by Linda Olsson
“I guess it’s something I just feel.”
“Is that really enough to go on, do you think? Have you never thought that you have been wrong? Heard someone describe a situation after the fact and become aware of how you have misconstrued everything? How can you always be so sure of everything? In spite of taking so little interest in other people?”
“Why do you think I have little interest in other people?”
“It’s not me thinking! It’s you saying. And you show it often. All these years when you never once got in touch with us. Did you never wonder how we were? Did you never think of us?”
“Did you think of me? Nobody got in touch with me either. It was as if I had no family. Besides, what do you know about my life? Did you ever give me a thought? Wonder if I was lonely? If I was homesick? If I wished that someone would be interested enough to find out if I was still alive? You have no idea.”
Emma leaned forward.
“You’re doing it again! Presuming you know what I was thinking. Or, rather, not thinking. It was you who left us! And I have told you how terribly I missed you. That I hardly knew how to survive your departure. You have no idea what became of our home. And how lonely I was.”
“I hear you. But I never felt that I meant anything at all to you. Or that I had any responsibility for you. You were not my child. You were my half sister. And I hardly knew you. I felt no connection with you. Not with anybody else either, for that matter. Not after I lost Amanda.”
“But to me it was the other way around! When Amanda was not there anymore, I needed you even more. Not just in a practical sense. But to share the grief. For me, you were a part of Amanda. Her mirror image. And I tried every way I knew to make you see me. Not in the same way as Amanda had, perhaps, but in some way. Any way. My grief was completely overwhelming. I didn’t know how I would be able to live with it. And I wanted to comfort you too. I wanted us to hold each other up. But you turned your back on me. And left.”
I met Emma’s gaze and thought I could see how she pleaded. How she wanted something from me.
“I was ten years old when you disappeared from my life.” She said it so quietly I could hardly hear. But I knew what she was saying. And suddenly the memories washed over me. I remembered her childish eyes then. Her quietly pleading looks. And I remembered avoiding them. I had not known then what to do with them, and I didn’t know now either.
“I cannot share, Emma. I have no idea how to. For me, sharing only means losing. Never gaining. To see you, really see you, would have been intolerable for me. It would have made it impossible for me to carry on. It was only by leaving that I was able to keep Amanda inside me. Because when I saw you, I only saw Amanda’s absence. It was only ever with Amanda that I was able to share without losing. But I could never share her.”
“But Amanda didn’t share everything with you, Maria.”
“We shared everything. That’s just how it was with us. Always. We knew each other inside and out. I don’t think you can understand what it was like.”
Emma slowly shook her head.
“You never know everything about another person.”
“That’s how it was with us, anyway.”
“We have to talk about Amanda, Maria. We have to do that before it’s too late.”
“Isn’t that what we are doing? Talking about Amanda?” Suddenly I felt nauseous and pushed my plate away. Emma shook her head again.
“Not the way I mean. We need to talk about Amanda’s death.”
I stood up. “Excuse me. I need to go to the toilet.”
I walked through the now almost full restaurant and felt a strong impulse to just carry on and leave. Walk until all thoughts had been extinguished. Until I recovered the peace I had fought so hard to create. But I didn’t.
I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the stained mirror and looked at myself while I let the cold water run over my hands.
Maya had said almost the same as Emma. “Don’t assume that people think the way you think they do, Maria. We humans are mysteries, and often we don’t even know our own thoughts. We rationalize after the fact. We reinterpret. We misunderstand. We engage in wishful thinking. Actually, it is more important to try to understand your own thinking than to speculate about what others might be thinking. It is never particularly meaningful to plant thoughts in other people’s brains. Let them keep their thoughts. It is more important to understand yourself. And difficult enough.” And the way she expressed it, it made sense. I had never felt the need to try and envisage what Maya might be thinking. Because I knew that she loved me.
I stared at my image in the mirror.
What had I really known about Maya’s innermost thoughts?
Suddenly I realized that the only thing about Maya I was entirely certain of was that I had loved her. And I had loved with such trust. My love had been so absolute I had been prepared to fight for it. Die for it.
I realized it had never been like that with Amanda.
Amanda was me. The other half of everything that was me. I had taken her for granted, just like I did myself. But I had not loved her the way you love another person. I had loved her like myself.
I slowly dried my hands under the humming fan.
When I returned to our table, Emma was gone. The waiter noticed my surprise and approached.
“Your friend had to leave. She asked me to give her apologies. And she has paid.” I thanked him and left.
I began to walk back. But then I stopped and hesitated for a moment. Emma had her own key, and I supposed that she had left because she wanted to be left alone. So I turned and walked toward the cathedral. Just as I reached the entrance, the door opened and an older man stepped out. He smiled and asked if I was on my way in. He spoke Spanish, not Catalan, so I assumed one could still tell that I didn’t quite look like a local. I nodded.
“I’m about to lock up, but if it is important, I can give you a moment. I’ll have a cigarette and wait out here.”
I thanked him and walked inside.
A few faint and flickering lights were lit at the altar, but it was darker than usual. I walked over to the stand with praying candles, slid a coin into the box, and lit a couple of candles. I had no prayers, and if I had been asked to explain my thoughts, I would have struggled. Why had I come here instead of following Emma back to the house? I assumed that was where she had gone. I sat down in one the pews close to the exit. And as always I tried to step out of my conscious self. If only for a brief moment, it would have felt liberating. But now it was impossible. My own company was too insistent, more so than ever. It obscured everything. I stood up after just a little while.
When I passed the candles, I realized I had come here for my own sake. To say the prayer I was unable to verbalize.
I found the old man standing against the wall outside. When he heard my steps, he turned around.
“I hope you found what you were looking for.” He gave me a kind smile.
“Oh, what I am looking for is hard to find.”
“But perhaps the moment inside was of some help?”
“It usually helps. But it was hard today.”
“It’s only when you have tackled the hard bits that it gets easier. And you should never underestimate the value of getting far enough to understand that you are looking for something. It is a good beginning.”
“You may be right,” I said, and thanked him.
I walked through the narrow alleyways, down to the waterfront, and then carried on slowly along the quay. There was no wind, and the waves lapped softly against the stone wall. It had been a long day. We should never have started to talk about Amanda. It was too late. Not just too late today, but too late in every way. What there was to say should have been said a long time ago.
I crossed the road to walk up to the house, when I heard Emma call my name. At first I wasn’t su
re from which direction the sound came, but then I noticed her sitting on the bench under the one tree in the small square just where you turn to walk up to the house. She was alone in the darkness.
“I was on my way home, but then I realized I hadn’t brought my key.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I was sure you had it with you. And I thought perhaps you wanted to be left alone. So I went for a walk.”
“Come and sit here for a moment.”
I sat down, and she placed her hand on my arm. Her fingers were very cold.
“Are you cold?”
She made no reply, just pulled back her hand and stuck it underneath her shawl.
“I want to apologize.”
“What for?”
“I shouldn’t have started talking about Amanda.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t really sure of my own thoughts. I didn’t want to talk about Amanda. I didn’t think I wanted to talk about Amanda. But I was no longer certain what I wanted or didn’t want.
“One of my earliest memories of Amanda is us sitting at the kitchen table pulling faces at each other.”
The moment I began to talk I could see it in my mind. And the feelings were the same as then, the sense of absolute comfort that comes from knowing that someone else understands you absolutely.
“We didn’t talk. We were just pulling faces. And we could read each other absolutely. Amanda could lower an eyelid a millimeter or two. Stick out her lower lip. Turn her face a touch. Or just look at me. And I knew exactly what she was thinking. Or at least what she wanted to communicate. I thought that meant I knew what she was thinking. And I remember the immense satisfaction of knowing that she understood me perfectly. Sometimes we would complete each other’s sentences. She would finish mine, or I hers. But now I remember other occasions too. When I did not understand her at all. Like when she wanted a red velvet dress for Christmas one year, and Mother wanted to buy us one each. We were little, perhaps five or six. But I wanted a blue and white sailor’s dress I had seen in the shop window. And I remember that I felt both triumphant and ashamed when I got it. As if I had somehow failed Amanda. But when I look back on the incident now, I can see that she was not in the least concerned about my choice. She might even have been pleased about having the red dress to herself. It’s perfectly possible. I might have been the only one feeling awkward. But the major change, the one that came to stand between us forever, was you, Emma.”
“Are you sure it was me? Perhaps I meant less than you think. Perhaps I was less important than the red dress.”
I shook my head.
“No. Amanda loved you, Emma. At first I thought she loved the idea of you. A little baby. A living doll.”
I heard Emma’s short laughter.
“But then she came to love you as a person. And then there was something else.”
“Yes?”
“I think she loved the responsibility. She had a defined role in our family—if that is what we were—and it was hers entirely. And it was an important one. She was your mother, really, however young she was. And so she became visible to Mother, I think. Amanda relieved Mother. Not that Mother expressed any gratitude. Ever. But still. And perhaps she was acknowledged even by your father. It was as if she became a part of you. Or perhaps the other way around. Amanda became a little mother. You two came to share a bedroom, while I had my own. I was outside. To you he just said good night on the threshold. But my room he entered and pulled the door closed behind him. More evenings than not. In order to ‘say good night.’ It was disgusting. He never did anything more than grope, but I dreaded it.”
“So perhaps I was something entirely different. Perhaps I was just something for Amanda to hide behind.”
“You know that is wrong, Emma. Amanda never hid. She never pretended anything. And I am not sure if she knew how it was for me. I never told anyone. Not even Amanda. Or especially not Amanda. And not Mother. Because I was sure she knew.”
I caught Emma’s gaze.
“But you knew, didn’t you? When you came pattering into my room long after we should all have been asleep. And just stood there.”
Emma nodded.
“I just knew that you were sad. And I always hoped that you would turn around and look at me. Even lift the blanket and let me lie down beside you. But you never turned. Even though I always knew you were awake.”
I stretched out my hand and placed it gently on her arm. That was all I could manage.
“Perhaps you idealize Amanda? And perhaps you are wrong about Mother?”
Did I? But if Amanda was a part of me, did it mean I idealized myself? Or had I perceived Amanda as the good part and myself as the bad part of the same person? What about Mother, then? What did she really know? What did she think? The absolute certainties I had lived with for all those years seemed to slowly dissolve. Everything lost its sharpness, and I could no longer see clearly. Or think clearly.
“I just don’t know. It’s cold. I am sure you are freezing. Let’s go home.”
* * *
I had planned to go to bed. Or go and sit on the terrace by myself for a while. But Emma came upstairs with me. It felt cooler than previous evenings, so we sat down on the sofas inside but left the sliding doors open.
“Thank you for a very nice day.”
“Thank you. It’s been a long time since I walked to Cap de Creus. I have avoided it. But now I can return anytime.”
“Only two days left here for me. I was thinking I might try and book a taxi instead of catching the bus. Perhaps Pau can help?”
They would soon be over, these days I had dreaded so. The house would again be mine. The stillness would return. But I could take no comfort from the notion. Nor any relief.
“Tell me about Maya.”
Despite its being a perfectly natural request given what I had told her before, I was completely unprepared for the question.
I stood up and stood in the doorway, and looked into the darkness beyond. With my back toward Emma, I had a moment to consider what to say. I wasn’t sure I was prepared to share anything more. Then I turned and went to collect the little box that sat on the floor by the sofa.
“It’s all in here,” I said, and placed the box on the table. “These are my tangible mementos of Maya.”
I took out the photos and placed them on the table one by one. There weren’t many, and they easily fit beside one another.
Emma sank down from the sofa and kneeled by the low table. She carefully picked up one photo. Looked at it and returned it. When she had looked at them all, she sat back on the sofa again.
“I wish I had met her.”
I couldn’t look at her. I was sure I would weep again if I met her eyes. So I stood up again and walked out on the terrace. I heard Emma follow.
“Why didn’t she come with you to the funeral?”
“I don’t know, Emma. Perhaps I was scared.”
“Scared?”
I faced her.
“Yes. Scared. There was always a sense of envy at home. A mean and ugly kind of jealousy. It was ever-present, in small matters and in big matters. It was as if even the slightest happiness had to be destroyed. It wasn’t just that Mother so often said you mustn’t challenge fate and allow yourself to be happy. It was as if she was the judge. The one who decided if you were too happy to be allowed entry. Belonging required a major sacrifice. Enter here only after abandoning love, confidence, happiness, every little success. Only when I was decidedly unhappy could I make myself believe for a moment that I had Mother’s approval. Or at least a brief moment of her interest. We both knew how little to expect, didn’t we? And what to give up in order to be noticed for a moment. I know, Mother was no longer there, but in some way it felt as if she could still exercise her tremendous influence. And I didn’t want to be forced to choose between my love and my family. I wanted to keep
Maya away from it. I think it was similar with Elliot. Although we were together for almost six years, I never introduced him to Mother. Or to you. But I cared so much more for Maya.”
“I haven’t really understood it before. But now, when you describe it, I can see it. Because I always felt that what Mother gave me, she gave me as a reward for my weakness. You remember how often I was sick as a child, don’t you? I never felt more accepted than when I was sick. But my successes . . . Well, they haven’t been many or notable, but I do remember Mother’s lack of interest. The one time I was chosen to be the Lucia at school, she wasn’t there. I stood with my eyes on the entrance, candle wax dripping into my hair. I hoped to spot her. I hoped she was just a little late. But she never came. And like I said, more often I was a victim. Sickly, vulnerable, easily frightened, and insecure. I longed infinitely for every crumb of love, and I was prepared to do almost anything for it.”
Emma looked at me again with that pleading expression that was so hard for me to handle.
“I needed you. Because you were strong. You resisted. And you know what? I think this scared Mother somehow.”
The idea was so absurd I couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“There was no need for you to be frightened. I would have welcomed Maya. You would both have been safe. But it was never really about me, was it? It was always only about Mother.”
Now I noticed that she was still holding one of the photographs. She regarded it thoughtfully.
“You look a little alike, you and Maya.”
I reached out for the photo. I remembered when it had been taken. Maya was standing outside the gallery, in Enric Granados. She had just had the new sign delivered and was pointing at it: MA. M for Maya and A for art. I remembered she said we would have to replace it when I decided to leave the school and become involved with the gallery.
“We’ll have to add another M and it will become MMA.” I think that was the first and only time she mentioned that she hoped I would come to work there.
