The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners (11 page)

It killed Lyra, hearing that. She hated thinking of another woman being like a mom to her daughter.

“Lyra,” Gregorio called. “Will you come see? What do I do? The plans are not coming together; I can’t figure out the arch.”

“Just a second,” she said. Lyra wiped her eyes and went over.

“Look at this,” Gregorio said, tugging her hand. He wanted her to stand close, look at his drawing, but she kept her distance. She wore overalls and a white peasant blouse, garden clogs and a blue sun visor: her uniform, baggy clothes that hid her body. She wanted Pell to know there’d never been anyone but her father—the flaw had been with her, not with his love.

“I am not an engineer. I should have asked you before I started,” Gregorio said. “Do you think less of me?”

Lyra didn’t answer. She looked at the white columns, going nowhere. Thinking of what Pell had said about Lucy, the garden suddenly seemed meaningless. Lyra spun back over ten years. Being depressed, she’d wanted to sleep all the time. But then it had changed: she’d stopped sleeping altogether. That’s when the crisis began.

“Mom!” Pell called. She had her cell phone out.

“Yes?” Lyra said, walking over. Her heart was pounding, wondering if Lucy was in the same kind of emotional danger she had been.

“I knew Lucy wouldn’t be asleep,” Pell said. “So I called her. She’s on the line now….”

Lyra took the phone.

Two in the morning, Lucy’s witching hour, the most haunted zone of the night, when Lucy felt the most alone, when she was most afraid to sleep.

The hour her father had died.

Back home in Grosse Pointe, his heart had stopped, he’d drawn his last breath, at 2:01 a.m. Now Lucy paced the Shaws’ house, wanting the time to pass. She could fall asleep once the clock ticked past that time, but until then, she felt tied up in knots. When her cell phone went off, buzzing because she had it on vibrate, for a minute she thought it was her father calling.

But it was Pell and her mother, making Lucy melt with joy.

“Hello?” she said.

“Lucy,” Pell said, “Mom needs you.”

“Needs
me
?” Lucy asked. No words had ever meant more.

“Yes. Hold on,” Pell said.

And then their mother’s voice: “Lucy?”

“Hi, Mom. What can I do to help?”

“Lucy, it’s so late over there. Are we disturbing you? Can’t you sleep?”

“Not really,” Lucy said. “I’m used to it, though.”

“I wish I could sing you to sleep,” her mother said.

Sing her to sleep? Lucy took those words in. They felt like a blanket, hot milk, and a hug. Her mother was thinking of her, enough to be worried. Lucy’s mouth wobbled, not sure whether to smile. How could someone’s concern make her feel both so happy and so much like crying?

“I’m really okay,” Lucy said. “Pell can tell you, I’m just a night owl. That’s all….”

“Hmm,” her mother said, as if she was trying to believe her.

“You need my help?” Lucy asked.

“Oh. Yes, that’s right,” her mother said. “See, I’m having this moon gate built for a garden I’m designing. I want it to be about six and a half feet tall at its highest point. Six feet wide, and curved in the shape of the full moon.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Lucy said, her mind starting to work. “Well, it’s easy. Circumference divided by diameter is 3.14159. Just figure out the diameter you want, multiply that by 3.14159, and that gives you the inside circumference. Then add the thickness and get the outside. Then subtract the inside circumference from the outside one and divide that by the number of stones.”

There was a brief pause. Then: “I’m so impressed,” her mother said.

“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” Lucy said. “Math.”

Her mother was silent for so long, Lucy thought maybe she’d hung up. But then she heard her mother clear her throat.

“I’m sure there are many things, Lucy,” her mother said. “Many things you are good at, my darling. I would like us to talk, so I can find out much more about you.”

“Talk? Us? You and me?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, yes,” her mother said. “You and me. Now, Lucy … will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Lucy said.

“I’d like you to climb into bed. Get under the covers,” her mother said. “Close your eyes, and think of something beautiful. Like a field of flowers, or a wonderful beach … something you love.”

“I can do that,” Lucy said.

“And let it fill your mind, and just drift off,” her mother said, and she began to sing. Very softly, a song Lucy remembered from her childhood:

“White coral bells upon a slender stalk, lilies of the valley deck my garden walk….”

Lucy heard the music, and she smiled and felt everything bad melt away.

She wished they’d never hang up, but finally they did. And she kept her promise. She went into the room she shared with Beck, climbed into her bed. She could almost hear her mother’s voice:
Get under the covers … close your eyes … think of something beautiful…
.

Lucy did think of something beautiful. And it wasn’t a garden of flowers, or a magical beach, or even the song. It was her mother’s voice saying the words “you and me.”

“You and me,” Lucy whispered in bed, eyes closed. “You and me, you and me, you and me … you said I am your darling, and we will talk, you and me, you and me.”

I could see what Max had said: that gardening brought my mother solace. There at the site, working for Amanda and Renata, I could see the glow. She was tan, sweaty, tired in the good way. I knew her muscles were aching; her face and arms were streaked with dirt. That guy was flirting with her, but she didn’t care. She loved the garden. And—I have to say this—she loved being with me, and calling Lucy. I felt it.

It seemed like the greatest gift, calling Lucy, having the three of us on the phone again. And I could tell Lucy was overjoyed. My mother too. It was the three of us together, just like old times. To hear my mother taking care of Lucy—over the phone, soothing her, singing her to sleep—made me think of all the ways we’ve needed and missed one another.

Being here, especially after the call with Lucy, all my early love for my mother came flooding back. My head’s been throbbing, practically lighting up. Ever since reading Allan Schore’s book on the neurobiology of emotional development, recommended reading by Dr. Robertson, a few more puzzle pieces have fallen into place. That feeling—that physical longing for my mother—started to make sense. She is part of me.

And I am part of her. I came out of her body. And our hearts and minds are hardwired for each other. As she spoke to Lucy, I watched her face. I saw the years of love and the decade of pain. We were everything to each other. Everything! And then she went away.

Waking up with her sitting on my bed did something to me. This is how it could have been! My dad used to wake me up for school. I hold on to that, trying to understand why he’d held back the fact he’d divorced her. It shimmers, like the azure water around the island, the idea that if he hadn’t, if she’d remained legally bound, she might have had more reason to return to us. But I tell myself that’s not real.

It’s just foolish, wishful thinking. My mother was troubled—the word that came so easily to her, describing Rafe. She was damaged. Screwed up by her mother. My grandmother isn’t a bad person, but you wouldn’t want her as your mother. She is cold, in ways my mother never could be. But you know what’s sad? I am sure that she, too, suffered as a child.
Her
mother probably didn’t show her enough love.

Talking to Max, I had realized the weight of my family history even more. Standing with him in front of the Hotel Quisisana, remembering my grandmother’s postcard, thinking of her visit here, I had been faced again with her warped notion of what life for women should be all about. The goal was to become the wife of a rich man; if you failed in that, you might as well not bother.

“What happened when Edith visited you here?” I asked my mother now. We had both taken showers and were relaxing on the terrace after hours of gardening.

“That was years ago,” my mother said.

“I know. She only came once?”

My mother nodded. “Yes. She hoped she’d find me among the smart set, the yachting crowd. Instead, I was living in this little house, on the quiet side of the island. I hadn’t fixed it up yet; it was something of a wreck. I’d bought it cheap from the Gardiners; it was part of the estate, but they’d never used it, and the plaster was cracked, a few windows broken, bats living in the chimney.”

“Your mother saw it like that?” I asked, unable to hold in my smile.

“Well, I’d replaced the broken glass, gotten rid of most of the bats,” she said, smiling back. “But there really was no way my mother could fool herself into thinking I’d come here for the social life.”

“Why did you come here?”

“A combination of things,” she said slowly. “I’d visited Capri on that trip after college. Instead of seeing glamour, the way my mother might have, I saw peace. It rained one day, and I felt a strange sense of belonging. I had this feeling inside…. I’d never felt I fit in anywhere before, but suddenly I was here, and I felt at home. And then the sun came out.…”

“And it was like this?” I asked, staring out at the amazing, unbelievable, indescribable sparkling blue.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you always remembered it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Both parts. The quiet rain and the dazzling blue. So when the time came, when I had to leave, I knew there was only one place to go.”

“Capri,” I said. “But Mom, this is just a
place.”
I was asking her:
Did you really leave me and Lucy, and Dad, for a patch of earth?

She nodded. We sipped our tea, and let the hugeness of our reality overtake us. The truth was the truth; we had spent the last ten years apart. I had always wanted her; our early bonding was radiant and total. During our separation I’d felt monsters clawing me inside. Was she now telling me she’d walked out on our life to come to this idyllic island?

“You mentioned ‘showing you the way’ before,” she said. “That’s what mothers are supposed to do. I don’t really feel qualified to show you anything. I don’t deserve to. I made choices you would never make.”

“Can’t you tell me about them?”

She stared out to sea, hot feelings seeming to pour right off her skin. “If I could tell you anything, it would be to follow your dream, whatever it is. Don’t let anyone talk you out of it.”

I stared at her. Did following her dream really mean coming to Capri, throwing me and Lucy and our dad away?

“Do you think it’s impossible for a woman to do both?” I asked. “Follow her ‘dream’ and also stick by her family?”

My question hung in the air. As soon as I asked, I wished I could take it back. My eyes filled with tears, in anticipation of what she was about to say.

“It was,” she said. “For me. Having you here, talking to Lucy … I hate so much of what I’ve done. But I want you to understand.”

“The moon gate didn’t work for you and Dad,” I said, trying to make light. I didn’t want to hear this.

“Pell,” she said. I couldn’t look at her, but I felt her kneeling in front of me. I heard her crying as well. She kissed my face, her lips on my tears. I should have flinched, but I leaned into her. She was my mother.

“There’s a reason,” she said. “That I did what I did.”

“I want to know,” I said. I felt myself shaking; I tried to hold it together, act cool and understanding. But right then I was her daughter, and she’d left me, and I was about to hear why.

“I was empty,” she said. “Nothing inside. Going through the motions like a zombie, a sleepwalker. Miss Miller and your father took care of you. He was so good—he did everything. I was a skeleton mother.”

“You were not,” I said. “I know. I was with you. Our walks, our country, the map of Dorset … you, me, and Lucy. She pasted the stars on.…”

“You were too young to understand,” she said. “Those were special times. But behind them, those days and the things we did, was nothing, Pell. I was nothing. I felt as if I was dragging you down—you and Lucy.”

I felt chills. The look in her eyes was dark and frantic. What was she thinking? We’d had this day of closeness; it had started with her waking me up. But here we were, back to our reality.