by Dylan Allen
She rests her hands on her hips and purses her lips. “He got your nanny pregnant, didn’t he?”
My eyes bug out. “How do you know that?”
She gives me a look that says, “really?”
“Yes, he did. That was the last straw.”
“And you’ve been helping her. Why?” she asks, and my back stiffens at the disapproval in her voice.
“Because she’s young and scared, and she’s about to have a baby that will be a brother or sister to my children.”
She sighs. “You don’t need to be defensive. It’s just very different from what I would have done.”
My defenses come up even further. “I know it’s unconventional, but I don’t know what else to do. What would my children think of me if I sent her out into the world on her own? After all the things I’ve told them about being decent.”
“I wasn’t being critical. In fact, I’m in awe. I was faced with this myself. Gigi came here, pregnant and scared and we sent her away without any help. How different would all of this might have been if I’d had a fraction of your grace?”
My heart lodges in my throat. It’s the highest praise she’s ever given me.
“What would you have done if you hadn’t married Marcel?” she asks, taking me by surprise, again.
“I would have been a journalist.”
She frowns, her gaze considering, and then shakes her head. “Forget that. I know you had that poison pen thing. Thank God you’ve stopped, but that’s not real experience, so the doors to traditional careers are closed to you. I suggest you start a podcast,” she declares.
“Do you even know what that is?” I ask.
She lifts her chin, her smile turning smug. “I’ll have you know that I listen to True Crime Daily regularly. It’s fascinating. And from what I understand, you can do it from anywhere. You can be home with the children and have something on your own. Even if you don’t need the money, you must have something that is completely yours. Do you concur?” She looks at me expectantly.
I gaze at her in amazement. I feel like I’ve learned more about her in the last few minutes than I did in the eighteen years I shared a home with her. “Okay, I’ll look into it.”
“Good. When you’ve done that, you must find a way to atone for the wrong you feel you’ve done.”
I raise an eyebrow at her choice of words. “The wrong I feel? Don’t you think it was wrong of me to turn Rebecca away?”
Her expression is as inscrutable as always. “It doesn’t matter what I think. If you think so, then make it right, as far as you can. Then, let go of the guilt and get on with your life.”
And find my way back to Stone.
The thought comes from out of nowhere but it’s not a surprise.
Stone said I ruined him. Well, turnabout is fair play.
“Oh, Regan.” Her words are choked by a sob, and her eyes shimmer with unshed tears.
It’s like watching a diamond shatter – terrifyingly wrong. I put an arm around her. “Mom?”
She shakes her head with sad, resigned eyes. She twists her lips in a bitter smile. “My mother used to say, “Bad luck wus dan obeah.” She strengthens her Jamaican accent.
“What does that mean?”
“It means some bad luck is worse than witchcraft…or death.” I’ve never heard her sound so dejected.
“No, that’s crazy. If you’re still alive, then you can try again. It’s not too late.”
“Isn’t it?” she groans, her composure crumbling. She runs a frustrated hand through the short crop of curls on her head.
“Hey, why are you falling apart now?” I ask.
“I’m sorry Regan. Because I know as much as you didn’t want to be…you’re so much like me. Constant, honest, committed – sacrificing. I didn’t want your tender heart to be trampled the way mine was. So, I did my best to steer you in a direction that I thought would prevent that, and all I’ve done is make all of you as lonely as I am.”
“Oh Mom…we all do the best we can.”
“No, we don’t, Regan, and that’s the problem. Liam didn’t. I didn’t. But you… You’re a good girl. Even though your husband cheats, you keep your dignity, and you have never stooped to his level.”
I squirm at the undeserved praise. “I would hate for my children to know that side of their parents. I understand why you didn’t want us to know. We aren’t anything like a family should be. But we’re some kind of family. It’s all my kids know. And…I don’t want to tell them that I don’t love their father.”
She shrugs. “You knew more than I told you as a child, right? Your daughter is smart, and mature. I bet she knows more than you think.”
I nod in grim agreement. She’s right. Eva is so observant.
Mother lets out a long-suffering sigh and sits back in the chair. “I wish that you’d found love. Maybe…you can, still. I know you’ve got this great big life and you’re comfortable—”
“I’m not comfortable.”
“Then why haven’t you left him?”
“I’ve been busy.”
She gives me a disbelieving look, and I sigh.
“Fine, I’m afraid. Marcel is going to fight me.” And I don’t add that it’s too late. That I fell in love with a man I have no business doing anything with. One who doesn’t want children or the kind of life I lead.
“Let him fight you, you’re not some powerless whelp. You’ve got me, Remi, Tyson – and who cares about scandal? Now that your grandfather’s dead, at least we know he can’t kill us.” She smiles mischievously.
I guffaw. “So, you’re glad that Kal’s story is going to be published?” Remi’s girlfriend is a journalist, too. She’s writing the story about my father and his return. I encouraged Remi to let her, when he was reluctant.
She’s quiet and contemplative for a few seconds. Then she laughs. “I’m too old to be living with teenage angst. I’m over it and him. And myself. I’m clearly a misguided person when it comes to love. Remi had it right. Don’t listen to me. Maybe you’ll end up as happy as he and that useless girl he married are.”
“Mother, stop it,” I admonish.
She looks sheepish. “Sorry, bad habits die hard. Kal is lovely, I guess. That daughter of hers is a vast improvement on the stock she came from.”
“Mom…” I shake my head.
She shrugs, but her eyes lose focus and turn sad, as she stares absently out of the window.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, my discomfort maxed out, after almost two minutes of silence.
She looks startled, like she forgot I was there. “That people are going to call that man bold, brave, and romantic. And I’ll be the mother who lied to her children to protect my reputation and business.” She draws in a huge breath and lets it out slowly. “Being a woman can feel like a burden. But it’s not a burden. It’s a gift. It’s on our backs that every single man in existence has stood to reach adulthood. The burden comes when they expect us to be happy being stools.” She shakes her head and stares off into the distance.
My mother is exactly twenty years older than me, and I’ve never thought she looked her age. But the last week has taken a toll on her.
We were all dealt a huge blow, but she’s borne the emotional weight for years, and now, she’s having to live it all in public, all over again.
She claps her hands and her voice turns brisk again. “Thank goodness I’ve got everyone we need at my fingertips. And nearly all of them owe me a favor. Cause we have things to take care of.”
I sigh. “Remind me again.”
She stands and wipes her hands together in relish. “Emancipation, atonement, vengeance, and rebirth.”
“Mother, you have a flair for the dramatic.”
She nods, as if accepting it as a compliment. “You are a Wilde. But you’re also half me. I know that hasn’t always pleased you,” she draws a finger along my temple and presses it to my lips to silence my protest, “but it has always pleased me. You see, I was born a war
rior, an enchantress, a leader, a goddess.”
I smile at her use of the same word Stone uses as a term of endearment.
“And a flair for the romantic,” I tease her. My heart flutters with the novelty of this new ease between us.
She tilts her chin up unapologetically. “New rule - romanticize yourself. You are the stuff of fairytales, my Reggae Queen, and it’s time you started living like it.”
Of Omelettes And Eggs
Regan
Last week, I baked some scones for our annual Spring Fling, and one of the owners of our neighborhood coffee shop, Sweet and Lo’s, had one taste and asked if she could order some to see how they sold. So, I got up early to make this batch. And nearly had a heart attack, when my daughter came bounding down the stairs, a few minutes after me, even when she hates them, and said she wanted to help. Eva has been withdrawn, and the smile on her face as she draped her apron on was like a shot of sunshine.
We listened to music, talked about school, and laughed nonstop. I put her change in mood down to the fact that she’s almost eleven, and she sees everything through the lens of her tween angst.
Two hours later, the first two batches are cooling, the rest are in the oven, and I pick a piece off one that didn’t hold together well.
“You’re not going to eat that, are you?” Eva gasps, when I lift a scone to my lips.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask, before I shove the mouthwatering confection into my mouth.
“You never eat bread. That’s why,” she says.
“It’s a new day. And this isn’t bread. It’s a scone.” I speak around the mouthful of food, and my daughter eyes me with something like an alarm.
“Mom, it has sugar.”
I chuckle at the horror on her face. “You say it like it’s a bad word.”
She looks at me like she’s never seen me before. “Mom, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, baby. Now help me box these up for Sweet.” I drop a kiss on her head and point at the stack of flat packed boxes on the counter.
“Can I help you next time you get an order?”
I smile in pleasant surprise. “You’re going to get up early again?”
She nods, eagerly. “This was fun. You smile and dance and sing when you’re baking, and I love seeing you happy.” She smiles widely at me before she hops down and walks over to get the boxes I pointed to.
I sit there, my heart in my throat and full to bursting with gratitude that I got something right. I watch my daughter bounce around the kitchen, smiling and tossing her head of unruly curls that range in texture from tight spirals to loose corkscrews. I resist the impulse to call her over, so I can braid it up. Because she loves her hair. But for its light golden-brown color, it’s just like mine. When I don’t have it flat ironed within an inch of its life.
I run my hands over my still scarf covered head and scowl at the rows of pins holding it in place and long for the ease of the wash and go style I wore in Mexico.
“So, how are things at school?” I broach the subject gingerly, hoping that I can get her to open up, without disrupting our cozy vibe. She’s an amazing kid, quirky and a little shy. But, she’s no shrinking violet. The girl she fought used to be one of her best friends. They grew apart, and Eva didn’t seem to mind that. But when her former friend joined a clique of bullies and targeted Eva, she defended herself. She was anxious about going back to school after the suspension and very tight-lipped about how she was doing.
To my relief, she shrugs, grabs a scone, takes a bite and grins. “I don’t care about those girls, mom. ‘Cause you taught me the rules, remember?”
“Yes, I do.” I tussle her hair.
When she was seven, she encountered her first bully. And I’d given her a list of what I called “rules of friendship” and made her memorize and repeat them every single day.
1) Friends don’t hurt us on purpose.
2) Friendship is optional and it’s okay to end one.
3) To have a friend, you have to be a friend.
“So, if they say something mean, that means they’re not my friends, and I don’t care about them anyway,” she declares. She reaches for my hand and links our fingers and squeezes. “I’m fine, Mom. And I want you to be, too.”
Startled by her solemn tone and knowing gaze, I let go of her hand and walk to the fridge to make myself some tea. I’ve been dreading this moment for, what feels like, her whole life. “Why do you think I’m not, okay?”
“She walks over to me and wraps her arms around me from behind and presses her cheek to my back. I cover her small hands with mine. And she tightens her hold on me. “Mom, I’m young, but I’ve got eyes. You’re alone. And you’re bored, and you’re sad.”
Guilt stabs at me. I hate that she knows and is worried about me. I pat her hand and turn around, so we’re facing each other. She looks so determined, and pride swells my heart. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got stuff to figure out.”
She purses her lips and puts her hands on her hips, in a terrifyingly, exact imitation of my mother. “Then do it, Mom. Because you’re amazing. And Daddy…I love him. But ... you don’t have to stay like this for us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know about Hanna.” She looks at me, her eyebrow raised in challenge, daring me to deny it.
“Whaa--” I grapple for what to say. My mother warned me. Shit.
Raised voices outside the kitchen door announce my mother and Tyson’s approach up my back walk. I asked them over to talk about an idea I had, but they’re an hour early.
“We’ll talk about this later, I promise,” I say, and she nods and steps away, just as they walk through the door. They’re so deep into their argument, they don’t even look our way. They stride to the round dining table and sit, without missing a beat of their conversation.
“Ty - you’re not ready and you don’t get a thumb on the scale just because your last name is Wilde. In fact, having that last name means you have to earn your place; there can’t be a perception of nepotism.” My mother’s tone is more placating than normal. She hates arguing with Tyson, he’s her favorite.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Tyson slaps the table, as he slips into a chair and grabs a cup of coffee. The glass top rattles and the blue and gold painted china teacups jump in the saucers.
My mother doesn’t even blink. “You’re the one who’s making this difficult. You shouldn’t be pursuing this when you’re not ready,” she tells him, matter-of-factly.
He growls low in his throat and looks like he’s fighting to maintain control.
I take advantage of the moment of silence. “Good morning to you, both,” I say, sarcastically.
“Hey, sorry Reggie. Hey, Eva,” Tyson’s greeting is caustic and distracted.
My mother smiles warmly in our direction, but her eyes are tight with tension. “Eva, darling, I left my cream scarf upstairs a few weeks ago. Can you go find it and bring it to me?”
Eva glances at me in question, and I nod.
“Of course, Nana,” she says, and then darts from the room. She’ll be gone a while, and if she comes back, she’ll be empty-handed. My mother used to send us on errands whenever she wanted to get rid of us. I wish she’d sent me instead. Their fights are legion and never end well.
I continue boxing up the scones, without comment, and they dive back into their argument.
“Are you kidding? I’m bringing Phil Wolf’s new restaurant to Rivers Wilde. We have a waiting list for new residents at all our properties, and this is the third year I’ve been listed as who’s who.”
My mother nods, in agreement. “That’s all wonderful and you can continue to grow in your role. But until I know you’re ready, Erin is my choice. And the board will agree.”
“I am ready. Right now.” He slaps a hand on the table, again, and gives her a look of pure stupefaction.
“No, you’re not. I’m not sure you’ll ever be,” my mother says calmly, before she pops a scone in
to her mouth and moans in pleasure. “Regan, these are sinful. I think we should start selling these at Eat!”
Tyson’s handsome face goes hard as flint. My brothers are both so easily wounded by her. But their reactions couldn’t be more different. Remi clams up when he’s upset. Tyson is like a wounded animal and lashes out. I want to stop this Battle Royale before it escalates.
I place a hand over one of his, in a gesture of empathy, and as a sign that he needs to cool down.
He shakes my hand off and snatches up his phone and keys from the table, before he fixes my mother with a spiteful glare. “If you’re hoping Lucas Wilde is going to get his memory back, realize he made a huge mistake leaving us, and come back to you, it’s never going to happen.”
“Tyson,” I gasp, my voice full of sharp rebuke.
My mother doesn’t even flinch. “Don’t be silly, Tyson.”
He bristles. “It’s not silly. You’re disloyal. You’ve always punished Remi and I for looking like him. But this is too much. Are you really going to hire this outsider because you hate our father?” He snarls and then blinks, as if he’s shocked by his own words.
“Ty—” I gape in horror. My mother shakes her head at me, a signal to stay out of it.
She pops the last bite of scone into her mouth and chews it slowly. Then, she folds her hands in front of her on the table and regards Tyson with complete aplomb. He starts to squirm, and I have a flash of sympathy for him, because she’s about to ether him, without even raising her voice.
She quirks an eyebrow when he scoffs and looks away from her in answer. “I know you’re overwrought by the latest turn of events and not yourself. So, I will ignore your callous question,” her voice is as cold as ice. “This isn’t about loyalty, son. And outbursts like that prove your lack of readiness to lead. Learn to take no for an answer. If you want it, work until it turns into a yes. As talented and smart as you are, no one wants to work for you because you think you know everything. And you don’t even know a little bit.” Her smile is full of pity.
Tyson is visibly shaken.
“Mom, come on,” I chide her and reach for his hand. He yanks it back.
