Showered, changed, and with a belly full of apple cinnamon oats, Juliana cleaned up the breakfast dishes and waited for Margaret to come home. While waiting, she decided to do something constructive and, finding the flour in a cupboard, began to make pie crust. She had just decided to make a savory pie, when Margaret walked in through the front door. She looked frazzled.
“Never have children,” she said when she saw Juliana. “Just don’t.”
“Oh, dear. What happened?”
“Bryce. Heaven help me, I love him, but when he clings to my leg screaming at daycare …” she shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. “I just can’t take it. Anyone would think I was murdering him.” She collapsed into a chair at the breakfast nook.
“Coffee?”
“Yes. With a shot of whiskey. No, I’m kidding,” Margaret said. “What are you making?”
“A pie,” Juliana said, pouring her sister a mug of coffee. “What kind do you guys like? I can make anything.”
“Chicken and mushroom always goes down well,” Margaret said.
They cooked together, making the pie, and when it was all done they were in better spirits.
“We should go and see Dad,” Margaret said. “You and Mom need to talk as well.”
Juliana had been dreading that. She nodded. “I know. I know, but …”
“Come with me,” Margaret said and taking her sister by the hand, led her into the living room.
Margaret’s house was open and airy, with sunlight streaming in through the windows. The living room did duty as a library as well, with shelves of books lining the walls. That was Peter’s influence; he was an avid reader.
Margaret went to one shelf, where some photo albums and scrapbooks lay piled one on top of the other. She pulled a book down and handed it to Juliana.
“Sit down and read this,” she said.
Juliana sat on the couch, her brow creasing into a frown. What was this all about? Then she read the cover and her jaw dropped open.
“The Magical Adventures of Emily Wood?”
“Read on,” Margaret said, sitting next to her.
Together, they paged through the scrapbook. It contained photographs of trips their mother had gone on when she young. There was a postcard from San Francisco, featuring the Golden Gate Bridge, and there was a postcard from the Grand Canyon.
“That was Mother’s graduation year. She and some of her friends took a trip to California and back,” Margaret said. She turned the page.
Next was a series of pictures cut out of glossy magazines. Juliana recognized the Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysees, and, of course, the Eiffel Tower.
“She went to Paris?”
“No, she wanted to go to Paris, and Rome, and Prague, and about a hundred other places,” Margaret said, flipping through the book. “But she never went. Gran got sick when Ma got back from her travels, and Uncle George wasn’t going to look after her, so Ma had to. Julie, she’s a lot like you, a restless spirit, and I think in some ways, she’s jealous of your freedom.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“I know that!” Margaret snapped. “I’m only telling you this so you can understand Mother better. She loves you. She always has, and the reason the two of you can’t get along is because neither of you are willing to get down and understand the other. You’re too wrapped up in yourselves to even make the effort.”
“I would have, but she threw me out!” Juliana protested, feeling her face begin to flush.
“Oh, please! You spent your teenage years driving Ma and Dad insane,” Margaret said. “You didn’t have to rebel against everything all the time. You could have given in a little, but you stamped your foot, stuck out your chin, and behaved like a mule. You never thought about what it was doing to our parents or to me, did you? No! It was the Juliana Show. Now it’s the Dad Show, and you and Ma are going to have to bury the hatchet and that’s it.” She slammed the book shut.
“I’m not expecting a miracle, but I am expecting you to care enough about Dad to suck this up and be civil to Ma while you’re here,” Margaret said. She stood up and left Juliana stunned on the couch.
She hadn’t realized. All this time, she’d thought she was the victim of her mother’s unfair judgement, but hearing Margaret speak like that, Juliana began to wonder if she wasn’t right. What if all this bad blood was her making and not her mother’s? What if she had forced her mother to get so angry that she threw her out?
As the tears rose in her throat, Juliana opened the book and read it again. It was different this time, seen through her tears. Now she could see it. Her mother had been a dreamer, an imaginative soul with hopes for the future, which died when Gran got sick. Suddenly a free bird was caged, and she dealt with it by dreaming harder than ever.
Gran died, but by then Emily was married, and shortly after, Margaret was on her way and it was too late to follow her dreams. Emily knew she would have to wait a little longer. She could do what she wanted when Margaret was older. But then along came Juliana, and her days were filled with them and their needs all the time. There was no space for Emily and her dreams. She knew she should love them, and she did, but she always felt caged. Juliana suddenly understood. With Dad so sick and stuck in bed, her mother must feel more trapped than ever.
Juliana realized it was time she took control. She wiped her eyes, hugged the book, and stood up.
Finding Margaret in the kitchen, she said, “Let’s go see Ma.”