Part 41

"I was upset because I started thinking about my mother again," I lied, averting my gaze to the wooden floor.

I felt Jason's eyes boring into me as he waited for an explanation.

"Remember, I told you that my parents were from Texas?" I began. "My dad worked at a tech company there, and my mother was an artist. Dad was quite satisfied with his job, but my mother wasn't too happy to be living in Texas. So, when he proposed to her, she talked him into moving to Britain. They moved to a small flat in Luton. At that time, that was all my dad could afford. And a year later, I was born."

Fighting the urge to stop, I went on, "My parents weren't very happy together. The first fight that I remember was on a school night in year two. That's the first grade here."

I narrated the incident in a monotone, allowing a flurry of images to resurface in my mind. I remembered pressing my ear against the bedroom door, straining to hear my mother's soft voice. She had been angry about how small her studio was and how she had no time to paint. I shut my eyes as I recalled my father consoling her with a laboured calmness that soon faded. I had buried myself under the covers, plugging my ears and singing 'Happy Birthday' to myself until I fell asleep.

"It was my favourite song," I explained with a humourless laugh.

Jason smiled sadly, holding me closer to his chest.

"They argued like this almost every night. The next morning, they would act normal around me. My mother was unhappy with the flat, the lack of time and money, and my father was finding it difficult to start all over at a new office. But those fights aren't my only memories. I have some good ones, too. I used to love it when my mother would pick me up from school every afternoon and walk me home. And I loved when Dad would drive me to London every other Saturday."

I shook my head to clear away the nostalgia.

"Anyway, when I was in fourth grade, there was this play in my school. Something about a princess, I don't even remember," I laughed dryly. "But it was such a big deal to us. Every girl in my class — myself included — wanted to be the princess. Our teacher gave all the girls a few lines to memorise. Whoever recited them best the next day would be cast as the princess."

I had been so thrilled to tell my mother about the play when she picked me up from school. I almost failed to notice that there was something wrong with her hands. They were still covered in splotches of black and red paint. I had never known her to leave the house without washing the paint off her hands. But I was too taken by the sheet of dialogue clutched within my fingers to make much of it.

"Mummy, Miss Jody says if I remember my lines, I can be the princess," I said to her, nearly bubbling over with excitement.

My mother responded with silence, her eyes focused on the pavement. To grab her attention, I tugged at her hand impatiently.

"Teach me my lines?" I begged, raising my head to examine the dark clouds gathering in the sky.

"No, Leena," she said, her voice rough with annoyance. "Ask your father to help you. Now, come on."

My mother urged me to walk faster, her dangling earrings swaying in the wind. Disappointed, I withdrew my hand from hers, my small palm coming away with streaks of half-dried paint.

I shifted against Jason, scrubbing my hand on my jeans to remove watercolour stains that weren't there.

"My dad came home after work and helped me learn my lines," I said. "That night, I heard my parents arguing again. My mother was furious that she had to stop painting every afternoon to pick me up. Until then, I thought that my mother liked our afternoon walks as much as I did. I didn't know that it was a burden on her. She complained about how nothing felt right. Dad shouted at her saying that it was her fault that they moved there in the first place."

I remembered my parents' words as though they had spoken them just a day before.

"You're suffocating me, Mark," my mother cried. "You and her."

Dad's voice shook with rage when he said, "A good mother would never say that about her own daughter."

Sighing heavily, I bent to rest my head against Jason's shoulder.

"I couldn't hear what they said after that. It started to rain and there was thunder," I recalled with a shudder. "Anyway, I had been too young to understand my parents' words. I actually thought if I could remember my lines and become the princess, my mother would be proud and everything would be okay."

Scoffing at my childish ignorance, I said, "I was so stupid to think that would fix everything."

"Don't say that," Jason hushed, a pained expression crossing his face.

"I spent the rest of that night hiding under my covers — the thunder scared me a little — with a torch, practising my lines over and over. I was so tired at school the next day, but I managed to say my lines correctly," I said as Jason traced his fingers down my arms. "And my teacher chose me as the princess. I was on top of the world that day. When my mother came to walk me home, I told her about the play. She smiled a little, but she still looked sad and somewhat angry. I thought that if she saw the play, she would feel happy again."

It was funny how I couldn't remember anything about the actual play, but the events before and after had been seared into my brain. Dad had been the one to wake me on the morning of the play instead of my mother. He was smiling, but his eyes were filled with distress.

"Where's Mummy?" I asked as I got ready.

"She'll meet us at the play, princess," my father assured me.

The next thing I knew, my classmates and I were sneaking peeks at the audience from behind the curtains. Miss Jody came over to me and fastened a shiny tiara on my head, the other girls glancing at it covetously.

Soon, the play began. Onstage, I scanned the crowd surreptitiously for any signs of my mother. But it was impossible to distinguish the faces in the audience through the harsh spotlight that shone on me.

By the time the play ended, I could hardly contain my energy. I had been so certain that my parents would never fight again. After all, I had remembered all my lines perfectly!

I ran into my father's waiting arms, squealing as he spun me in the air.

"I'm so proud of my little princess," he beamed, planting a kiss on my cheek.

"Where's Mummy?" I demanded again, my laughter dying down as I searched for her.

"She's . . . gone on vacation," my dad said, pained.

"She isn't here?" I asked, crushed by the immediate realisation. "She didn't see the play?"

"No, she didn't, Lee," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

"But I was the princess," I wailed, distraught. "I was the princess, Daddy!"

"I know," he said, his eyes growing misty. "I'm so sorry."

Jason shut his eyes tightly when understanding dawned on him.

"Several days later, Dad finally told me that she wasn't coming back," I whispered. "I didn't really believe him at first. Sometimes, I'd run into her little studio — even though my mother never liked me going in there — expecting to find her standing in front of her canvas, busy painting. But she, her canvas, and all her paints were gone."

I hadn't been good enough. I hadn't been reason enough for my mother to stay.

"When I got a little older, my father explained that she'd written an apology note and left the night before my play," I said, my voice cracking as the repressed memories resurfaced. "I don't know what the note said, and I didn't ask because I could tell how hurt he was by it. He changed after she left. He buried himself in work until I hardly ever saw him anymore. For the longest time, it felt like my mother had taken him with her when she left that night."

Exhausted and parched, I stared out through the French windows with hooded eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Leena," Jason said hesitantly, his voice rough. "I don't know what to —"

"No, I'm sorry," I interjected. "I got thinking about all this today morning and . . . that's why I was upset."

Liar.

Jason's eyes pierced mine in search of tears that never came. I didn't have any tears left to spend on my mother.

All that was left was guilt and anger.