Rainy Day Sisters (34 page)

Juliet

WHEN JULIET HAD OPENED
the door to see her mother standing there, she'd had the same impulse as when Lucy had stood there, all those months ago. She'd wanted to slam the door in her face, and this time she almost did. She started to close it, and Fiona caught it with her hand.

“I know you have every right to shut me out,” she'd said quietly. “But please don't.”

“Lucy isn't here.” Juliet kept her hand on the door, and so did Fiona.

“It's not Lucy I came to speak to.”

Shock made Juliet speechless for a moment, and she felt a pressure building in her chest, a pressure she was afraid to release. It might blow up the whole house. It would certainly destroy her. “You could have just called,” she finally managed, her hand still on the door.

“I wanted to talk to you in person.”

“You never did before.”

“I know.”

Somehow this honest admission made Juliet relent, if warily. She dropped her hand from the door and stepped aside to let Fiona in.

Her mother was in her house. It was so strange, so surreal, that she could not process how she felt about it. Too many things.

Fiona put down the single bag she'd been carrying and shed her coat, a thing of beige silk that was totally impractical for a Cumbrian, or even a Boston, winter. Juliet waited, arms folded, refusing to help her mother. Her welcome extended only so far.

“Are you all right to travel? With the surgery?” she asked after a moment, then cursed herself for sounding as if she was concerned.

Fiona turned around with a small smile. “No, but I came anyway. I'm not good at obeying orders. Can I sit down, though? It's been a long trip.”

Juliet nodded and headed for the kitchen. She retreated to the Aga and leaned against it, her arms still folded. Fiona put one hand on the back of a chair and stood there, looking strangely disoriented, and Juliet wondered if she should offer her a cup of tea. She said nothing.

And then Lucy came in, humming under her breath—a sure sign that things had gone well with Alex—and stopped suddenly as she caught sight of them. Juliet still didn't speak, and Lucy turned to Fiona.

“Mum.”

“Hello, Lucy.”

“What—what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to Juliet.”

Lucy's expression cleared then, and she beamed a smile of such happiness and gratitude at Fiona that Juliet realized at once what had happened. Lucy had asked Fiona to come talk to her.
Of course.
The only reason Fiona was here was because of Lucy. Bile rose in Juliet's throat, the taste of bitterness. She blinked rapidly, hating how disappointed she felt,
again
.

“Maybe you could give us some privacy, Lucy,” Fiona suggested, and Juliet unfolded her arms and pushed away from the Aga.

“That won't be necessary. You're only here because of Lucy. You certainly wouldn't be speaking to me for my sake, and I don't think there's anything I want to hear from you anyway.”

“Juliet—,” Lucy began, and Juliet turned on her almost savagely.

“You asked her here, didn't you? You told her to speak with me. She wouldn't have come otherwise.”

“Lucy suggested it, yes,” Fiona said calmly. “But I made the trip. I want to be here, Juliet, because I know—I know I've treated you unfairly and I want to explain why.”

Juliet froze, her mouth open for a retort she knew she wasn't going to make. Because she needed to hear what Fiona had to say, even if she didn't want to. Even if she was scared, desperately scared, to hear it.

“I'll go,” Lucy said, and tiptoed out of the kitchen. Juliet heard the creak of the steps as she went upstairs.

“I think I'll sit down,” Fiona said after a moment, and sank into one of the kitchen chairs. Juliet retreated back to the Aga. “This is a lovely house,” Fiona said after a moment, and she actually smiled. It made Juliet feel like slapping her.

“Don't make small talk.”

“Very well, I won't.” She took a deep breath. “If it helps, I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you.”

“If it helps?” Juliet repeated. She felt a fury so fierce and primal, it was like a tsunami about to crash over her. She held it back, but only just. “Actually, it doesn't. Not that I believe you're sorry.”

Fiona blinked, clearly shocked by Juliet's response, and she almost laughed. Had Fiona thought it would be that easy? One transatlantic trip, one apology, and boom. They were all good.

“Well, I
am
sorry,” Fiona said after a moment. “But I'm not sure I could have acted any differently.”

“Which turns your apology into a justification.”

Fiona sighed. “Juliet, there are things you don't understand. Things you don't know—”

“Things you never told me, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“So tell me, then,” she said, her voice thankfully even.

Fiona pressed her lips together. “I don't know where to begin.”

“You could begin with why you never wanted me. Or why you acted like you couldn't stand the sight of me for my entire childhood. Or who my father is. Take your pick.” She spoke almost indifferently, but her nails were digging into her palms.

“They're all related, really.”

The fact that her mother didn't deny any of it made Juliet feel like screaming. Or crying. She laughed instead, the sound hard.

“I don't know who your father is,” Fiona said flatly. She looked directly at Juliet, and the expression in her gray eyes—the same color as hers and Lucy's—was cold. “I was drunk at a party and I passed out. When I came to, I knew that I'd been raped.”

The bile in the back of Juliet's throat rose to fill her mouth. Her stomach heaved, but she swallowed, forced it all back. She didn't trust herself to speak, and after a few seconds she went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. With her back to her mother she pressed the cool glass against her cheek, took a few deep breaths.

Raped.
She should have guessed. She should have realized it was something like this, something so horrible that her mother would feel justified in ignoring and even hating her child. She just hadn't wanted to entertain such an awful possibility. Her father was a rapist. She was the daughter of a monster. She closed her eyes and then took a sip of water. Swallowed again and turned around.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I just did.”

“You have no idea who it was?”

“Some idea,” Fiona allowed. “I was at a party at university. I was in my second year, just nineteen years old.” She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Like I said, I got drunk. Really drunk. I was from a conservative family, and I hadn't had much experience with drinking.”

“And you passed out.”

“Yes, although I don't remember passing out. The last thing I remember is talking to some guy, a third year. And the next thing I knew, I woke up and it was the middle of the night and I was lying on the floor. Everyone had left, and my clothes were torn, my underwear gone. And I could tell . . . well, of course I could tell.” She paused, her face contorted before she deliberately smoothed out her expression. “I'd been flirting with a couple of guys. Three of them. I think . . . I think it was one of them. Or maybe all of them.” Her voice wavered. “I'll never know.”

Juliet could hear her blood thundering in her ears. “Did you report it—them?”

“No. It was the nineteen seventies, Juliet, and I'd been drunk and, many people would think, stupid. In those days no one would have taken me seriously. Even women today often don't report this kind of thing.”

“But I thought you would. With all your issues and campaigning—”

“I wasn't always like this. At nineteen I was shy and unsure and quiet. And I became even more so after it happened.”

Juliet took a deep breath; her stomach was still churning. “And when you found out you were pregnant? Why didn't you get an abortion?” A question she couldn't believe she was asking.
Why didn't you abort me?
It was horrible, and yet she had to know.

“I didn't know I was pregnant for quite a while,” Fiona said after a moment. “I think I must have been in denial, although I didn't have a lot of symptoms. I was nearly five months gone before I finally realized.”

“You still could have had an abortion,” Juliet protested, hardly able to believe she was arguing the point. “The Abortion Act allows it up to twenty-four weeks.”

“Back then it was actually twenty-eight weeks,” Fiona answered, “but I couldn't.” She shifted in her chair. “Having an abortion at five months is not the same as taking a pill when you've just found out. All of a sudden I realized there was a baby inside of me, kicking and rolling around, having hiccups. Once I accepted the reality of you . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It's a hard choice, and I was scared. I had no one to talk to, no close friends at university, and I was terrified of my family finding out. I couldn't do it.”

“You could have had me adopted,” Juliet persisted. She knew there was no real point, but she felt determined to show her mother that she'd had options. It hadn't had to be the way it was, terrible for both of them.

“I could have,” Fiona agreed. “But that felt like failure. I'd had to endure so much and then I'd get nothing at the end—”

“You'd have got your life back,” Juliet cut across her. “Which I imagine is what you wanted.”

“Do you really think you can just get your life back?” Fiona asked. “After all that? In any case, I didn't want to pretend it hadn't happened. That felt like cowardice. And it also seemed unfair.”

“Unfair?” Juliet repeated, and felt the fury start to surge again. “You want to talk about unfair—”

“I know.” Fiona held up a hand to stem the tide. “I know, Juliet. But when I was pregnant, I thought . . . I thought I could love you.”

Juliet blinked, tried to arrange the expression on her face into something that wasn't hurt.
Grief.
“But you couldn't.” The words fell into the stillness of the room like stones, rippling the heavy silence and then disappearing. Neither of them spoke for several long minutes.

“I was young and alone when I had you,” Fiona finally said. “My family had cut me off completely for getting pregnant. My father wouldn't even speak to me after I told him. He never wanted to see you, and my mother only saw you once, when you were a few days old.” She pressed her lips together, and for a second Juliet felt a flicker of sympathy for her mother's plight. “They both died when you were little, anyway. And as for when you were born . . . it was a hard delivery, and you weren't an easy baby.” She held up a hand even though Juliet hadn't said anything. “I know, I know. These aren't excuses. I know I can't excuse . . .” She paused, and then, taking a deep breath, continued. “I'm just trying to explain how it was. How alone I felt. And I thought I'd be able to keep on at university, but I couldn't. There weren't the child care options available as there are these days, and I didn't have the money. My family was never going to help me. So I ended up living on government benefits and feeling as if my life had ended. And yes, I started to resent you. I'm sorry if that makes me selfish and cruel and what have you, but that's how it was.” Fiona broke off and looked away.

Juliet felt no sympathy. If it had been any other woman facing such a dire predicament, poor and pregnant and alone, she would have surely felt compassion and sorrow. But with Fiona she didn't. She couldn't. “I understand how you could feel that way at first,” she finally said, keeping her voice level and choosing her words with care. “But you more or less ignored me for my whole childhood. If you couldn't get over your resentment, you should have done something. Sought help, or given me up.”

“I wasn't ignoring you on purpose.”

Juliet stared at her in disbelief. “Are you joking?” she demanded. “You barely spoke to me. You never came to anything at school—”

“You were so independent,” Fiona protested. “You never asked me to come. It seemed you didn't need me.”

“I was a child,” Juliet shot back. “You were my mother. Of course I needed you.”

Fiona closed her eyes. Her face looked gray and drawn. “Look, I know I can't pretend our relationship was normal, but as time went on, it became easier for me to believe it was. To just . . . coexist together.”

“And Lucy?” Juliet asked after a moment. “Why did you have her?”

Fiona opened her eyes. “Because I wanted to get it right a second time. I know I failed you, Juliet, and I'm sorry. I failed Lucy too, in a different way. I'm not a maternal person. I suppose I shouldn't have had children at all.”

“But you did,” Juliet burst out. “And that should have changed how you acted—”