ Ava said.
‘She’d be proud of you, you know,’ said Bertie, brow creasing. ‘Your ma. Very proud.’
And then the door swung shut again, silencing it all – leaving Ava with only the sound of her own, thudding heart. She thought of all the times she had felt unworthy of those words – because she was not as confident as her mother had been, not as certain.
She blinked, a tear sliding down her cheek.
Without Damien, she wouldn’t be sitting here, ready to show the world that she was not her mother.
And proud of that fact – proud that she was her own woman.
Proud she’d found something to carve for herself, rather than trying to whittle at what her mother had made.
And perhaps … that was enough? Perhaps, the fact that he’d taught her that, he’d shown her that, was enough.
Even if he had left – he had left her with something important.
Something she would carry with her. Something she would believe – not just for herself, but for him.
And she would. Each and every day she would believe it – fiercely – as though he could hear her, all the way across the ocean – that we were all worthy of love.
No matter who we were. No matter what was in our past – the mistakes we’d made, the things that haunted us – we were still worthy of love; and yes, it was scary – terrifying, even – but it was still worth the risk.
She knew that one day, she’d be able to think of Damien and not feel this same, dragging ache in her heart.
One day she’d be able to hold those memories in her hands, and they wouldn’t cut her.
She’d be able to focus on the happiness she’d felt, and not on the loneliness, the sadness. The dull, searing pain of it.
‘Five minutes, Ava!’ came Bertie’s voice as she thundered past the door.
But that day was not today.