Seastead, Tahiti
sheets so smooth she thought she must be in a dream. The fragrance of jasmine and a trace of vanilla took over her senses. She breathed it in and stretched, then forced her eyes closed a minute longer, a couple of seconds, but it let her go. That moment, the one that comes only between sleep and wakefulness, left her wanting more blissful amnesia. Her mind had to acknowledge her body lying in her mother’s guest bed. A tsunami of hurt flooded into her heart. The irony of it didn’t escape her wakefulness, the slightest pressure of the ceiling fan pressing perfect air against perfect sheets into her body resting on a perfect mattress. No wonder her mother loved it here. Tahiti was a gift from God and the seastead floating off the leeward side of the mountains had another advantage—no mosquitoes. Her eyes opened into the rich darkness of filtered starlight. It shone through the large windows. She never had problems sleeping, but her mom’s guest room seemed to impart a magical slumber. The bomb Janice had dropped about Gregory occupied every waking moment, but sleep allowed her peace.
Quiet overwhelmed her senses. The sun was minutes away from provoking the resident bird population. Her coffee would be ready and the oversized chair that quickly became Bella’s spot waited for her. It would have been perfect but being awake meant struggling with the confusion injected into her life by Gregory. She understood healing took time, and to curl up alone, read, and watch the morning sun erupt over the distant mountains was part of that process. But some things were too enormous to recover from, and that sick, evil bastard had brought her to that point. Trusting God had a plan for her was all the hope she could manage. None of it made any sense, so she’d been repeating and meditating on the scripture her father had given her. And we know all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28. It had not become the talisman for good luck she had wanted, but in her heart, she knew the truth. Luck had nothing to do with God’s will. Magic was only reliable in fables and imaginary lands like Narnia, and for people invoking darkness—they might get “magic.” What she prayed for was a miracle, what God offers unconditionally.
The uncontrollable crying had slowed. That made it easier to pretend everything was normal and acting normally suited her mother. She insisted on it. Unspoken, but clear. Push onward like nothing has changed. Her mom’s approach was a carefully scheduled day with no downtime. During her childhood, Bella had learned the wickedness of self-pity. Feeling sad? Clean the bathroom. Bored? Tutor your sister. Angry? Wash the windows. Her mother was a product of her Scandinavian upbringing, but Bella was not. And she wasn’t a product of the effusive drama found in her father’s family. The ongoing struggle between the two cultures didn’t have a name. Her mother would say, ‘You’re my wild child,’ and her father added, ‘All good things are wild and free.’ Bella and her siblings were an uneasy product of her mother’s high expectations and her father’s sweeping acceptance. She had come to terms with it a long time ago, but her universe was terribly out of balance. Staunch observation of normalcy would not answer, and memories of her dad quoting Thomas Aquinas would not set it right either. She needed to share her grief. So last night she did what a wild child would do. She roared.
“Bella, I don’t put the sharp knives in the dishwasher,” her mother said, holding up a knife with a black handle for Bella to see.
“Of course, you don’t! You don’t do anything wrong,” Bella said. The outburst made her feel like she was fourteen. “Your life is just perfect, and I only mess it up. First, with dating an international criminal who preys on unsuspecting girls and now—what? Making your cutlery dull? Excuse me for living!” She flushed and stormed off, locking herself in the bathroom. She didn’t cry, but while her mother tried talking to her through the door, she scrubbed the toilet and cleaned the sink. There was no reason, no good reason for her outburst, but what’s the point of being emotional if you have to be rational? Why couldn’t she be more like her mother? No emotions. It didn’t take more than a couple minutes before the feelings that brought on her tantrum ran out of steam and she held onto the important words she heard her mother say through the door—I love you. That was enough. Those words were her dad’s everyday expression, but when her mother spoke of love, it was never casual. It meant the world.
She found her mother in the kitchen and said, “Mom, I’m sorry.”
Her mother’s back was to her, and Bella could see her shoulders were tight and her head forward as she scrubbed a pot. Then her posture transformed, the angular tension melted away, and she turned around, softer than Bella could remember and walked to her. She wrapped her arms around her.
“I cleaned the bathroom,” Bella said.
Her mom started with a contagious giggle. Bella felt a sudden release, like the hug was too tight. It wasn’t. The laughing turned into sobs. Her mother pulled away and tried to speak, but no sound came out. Then finally, “All is hard… impossible… I… I’m here for you. I have always been.”
Bella let the always statement roll away unchallenged. She was happy to have the moment, and she knew everybody loves differently. And now she needed all that her mother gave. They talked into the night. It calmed her and did her soul good to talk everything out. But in the end, the comfort was hollow. It felt good, but healing would take more time.
Routine played a big part in the way her mother operated, and it was her way of coping. Her sanity came wrapped in routine. Bella wondered why distraction through routine hadn’t worked for her. Then it came on like a sledgehammer. It was routine, it just looked different from her mother’s. For Bella, therapy through routine started in the mornings. A new day. The slow starts with the sun edging into perfect daylight. The strong richness of coffee and the mug’s surplus warmth comforted her. And here, each day, she could predict to the minute when her mom’s sleepy face would appear. Routine may reassure, and Bella was glad to have gained a new perspective, but now she needed a new routine.
Her mind was made up, and she hoped to say something last night, but the fight obliterated any opportunities. She would wait until right after lunch and rehearsed what she’d say in her head. It seemed too simple to have any fear attached to it. All she had to say was, “I need to see Dad.” She hoped her mother would offer to cut her stay at the seastead short and suggest they go home together. But her mother wouldn’t change her schedule. That would interfere with her routine. Six weeks here, one month there—that was the way it had worked since Bella had left home at eighteen. Why would she change now?
She sipped her coffee and noted it would be forty-three minutes before her mother got up. A zebra dove flew to the railing of the lanai, hopped down, and crossed the threshold. It cautiously made its way toward Bella. She knew better than to feed the beggar, but she took the plate that had held her slice of toast and flicked off a few crumbs.