What Mother Never Told Me

by Donna Hill

"Now," she said on a breath, a smile blooming on her peaches-and-cream face.

  Her shoulder-length hair was the color of a summer sunset, brilliant red with flecks of gold. She would always have to shield her delicate skin from the sun to keep the inherent freckles at bay, Emma distractedly thought.

  "How can I help you? Do you have a reservation?"

  "No. I'm sorry, I don't."

  "Well, you are in luck," she continued in the same cheery tone. "We have three vacancies. Do you know how long you will be staying with us?"

  She couldn't think. She didn't know. A day. A week. Forever. "Ahh, perhaps a few days." She gripped the edge of the counter.

  The young woman opened the register to the current date and turned it to face Emma. "If you would sign in for me, please." She handed Emma a pen. "We still do things the old-fashioned way," she said by way of explaining the handwritten register.

  Emma took the pen, printed and then wrote her signature.

  The young woman turned the book around and read the name. "Emma Travanti."

  Emma could do no more than nod.

  "Welcome, Madame Travanti. My name is Franchesca. I'm here for the weekend. Should you need anything do not hesitate to call on the room phone. Would you prefer a view of the mountains or the pool?"

  "Whichever is fine," she said in a threadbare voice.

  Franchesca looked at her curiously. "Are you ill, madame? You are very pale."

  "I...just need to rest. It's been a long day," she said, forcing energy into her voice.

  Franchesca hesitated. The last thing she was prepared to handle was a sick guest. "Will you be paying by credit card or cash?"

  "Cash."

  Franchesca told her the first night must be paid in full and she would receive a bill daily until her departure. "We believe that our guests are all trustworthy. But just in case they aren't, I will need to hold your passport, credit card or driver's license until you check out." She smiled sweetly.

  Emma opened her purse and handed over her passport.

  "I'll put this in the safe and then I will show you to your room."

  Emma had stopped listening to Franchesca's chatter as they walked up to the second floor and she was taken to her room. She'd tuned out the chirpy monologue about the room's attributes, meal times and the history of the inn. All she wanted was her husband back and she knew that was an impossibility. Anything short of that was just going through the motions.

  Finally, Franchesca closed the door behind her, and Emma found herself alone. She went to the window and drew back the drapes. The sun, which had barely made an appearance all day, had begun its final descent. The overcast sky was ringed in a smoky gray with hints of orange as if something in the foggy distance was on fire. The unrelenting rain made everything look as if it were being viewed through a prism.

  She stood there, the ache so deep her chest heaved under the weight of the pain bringing her to her knees. Curled inside herself the sob bloomed in a mushroom cloud spewing out the anguish that roiled within her. Deep, wrenching cries shook her slender frame like a rag doll thrown into a storm. She cried for her loss. She cried for the lie she had lived. She cried for the love of a mother who she never allowed herself to know. She cried for her husband. And she cried for the child she'd abandoned for a life of happiness that was now a thing of the past. She cried until she was spent and weak. Huddled in the corner in a strange room, exhaustion finally rescued her. Her fitful sleep became filled with images of time gone by and everything she had done since that fateful day at the river had led her to this moment...

  She'd been angry with her mother, Cora, and had stormed out of the house, seeking refuge at her favorite place, the flat rock just beyond the riverbank. Why did she always feel this way, so angry and so lonely? she'd thought. And there was no one to share her thoughts, answer her questions about herself, tell her how to be happy.

  One day she would just get away from this place, she vowed, as she stared out across the gentle ripple of the water. She'd get away and make a new life and forget all about Rudell and the people in it.

  The sound of a car coming down the uneven road drew her attention. She craned her long, milky neck to see who was coming. The car drew closer and came to a stop. A white man, dressed in a good-looking blue suit with a black fedora cocked over his eyes, stepped out of the car. Instantly she was on guard as a rush of fear scurried along her limbs. White folks didn't come to these parts, and when they did it usually meant trouble. She sat perfectly still.

  "Excuse me, ma'am." He politely tipped his hat.

  She blinked in confusion. Ma'am. "Ye-yes sir."

  "I was hoping you might direct me toward the highway. I was on my way to Biloxi for the night and got turned around somehow." He laughed lightly.

  Slowly Emma stood. "If you stay on this road, you'll see a fork. Stay to the left and you'll find the highway."

  He smiled gratefully. "Thank you, miss. Last place I want to be is lost in these woods after dark." He looked around nervously and chuckled. He gazed at her for a moment, angled his head to the side. "Pretty thing like you needs to be getting home, too. You know how these Negroes are, see a pretty, white woman--" He let his voice drift off, but his meaning was clear. "Hate to see anything happen to you. I'd be happy to give you a lift into town."

  Emma tried to make sense of what this white man was saying to her. White woman. Pretty, white woman. She couldn't respond.

  He stepped closer and took off his hat; his sandy brown hair glistened in the waning light. He was almost tall, slender in a rangy sort of way, and young--no older than her, she'd guessed.

  "Miss, are you all right?"

  Emma snapped to attention. Her mouth trembled into a smile. "Yes. Fine, sir." She bobbed her head.

  "Name's Hamilton. Elliot Hamilton."

  "Emma. Ma-McKay." Her heart sounded like thunder.

  "Pleasure, Miss McKay." He stuck out his hand, which she tentatively shook. "The offer is still open."

  "Offer?"

  "For the ride--into town. Are you sure you're all right, miss? You look flushed."

  Emma touched her cheek. "No, I'm fine. Just the heat." She looked straight at him, just to see if she could. No slap came, no flurry of curses, just a curious smile. "Thank you for the offer. But I'll be fine. I--I'm waiting...on a friend."

  Elliot looked around then checked his gold watch. "I'd wait with you just to be certain you stay safe until your friend arrives, but I really need to be moving on."

  Her chest heaved in and out. "It's fine. Really. Thank you."

  He put his hat back on and slid his fingers along the brim. "You be careful out here."

  Emma nodded.

  He turned then stopped. "I guess you hear this all the time, but...you sure do have the prettiest green eyes I've ever seen."

  Emma felt her face heat. She arched her chin just a bit but wanted to hide her face, so unaccustomed was she to compliments. "Thank you...Mr. Hamilton."

  He tipped his hat. "My pleasure." He returned to his car and drove off.

  Emma watched the car until it disappeared in a cloud of dust. Her knees began to wobble and her entire body trembled. She reached behind her for the rock and lowered herself down.

  Her thoughts tumbled over each other like a cascade of rocks kicked from the top of a hillside. She raised a shaky hand to her face, ran it over the smooth skin. She touched her hair, stuck her hands out in front of her and stared at them. She gazed down the road where the white man had gone. And for the first time in her eighteen years of life, she felt the inklings of hope.

  She'd returned home, ignoring Cora's offer of dinner on the table. Instead she ran up to her room, stood in front of the mirror and slowly took off her clothes. Inch by inch she examined her body in the reflection with new eyes; the smooth pink-and-white skin, firm breasts with round, pink nipples, tight, flat stomach and narrow waist, the patch of hair that was as silky as the hair on her head, tapering down to long legs and thin ankles. Her excitement
mounted. A slow smile crept across her face and brightened her eyes. With a toss of her head she stared boldly back at herself. "Yes. Yes. Yes," she uttered in a tremulous whisper.

  That evening on the rock of the Left Hand River, a door opened for her. A chance was there for the taking. And standing in front of her bedroom mirror she made a decision that altered the lives of everyone she knew, past, present and future. Once she set out on that path there was no turning back. She couldn't. She didn't want to.

  Living the life of a white woman, in New York City, away from the scorn-filled eyes of the Rudell townfolk, had finally brought her some measure of happiness. It brought her respect, recognition. Not the nasty stares of her youth, the snickers behind her back when she walked the streets of Rudell, a mother that couldn't look her in the eye, a life of loneliness and heartache. Living a lie had brought her Michael...

  He'd walked into her then place of employment, Meridian Real Estate, like a hero from a movie. When she'd looked up and saw him standing in the doorway something inside of her stirred. A sudden rush of heat flowed through her veins, and her heart beat a little faster. Michael Travanti, her future, stood in front of her dressed in full army uniform. He'd swept his cap from his head, uncovering inky black hair that glistened beneath the overhead lights. Even the standard buzz cut looked appealing on him. He was of medium height, not much taller than her, but his ramrod-straight regal bearing gave him the appearance of a towering knight--strong and invincible. His uniform coat spread snuggly across his shoulders, the sharp creases in his slacks, even and severe, fell just above highly polished black boots. One couldn't help but admire the angular structure of Michael's patrician face. Perhaps not considered classically handsome by many, there was a warmth and pleasantness about his Roman nose, rugged, square jaw, prominent cheeks, wide mouth and warm olive complexion. What set him apart, for her, were his striking Mediterranean blue eyes that seemed to take in everything around him.

  "May I help you?" she finally said.

  "I hope so."

  He'd been commissioned to the army office in New York, he'd said, and was in search of an apartment, which Emma was happy to help him find.

  And so it began, the start of a romance that surprised them both with its power, its durability, its joys.

  Michael met Emma after work each evening and took her to picture shows, dinner or maybe just a walk along the brightly lit avenues. He bought her flowers, boxes of chocolates, embroidered handkerchiefs with her initials. He was the gardener tending to a field that had been left fallow. His tenderness, laughter and easy way of giving showered down upon the parched wasteland of Emma's soul, spreading its nurturing waters until she bloomed day by day. His touch clipped the thorns from her heart that kept people at bay. His smile was the sunshine that strengthened her belief that she was worthy.

  Until she met Michael, she'd always felt that what she deserved were things: new clothes, shoes, a seat on the bus, a good job, a window seat at a restaurant, to walk down any street and not be scorned for who her mother was and the color of her own skin in the wrong place. Those were the things she thought she deserved because they replaced the one thing she knew she'd never have or wasn't worthy of receiving, the love of her mother....

  A roar of thunder shook the heavens and jolted Emma from the depths of her torturous sleep. The entire building vibrated and the sky illuminated with a searing bolt of lightning. Emma's tear-filled eyes looked heavenward, seeing only darkness, a reflection of what she felt inside. She had no more tears to shed. Her throat was raw, her limbs stiff from sitting curled in the corner, rocking, thinking, remembering. She couldn't live like this. She couldn't endure the depths of this nothingness. How? How?

  Slowly, painfully, she rose to her knees, gripped the walls for support, and stood. She looked around, momentarily confused by her surroundings. How did she come to be here? She shook her head, tried to make the fleeting pieces fall into place and make sense. Her throat clenched. It wasn't a dream.

  She looked down at her clothes, her blouse that clung to her from tears and sweat, the slacks that were bunched, damp and wrinkled and her wet shoes that she'd never taken off her feet. One by one she peeled the items away from her body and tossed them in a pile in the center of the floor. Like an automaton she collected her toiletry pouch from her suitcase, walked to the bathroom and turned on the tub, following her nightly ritual as if doing the familiar would somehow restore her life to normalcy.

  She stood over the tub, watching the water slowly rise. Had she not been interrupted that night, had the call not come, oh, how different her life would be. She looked into the rising water and the images of what she'd almost done mocked her from the depths....

  She'd taken Michael to the airport. He'd been called back to duty. Although he'd insisted that she stay home with her being so close to delivering their first baby, she insisted just as strongly that she wanted to see him off. As she'd stood in front of the window at the airport watching his plane roar down the runway, she was overcome with dread. She'd convinced Michael not to send for his mother; he was now gone and she had no real friends. She was truly alone. And as that day wore on, the fleeting pains that had begun earlier that morning, that she told her husband nothing about, returned in short bursts, but became more intense each time. By nightfall she was pacing the floor in agony, sweat beading on her forehead. At times the pains nearly bent her in half.

  She remembered thinking that it was too soon, too soon, and during a momentary reprieve from the searing pains she almost made her way to the door when another onslaught of torment slammed into her, bringing her to her knees. The only thing that kept her from falling to the floor was her grip on the knob as a flow of blood and water ran down her thighs. Tears of agony rolled down her cheeks. Her body shook as she curled into a fetal position on the cool wood floor. She realized she'd never make it to the hospital. She tried to think how far away was the phone. In the bedroom. She squeezed her eyes shut as an unbelievable urge to bear down overwhelmed her. Something inside seemed to rip and she screamed in agony as the building pressure widened her.... She would have to do this alone....

  Hours later, weak with exhaustion, she looked down at the tiny little girl she'd wrapped in a clean sheet. When she stared at the perfect features, the wisps of curly dark hair and miniature fingers, she realized with complete desolation that everything she'd worked for, sacrificed for, was over. Forever. Her little brown baby. Her Negro child. Her heart squeezed in her chest. Her greatest nightmare had come true. But when she nursed her infant daughter during the hours after her birth Emma began to feel something she didn't want to feel--a connection, a surge of warmth and tenderness. And as her baby nursed, Emma touched the wiry curls, ran her fingertips along the cottony skin. She suddenly felt full, her heart seeming to swell with a joy she'd never before experienced. This was her and Michael's daughter, what they had created out of their love. "I don't want to love you," she'd said. "I can't. Don't make me."

  She wouldn't let herself feel, wouldn't let herself fall in love with the child she had borne of love. She was sleeping so peacefully, her small face, so much like her own, created a tender picture. For a moment doubt froze Emma, made her second-guess herself.

  Maybe she could leave, she'd thought, disappear with her baby and build a new life in another place. Her gaze slowly rose and her reflection in the dresser mirror stared back at her, the face of a white woman. She lifted the baby to her breasts, pushing out a breath of resolve. She took the baby to the bathroom and turned on the tub.

  While the water slowly rose, Emma unwrapped the baby, the cord still protruding from her navel, the lifeline that connected them. She wouldn't think about that. Couldn't allow herself the luxury of being distracted by sentiment. She knelt down by the side of the tub and lowered the baby toward the water. And then her daughter's eyes squinted open, and jade-green eyes, just like hers, gazed back at her. Emma's heart rocked in her chest as the baby's tiny fingers grasped a loose curl of hair and h
eld it. Her stomach seesawed. The baby whimpered....

  Marie and Marc sailed through the front door, dripping wet and giggling like school children. They shook off their wet coats and hung them by the door.

  "We're home!" Marie sang out.

  Franchesca appeared from the sitting room with an armful of clean towels. "Welcome back. From the looks of you a good time was had, I would say."

  Marie grinned up at Marc. "And you, my dear child, would be right."

  She sauntered into the reception area, took a trained look around her precious space and concluded that all was well. "How have things been in my absence?"

  "Fine, madame. One guest checked out this morning and one checked in a few hours ago."

  Marie clapped her hands in delight. "See, life is a balancing act. Oui?" She came behind the desk and pulled out the registry. Of course, when Franchesca was not looking she would check the finance sheet and the inventory. She was a sweet girl, but one could never be too careful with the help. She flipped open the registry to the current date and scrolled down the short list of names. She frowned at the name. Travanti. She peered closer at the printed name. Emma.

  "What is it, sweetheart?" Marc asked, seeing the look of distress on her face.

  Her gaze flicked up to meet his inquiring one. She was about to say nothing when a bead of water plopped down on the page in front of her. Her head jerked back. The trio looked up and an artery of water crept across the ceiling.

  "Oh, my goodness," Franchesca cried out.

  "I'll go up," Marc said, clearly annoyed. "I'm sure there will be a mess to clean."

  Marie felt a sudden swell of heat in her center and her pulse picked up speed. She glanced down at the register. The letter E was being washed away on an inky river. That last conversation with Parris raced through her head. She was here.

  Marie flew from behind the desk and hurried toward the stairs, leaving Marc and Franchesca in her wake. The room was directly above the reception area, the second door on the right. She pounded on the door. "Madame Travanti, open the door." She pounded again.