Winter in Full Bloom

by Anita Higman

  “Well, I slipped.” She stared out the window. “I should have used the word biological. She’s that and nothing more. But I mean it. I’m not going in there to kowtow to that woman. I’m going to stand my ground. To find out some things. To open some secret boxes hidden in the attic so to speak. I want to know what happened. All of it in her words. And I want an apology from her lips. If it causes an all-out war, so be it. Wars do end.”

  I sighed, thinking of my ducks—one more darted out of line and maybe even headed for a busy street. “Yes, wars do end, Camille, but not without casualties.”

  That night, after I got all tucked into my pillow-top bed, wearing a fresh pair of jammies and knowing that my identical twin sister slept in the next room and that my own sweet Julie was excited about coming to join our happy reunion, I should have been near comatose with contented slumber.

  But I wasn’t.

  Even though most folks would have called my Australian journey a roaring success, I couldn’t sleep. I hated conflict, and I knew we were headed for a verbal bloodbath in the morning with Mother. Not to mention the fact that I cared for a man I had no business caring for because he lived on the other side of the globe.

  But eventually, the sandmen gave it their best shot, and I floated off for a while. I woke to blaring sunlight and to Camille jumping on my bed.

  “Are you going to sleep all day?” she asked.

  I opened one eye. “Are you actually bouncing on the bed like a five-year-old?”

  “Yeah.” She danced a jig with movements that were so deliberately understated it looked hilarious.

  I laughed. “I like your Hello Kitty nightgown.” It was good to see Camille in such a happy mood and with a burst of energy. Maybe just getting away from her past was giving her a new lease on life. I hadn’t heard her cough in a while either. I stared at her. “You’re absolutely glowing.”

  “Maybe it’s my new peach blush.” She bounced a little more. “But it’s ten, and I want to meet this ogre woman named Mrs. Gray.”

  Oh, yeah. We were going over to Mother’s house today. I lifted my head and groaned. “Did you say ten? Really?” I glanced at the clock. Ten. “Guess I needed the sleep. But why am I still tired and you’re not?” I let my head slap back down on the pillow like a dead cod.

  “I made myself some eggs. Hope that was okay. I’ve been exploring too. I like your house. Quaint and homey like I thought it would be. Yeah.” She peered down at me. Her hair had been gathered in a clip, which made the ends of her locks look like feathers.

  “Thanks. I’m glad you felt you could make yourself at home.” I yawned. “Give me a sec. I’ll feel human again if I can just shower and have some coffee.”

  “Do you want me to make you some eggs and toast while you shower and get ready? It’s all I could find in the fridge.” She rocked her head back and forth, making her dark feathers quiver.

  “Sure, that would be nice. And then we’ll drive over to Mother’s house.”

  “Is it very far away?”

  “Not terribly far, but then everything is spread out in Houston. It’s not like Melbourne, where you can take a tram or train to most things. You need a car here to get around.”

  “Oh.” Camille lowered herself on the bed and sat cross-legged next to me.

  I hadn’t made that physical maneuver with my legs since I was nineteen.

  “Well, I can always use your car.” She picked at the woolly flowers on my chenille bedspread. “That is, if I need a car. Don’t you have any public transportation?”

  “Some, but it’s not the same as in Melbourne. You’ll see how we’re too spread out for it to work as well as it does there.”

  “Oh.” Camille mimicked playing a flute.

  “You’re welcome to my car when I’m not at work. But you’ll have to be careful. We drive on the wrong side of the road here, depending on your perspective.”

  “Oh, right. Forgot about that. Lots of changes here.”

  “You’ve got a little something dark just above your lip.”

  Camille swiped it off. “Probably my Vegemite. I brought some of it with me to put on my toast. Can’t seem to do without it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s sort of a yeasty brown spread that Aussies are addicted to.”

  “Eww. Sounds ghastly.”

  “I admit it’s an acquired taste, but I’m telling you, Vegemite is as popular there as the bush ballad ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and the one-finger wave.”

  “Oh?” Just as I was about to ask a question about the song, Camille sprang off the bed and then darted off into another room. I raised my head off the pillow. Funny thing—I was a lot like Camille, and yet I sensed our differences keenly. Once she was out of the grasp of despair, she became a fairy, while I stayed locked in another story playing the fairy godmother role. Maybe I was born first.

  I tried to spring out of bed like Camille, but my leg got into such a charley horse that by the time I’d stomped it out, springing was the last thing on my mind. I groaned, rolled my eyes, and headed to the shower.

  Camille’s butter-and-cream-laden scrambled eggs turned out to be good, but the toast she’d smeared with Vegemite tasted more curious than delicious. Guess it really was an acquired taste as Camille had said. Oh, well. A million calories later, I drove my sister over to Mother’s home. I pulled up to the house and parked. It looked the same. Big. Austere. Maybe a bit dog-eared. Something I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Oh, wow. This is her house?” Camille asked.

  “This is it.”

  “So, this is where you grew up? For real?”

  “I think we moved here when I was six or seven. I can’t remember.”

  Camille looked down at her jean skirt and white blouse and grimaced. “I guess I didn’t really think of your mother being that rich.”

  “Rich in money … poor in spirit.”

  “So, you were used to elegant surroundings and having everything.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive. I was used to this house, yes, but some would say the interior is austere, not beautiful. You’ll see soon enough what I mean. And even though my needs were met physically, they weren’t met emotionally. Most of my nannies were nice, but not like a real mother. And as far as faith, I had to find God on my own. Or I should say He found me, just like He found you. My mother hated any displays of religious devotion, especially Christian. She seemed to think it conveyed a weak constitution. And in spite of all that, I would have forced my way in with Julie at least on Christmases if Mother hadn’t taken such a harsh stance—that when I left as a young woman, my company in the Gray house was no longer needed nor wanted.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t raised by Cruella de Vil?” Camille asked.

  I chuckled. “I would have given up all the money we had for a pile of hugs. Or if Mother had been the one to take me to church. Or maybe even some shared laughter around the dinner table.”

  “But what about your father?”

  “Remember, he died when I was young. Well, about the same age as when you lost your mother. So, it was just Mother and me for a long time.”

  “It really isn’t what I imagined for you all those years.”

  “Please know, Camille, when I tell you pieces of my story, I’m not trying to discount what you went through growing up. I think your father is a monster, and I can’t even imagine how you survived what you went through. But life in the Gray household became like, well, like a gray twilight with little hope of dawn.”

  “I’m sorry, Lily. I don’t mean to diminish what you went through either. If we’d been kept together, we would have helped each other. Together we could have made spring.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Maybe we can now … even if she never gives us her blessing. We’re in control of our joy together as sisters. Whatever she may do or say.”

  “I agree.” Camille leaned over and gave me a hug. “I guess we’d better go in.”

  I took in some oxygen. It didn’t
help one bit, so I looked up to the heavens.

  We headed up to the front walkway and then the door. “Remember I told you that Mother hired a friend?”

  “Yes. So, she’ll be here now?” Camille straightened. “Does she stay all the time?”

  “She’ll probably be here, but I don’t think she lives in the house. The woman, Dragan Humphreys, doubles as a housekeeper, butler-type person.”

  “Dragan? What a name. Sounds like something from a gothic horror novel. So, the woman who answers the door won’t be Mrs. Gray.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I’m ready.” Camille turned her smug demeanor down a notch.

  I rang the bell, praying for the best, hoping we didn’t find the worst.

  Before we could take the dialogue any further, the door unlocked and opened.

  Dragan Humphreys stood before us, a wall of consternation and bafflement.

  I dove right in. “Hi, Dragan. This is my sister, Camille, from Australia, and we’re here to see Mother.”

  Dragan looked at us both, back and forth, obviously traumatized about the identical twin thing. In fact, her expression tottered on the edge of such anxiety that I found it quite satisfying. God, forgive me. I even wished I could have flashed a photo of it to put on some social networking site. That is, if I was ever on any social networking sites. “Is Mother in?”

  “She’s always in,” Dragan stuttered, “but I’ll need to check if she’s able to see you.”

  “Is Mother ill?” I moved a little closer to the open door.

  “She’s not ill, but I still need to check with her.” She raised her nostrils at us. No doubt Dragan enjoyed throwing her weight around like a sumo wrestler. She was certainly as attractive as one. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. If God was going to be rooting for me, I guess I’d need to clean up the muddy playing field of my thought-life.

  “Oh, she’ll see us,” Camille said. “I’ve come all the way around the world for a visit with Mrs. Gray, and she will see me.”

  “I’ll still need to check.” Dragan’s eyes took on the half-lidded eyes of a snake, but along with her cold decree she opened the door wider for us to come in.

  We stepped inside. Dragan seemed almost the same as she did weeks before, except her muumuu and flip-flops seemed dirtier, and the off-gassing from her body was even more toxic with liquor fumes.

  “Please wait here.”

  My sister looked around as Dragan shambled off to request some kind of sanction on our visit. How ridiculous. I picked over another ugly assortment of mind droppings.

  Meanwhile, Camille traipsed around the entry hall, smirking at the statues and generally turning up the intensity on her sass. But I wasn’t going to point my finger at my sister for bad behavior, since my mother had the corner on that market.

  Camille pointed to an embroidered design within an elaborately gilded frame. “What is that?”

  “It’s the Gray family coat of arms. Mother is proud of her Irish heritage and marrying into a well-known Irish clan, even if she didn’t love the family all that much.”

  She clasped her hands behind her and stared at the coat of arms with interest.

  “Maybe that’s why you’re attracted to Celtic music. It’s the Irish blood coursing through your veins.”

  “It’s that dreamer in you coming out.” Camille simpered at me and then looked back at the coat of arms. “I admit, the armor and colors look majestic, but what do the words on the banner at the top of the crest mean? I thought—”

  Dragan returned, interrupting us and looking glad for it. She wore the same droll serpentine expression she had when she answered the door. At least the woman was consistent. “She’ll see you in the study,” she said. “You both can show yourselves in.” Then to my relief the woman walked off to haunt some other part of the house.

  Camille rolled her eyes. “She’ll see you in the study,” she whispered to me, repeating Dragan’s words. “Do people really say stuff like that?”

  “Apparently she does.” I grinned. The sound of our footsteps against the cold, unforgiving marble got angrier as we made our way toward Mother. I opened the door to the study, and we walked into her domain of hardbound books, ancient but expensive furnishings, and dust, which floated in the air nervously as if afraid to settle on anything.

  Mother sat stiff in her high-back chair just the way she had the infamous day of my return to her life and my subsequent departure, but this time my chin was a little higher and my spirit lighter.

  “Mrs. Gray?” Camille’s voice and body had gone as rigid as Mother’s back.

  “Come in,” Mother said with the air of a queen. She leaned forward on her throne. All she lacked was a scepter.

  When we could all get a good look at each other, Mother said, “Sit down.” Her general tone hadn’t changed, although I did catch a look of surprise and some scrutiny when her gaze landed on Camille.

  I obeyed by sitting in one of the chairs across from Mother, but Camille only looked at the other empty chair and then back at Mother. “I’d rather stand. Thanks.”

  “I wondered if you’d come to see me,” Mother said.

  “I’m here,” Camille said, “although it doesn’t feel like much of a reunion. But I came because of this brave woman, my sister, who spent some of her life savings to go halfway around the world to find me and who helped pay my way here. But I also came because my boyfriend broke things off, and I felt there wasn’t much reason to stay in Australia.”

  Oh, wow, Camille, don’t serve all the bitter herbs at once.

  “Well, you’re certainly not shy about sharing your mind.” Mother smoothed the doily on the arm of her chair. “What happened to your parents? Wouldn’t they want you to stay nearby in Australia?”

  “My mother died when I was ten, and so then my father raised me. He never wanted me, so I left when I was eighteen. We’ve never talked since, and I have no idea where he is now. I’ve been traveling around and landed in Melbourne.”

  Mother flinched at that admission, but then quickly her granite countenance returned.

  Camille ignored her and faced the oversized window looking into the solarium. “Your cyclamen are dying. The sun is too intense where you’ve placed them. The leaves are burning up. They’ll be dead within a week,” she said with what seemed like equal measures of authority and impassiveness.

  Mother raised a skeptical brow. “And I suppose you’re an authority on flowers.”

  “You mean angiosperms? A bit. I have a degree in botany,” Camille said.

  Wonder of wonders. Why hadn’t Camille told me? She was full of surprises.

  “Humph. Well, I had no idea.” Mother softened a bit. “You both grew up to look so much the same. Just—”

  “Why wouldn’t we be the same?” Camille asked. “We’re identical twins.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, child,” Mother said.

  Camille shrugged. “I’m no longer a child. And I’m certainly not your child. A choice you made.”

  “You don’t know the facts,” Mother said. “I’m sure your mother never told you all the story. She wouldn’t want you to—”

  “Be careful of the tone you use when talking about my mother. Naomi raised me when you were too inconvenienced.” The bite in Camille’s voice was unmistakable.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Camille, it’s not helping to raise your voice. We need to—”

  Camille swung back around and glared at me. “We need to what? Cower in the shadows like scared little rabbits? What good did that do all these years? I refuse to be sucked into whatever dysfunction is going on here. We’re going to talk this out now.” She turned her head and coughed.

  “I told Lily the truth.” Mother smacked the armrest with her hands, making furious little puffs of dust. “You were taken away from me by my mother.”

  “Well, I’m very curious how that came to be,” Camille said, “since your name is also on the adoption papers.”

  “I will tell you, but onl
y if you sit down.” Mother pointed to the chair. “I can’t take all this looming about.” She took a sip of water from the glass sitting on the end table, but as she set it back down her hand trembled.

  “No.” Camille looked around the room, cracking her knuckles one by one. “I’m not in the mood to sit.”

  I gave my sister an imploring expression. “Mother still deserves some respect.”

  Something shimmered across my sister’s expression as if she was going to rev up for an argument, but then she relented and sat in the chair next to me.

  Mother cleared her throat. “When you both were born, Lily was well, and Camille, you had one illness after the other. You were sick all the time with a never-ending trail of ailments. And one of those times, when you were feverish with a cold and bronchitis, your grandmother, my mother, was holding you. She caught the fever you had and nearly died. After that she never fully recovered her health. Nor do I think … did she ever forgive you.”

  “But I was a baby,” Camille said. “How could a grandmother—”

  “Because …” Mother raised her finger for silence. “She was a hard woman. Much harder than I am, I can assure you. Now please allow me to finish my story. Back then we had no money to speak of, because your father couldn’t hold down a job. My mother, who was wealthy, refused to help us with the expenses surrounding your doctor bills and hospital stays, claiming that it was her son-in-law’s responsibility to take care of his family, not hers.”

  Mother ground her nails into the armrest. “My mother ruled over our lives back then like a tyrant, and I was so young I didn’t know how to stand up to her. Anyway, she convinced us adoption was the only way for us to survive financially. She threatened us, saying she would disinherit us if we didn’t comply with her wishes. She orchestrated the whole affair of finding you a mother, but I insisted it be an open adoption so I could see you from time to time. And I requested that you be allowed to keep your first and middle names. My mother agreed to those two demands and so did the couple who came forward to—”

  Camille’s cough turned deeper as if choking.