The Estranged – A Short Story

Where is she?

I stand by the entrance of Edinburgh Waverly station and check my watch one last time. Celeste’s train was supposed to arrive at ten to one. It is one o’clock now. So, where is she?

She isn’t coming. She’s changed her mind, the familiar voice inside my head tells me. She might be right. Celeste doesn’t owe me a thing, least of all her time.

I spot a young woman amongst the crowd, walking towards me. Is that Celeste? Or is that somebody else? So far, I have mistaken every blond woman under twenty-five in the station for Celeste. I have only seen photographs of her. Grace helped me track her down on Facebook. But surely, I’ll know her when I see her. Won’t I?

As she nears towards me, I can feel my chest tightening up. I become self-conscious of my facial expression and how I am standing. Should I have combed my hair differently, or worn something else? Am I what she is expecting? Will she be disappointed?

The young woman walks right by me and wraps her arms around the man standing next to me. It’s not her. My heart sinks. I’ve been dreaming about this day for fifteen years. Where is she?

‘Laura?’ a voice behind me says.

Quickly, I turn around. It’s her.

‘Lydia,’ I say.

Her face is stern. ‘You mean Celeste?’ she says.

‘Of course. Celeste,’ I say. ‘It’s just… you look so like her.’

You shouldn’t have said that. You’ve made her uncomfortable.

After a moment’s hesitation, I put my arms around her and give her a tight squeeze. She stands still, like a mannequin, alien to human affection. She doesn’t feel real to me. She feels fragile, like porcelain. I worry that I might break her, but her fragility only makes me want to hold onto her longer, tighter.

*

All morning, I have been rehearsing in the bathroom mirror exactly what I would say to her, when I finally saw her again. But now, the moment has arrived, and it all feels wrong. I don’t know what to say. I cannot find the right words. Do such words even exist?

As we walk along to the restaurant, I ask Celeste if she has any plans for the summer and if she has been watching the latest Sunday night tv drama: hairdressers’ talk.

The restaurant is sandwiched between two tall Georgian townhouses. The entrance is swarmed by greenery: hanging baskets and plant pots, and overhead is a red and white striped canopy. Inside, the restaurant is overly-lit, killing the otherwise rustic atmosphere. It’s quiet, with just ten tables, only half of which are occupied. We enter and wait by a sign, that reads: Please wait here to be seated.

We wait in silence for several minutes, unnoticed by the waiting staff.

‘Is the service always this slow?’ Celeste says.

‘Not usually, no,’  I say.

‘We should just go and sit down. There’s a table over there.

Celeste begins to walk across the restaurant, towards the corner table.

Reluctantly, I follow her lead. I tend to live by the rules these days. It’s safer that way.

Celeste briefly flicks through the menu, too fast to read a word of it.

‘Anything you recommend?’ she says.

‘Let me see,’ I say, taking the menu from her. ‘The chicken risotto is good.’

‘I’m a vegetarian.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘It’s a bit pricey,’ Celeste says.

‘Don’t worry about that. I’m paying.’

I try, without success, to get the waiter’s attention.

‘They really are slow in here,’ Celeste says.

‘We can go somewhere else if you like.’

‘It’s fine. You said this was your favourite, I don’t mind waiting. I’m not very hungry anyway.’

I inspect Celeste’s skinny arms and face. Surely, she must be hungry. I wave across at the teenage waiter at the other side of the room. He smiles nervously and then comes over. I ask if we can order now.

‘Yes, of course,” he says, his voice unsteady. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, we’re very busy today.’

Celeste looks around the room and raises an eyebrow. Why did I suggest here of all places?

We sit in silence, each waiting for the other to say something. Anything. Now that we are face-to-face, I have a proper look at Celeste. She really is the double of Lydia. She has her pale green eyes and silvery blond hair and uncertain facial expression – an expression that seems to query everyone and everything around her. She was always more like Lydia than me, even when she was a baby. Lydia used to joke about it. She knew how much it irritated me. Anyone would think she was my little girl, not yours, she would say.

*

Lydia was a natural with children. She made everything I struggled with look effortless. She could get Celeste to stop crying whenever I was on the verge of a breakdown. She could always make her laugh, and she was much better at discipling her. I could never bring myself to tell Celeste off – I feared it would make her dislike me. She already preferred Lydia. Celeste’s first word was ‘Mama’, but I know she didn’t mean me. And just to rub salt in the wound, when Lydia looked after her, she would often pretend that Celeste was in fact her daughter. She wanted my life. My baby, my house, my husband. Her wishes might have been granted, had she had more time. There always was something between her and David.

*

‘You’re bound to have questions,’ I say, finally breaking the silence.

‘My dad told me everything,’ Celeste says. ‘Then again, he told me you were dead ‘til I was fifteen, so I don’t know what to believe.’

‘It was an accident,’ I say. ‘The jury never believed me, but it was.’

‘If you say so,’ Celeste says, picking at her nails. ‘How was it?’ she asks after a moment.

‘How was what?’

‘Prison,’ Celeste says, quietly.

‘Awful,’ I say. ‘Being away from you all that time.’

‘Did you follow my life at all?’

I shake my head.

‘I wanted to,’ I say. ‘I asked your father for photographs and updates every time he visited, but he refused.’

‘He visited you?’

‘For a while, he did. Only to persuade me to sign the divorce papers. I put off doing that for quite some time.’

‘Why?’ Celeste says.

I shrug. ‘I couldn’t move on, so I didn’t want him to either. And so he would keep visiting me. I hated him, but he was the only person who ever came to see me.’

‘What about my grandparents? Didn’t they ever visit you?’

I shake my head. ‘Not once,’ I say. ‘The last time I saw them was when I was convicted. I didn’t even know they were dead until I got out, and tried to find an address for them. I doubt they would’ve opened their door to me anyway.’

‘Enjoy your meals,’ the waiter says, presenting us with something resembling two bowls of rice pudding, one topped with soggy vegetables, the other with pinkish chicken. Neither of us say a word. I make an effort to eat as much as I can. Although the food tastes terrible, I don’t have money to throw away. Celeste merely picks at her food, putting very little her mouth.

My stomach soon begins to churn. I cannot swallow another mouthful. When I stop eating, Celeste abandons her mime of doing so also. We ask for the bill.

‘Are you sure you’ve had enough?’ I ask Celeste, as the waiter collects our plates. ‘I can get you a dessert if you’re still hungry.’

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Celeste says.

‘But you hardly touched your food. If you didn’t like it, I’m happy to buy you something else.’

‘I said I’m fine,’ she says.

I remind myself not to nag. I lost that right a long time ago.

‘I thought you might like to see the art gallery I work at. It’s just around the corner from here,’ I say, ignoring the queasiness of my stomach.

‘Sure,’ Celeste says with a shrug.

*

The gallery is a small space: a single square room, with a reception desk dead in the centre and a dozen paintings hung on glowing white walls.

‘It’s just me, and my boss, Grace, that work here,’ I say. ‘It was good of her to give me the job. Nobody else wanted to give me a chance. Technically, they’re not supposed to discriminate, but…’

Celeste peruses the room.

‘This one’s my favourite,’ I say over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you just love the use of colour?’

‘I guess,’ Celeste says.

‘When you were little, I always thought you would be an artist, just like me. We used to have so much fun painting together in the kitchen. You always insisted on using your fingers, instead of a paintbrush. It did your dad’s head in. There’d be coloured fingerprints all over the house: up the walls and on the banister. I thought it was very creative. And you looked so happy doing it, I could hardly stop you.’
I can just see her. My little girl. Celie, as we called her back then. Blonde ringlets, a cheeky grin, and paint smeared across her face and up her arms. I wonder if her dad still calls her Celie at all.
‘I was never any good at art at school,’ Celeste says.

‘Oh,’ I say.

I can’t ignore the earthquake commencing in my stomach any longer. I feel a lump slowly rising in my throat, and desperately choke it back down.

‘Are you alright?’ Celeste says. 

‘I think I need to be sick,’ I say clutching my middle, before quickly dashing away to the toilet cubicle in the corner of the gallery.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Celeste is sitting at the reception desk, aimlessly gazing around the room. What must she be thinking?

You’re a mess. I bet she wishes she’d stayed at home.

‘I think I’m okay now,’ I say, though truthfully, I still feel terrible.

‘Do you think it was the food?’ Celeste says.

‘That restaurant was dreadful, wasn’t it? Makes me miss prison food.’

‘I thought you said it was your favourite restaurant,’ she says.

I shake my head and sigh. ‘I lied,’ I say. ‘I’d never been in that place before in my life. I just walk past it every day, and I thought it looked quaint.’

‘Why would you lie about that?’ Celeste says.

‘I don’t know,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I haven’t been to any of the restaurants since I moved here. I haven’t exactly made many friends since I got out. People find it hard to be friends with you, once you tell them that you killed your sister.’ I laugh. ‘That’s not funny, I know…’

Celeste is silent. She glances at the clock behind the reception desk.

‘I think I should go for my train now,’ she says.

Her train isn’t for another hour. She just wants to get away from me. I don’t I blame her. I would too.

*

‘I’m glad you came today,’ I say once we reach the Edinburgh Waverly station. I wait for Celeste to respond, but all I get is a blank stare. We stand in silence, waiting. For what, I’m not sure.

‘Well… see you,’ Celeste says eventually.

I go to give her a hug, but she backs away. She holds her hand out to me, for a handshake. I give it a gentle squeeze, holding on for a few seconds longer than feels natural.
Eventually, I say goodbye, and I watch as Celeste vanishes into the tide of people passing through the station. I could be sick again.

When will I see her next? Will Celeste even agree to meet with me again, after today? It soon dawns on me that I never told Celeste that I love her. What kind of mother can forget something so simple, something so important?

*

As I ride the bus home, Lydia’s voice rings in my ears. Anyone would think she was my daughter, not yours.

I fumble through my handbag, desperately looking for my medication. I know it’s in there somewhere. It has to be.

Why couldn’t you just let me be her mother? I was better at it than you could ever be.

‘Shut up,’ I say aloud to myself.

We both know it wasn’t an accident. Just admit it. You wanted me gone.

‘Shut up,’ I say again, trying my best to ignore the curious stares from those around me. I locate the bottle of pills, pour two out into the palm of my hand and swallow them dry.  

You’ll never be enough for her. Look at the state of yourself.

I clutch my head in my hands and close my eyes as tight as they will shut.

You wanted me gone. Just admit it. You wanted me dead.