I wandered through the apartment. I knew Anouk was awake. I’d seen her dirty cup in the sink, and the bathtub was wet from her morning shower. I could hear her repeating lines in her bedroom, but today was my birthday, and I wanted her attention. I knocked on her door and said her name loudly. She ignored me.
It invaded me all of a sudden, a dark, complicated feeling.
The door finally flew open and I drew back from it, startled. My mother’s skin glowed. In that moment, I hated her for not teaching me to take better care of myself. She didn’t share her creams with me, either.
You know I’m working, she said. Her voice had an edge, but she wasn’t as angry as I’d expected. What do you want?
For you to stop being so loud, I said. I’m trying to read.
She paused, her hand curling around the door. Her posture relaxed and she smiled. It’s your birthday, she said, as if just remembering. Happy birthday, my darling. I’ll make you some hot chocolate.
In this heat I would have preferred a bowl of cold cereal, but this was the sole indulgence she liked to offer me on the day of my birth. She made it with whole milk and a dash of cream, and pieces of dark chocolate. She set it on the table in front of me. One year wiser, she said. She watched me eat. I dipped a piece of buttered toast into the chocolate. Pools of salty grease collected on its surface.
What do you want for your birthday? she asked.
I put down the piece of toast and wiped my fingers. I pretended to think about her question for a moment, but the answer was already at the tip of my tongue.
I want Madame Lapierre to know about us, and then I want him to leave her and live with us. I spoke calmly, hoping to sound flippant, as if I didn’t care.
She rolled her eyes. You always ask for the impossible. Your father would never live with us.
But maybe if she knew about us, she would leave him, and he’d be forced to move in.
I’m sure she knows something.
You told me she has no idea who we are.
Not about us specifically, but she’s an intelligent woman. I wouldn’t take her for a fool. Anouk laughed nervously and ran her fingers through her hair. I studied her more closely.
You were hoping we’d run into her one day.
She knows, Anouk repeated, ignoring me.
How can you be so certain?
I was shaken by her conviction. I trusted her for the most part, but it seemed she was drawing this conclusion just from having seen Madame Lapierre that brief instant and had interpreted its meaning long before that day. Anouk eyed me from the kitchen counter.
Anyway, what makes you think she’d ever want to leave him?
I took a sip of chocolate, and the hot, viscous liquid caught in the back of my throat. The soaked bread had the texture of papier-mâché.
And what makes you think I want him living with us? she asked.
Anouk moved to the living room and sat on her armchair. I could see her from the corner of my eye. She rested her feet on the foot massager and turned it on. A gift from Father. It rumbled to life, sending gentle vibrations up her legs. She had it on the lowest setting.
I didn’t mean it seriously, I said, noticing the defensiveness in my voice.
Let me tell you something. Your father and Madame Lapierre haven’t been intimate in years. They sleep in separate bedrooms. It’s a marriage of convenience. A platonic partnership.
How do you know?
What?
That he doesn’t sleep with her?
Anouk laughed in her theatrical fashion and turned up the speed on the massager.
You’re right, Margot, she said more gently. We don’t know anything about them. We don’t know what their relationship is like from the inside. You can’t know what someone else’s intimacy looks like. I know they eat together, do their laundry together.
Anouk closed her eyes. She wore a large shirt that covered her thighs, but as her feet lifted from the bump of the massager, I caught glimpses of dark snatches between her legs.
What you don’t know, Anouk said, is that your father doesn’t like change. He’d be incapable of assuming responsibility if we suddenly appeared in other areas of his life.
That’s absurd, I said, my head snapping back. I pushed away my bowl of chocolate, having lost my appetite. I searched for the words to persuade my mother otherwise, but I couldn’t find them.
Oh my God, don’t stare at me with those big eyes. Are you going to cry? Look how he’s spoiled you, crying at the smallest frustrations. Anouk spoke to me as if I wasn’t hers. Heat rose to my cheeks and along my neck.
Why are you being so cruel? And on my birthday.
Don’t be dramatic.
I just wish we could live with him.
You always want the last word. And now you probably want to live with her as well. Anouk avoided saying her name—Madame Lapierre or Claire—even though she knew it well. Sometimes she called her la dame, the lady.
She turned off the foot massager. One morning, you’ll come downstairs and I won’t be here. Then you can have him all to yourself. But don’t expect him to move in. You’ll eat breakfast alone and he’ll visit you when he finds it convenient.
Nothing frightened me more than the possibility of my mother’s disappearance, though I also felt a pulsing thrill as she spoke those words. If she abandoned me, I’d have a concrete reason to blame her, other than this confused feeling of unhappiness. I scoured my brain for insults.
Yes, I said, maybe I would go live with them. She’s probably a better mother than you. You haven’t been a good mother.
Is there such a thing as a good mother?
People at school used to tease me about being dirty.
Always caring about what others think.
You forgot to bathe me.
Children misremember and can’t be trusted.
You didn’t speak to me for months.
She turned away. I wasn’t sure if this one was true, but I had a vague recollection of her silence weighing on me, when I was six or seven, as if my presence offended her in some deep way.
What do you want? she asked, as if finally absorbing my words. How did I raise a daughter who complains, who is never satisfied with what she has, who can’t see her privilege?
Her eyes were wide and shiny. She walked over to me. I nursed you, she said. I gave you milk from here. She jabbed at her chest. Her small breasts hung beneath the material of her shirt. I pictured the inverted nipple on her left breast and wondered if it had been difficult to feed me from there, if her nipple had always been inside out.
I was quiet. I felt ashamed, of course, but I didn’t want to admit being wrong. I didn’t know how to apologize. I had only wanted to tell her that I missed my father and wanted more of him.