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“No!” Rindy felt that her throat might bleed she’d screamed so loud. The noise filled up the room and bounced off the walls, reaching her ears at an alien pitch, so much so that if it weren’t for the burn in her throat and the sting of tears in her eyes she may not have recognised the voice as her own.
“Rindy…” Her father pleaded desperately, his shoulders slumped in defeat and his eyes begging her to desist.
“No,” he repeated, calmer this time, reminding herself of how her mother often sounded when she wanted to let people know she’d had the final word.
When you’re ten adults very rarely let you have the final word though, and her father’s mouth was open again before she’d even had the opportunity to fold her arms across her chest the way her mother did to emphasise a stern expression. “Rindy please get in the car, your grandparents are going to wonder where we are.”
“Then tell them where I am. I hardly care.” She had her arms folded now, and the stance gave her a sense of power. As if she was ten feet tall, hovering over her father ready to crush him if he didn’t follow through with her demands.
“Rindy.” This time the voice was from behind her and Rindy turned to see her mother a few feet back looking equal parts shocked and sad, and Therese, further back still, her look akin to one Rindy had seen on the face of a deer once when it had wandered out in front of her father’s car and frozen for a split second on the road. “Don’t speak to your father in that tone.”
“Then tell him to let me stay!” It was simple.
Rindy knew her mother wanted her here just as much as she wanted to be here. She’d said as much two nights previous over dinner. On further enquiry Therese had agreed with the sentiment, claiming it would make for the best gift the holidays could offer. As far as Rindy was concerned that had been the matter resolved, set in stone so to say, that she’d be spending Christmas with her mother for the first time in as long as she could remember.
Now though, as she turned back around, she realised her father was sharing a look with her mother over Rindy’s head. The kind of look Rindy associated most with her grandmother whenever anything impolite was brought up at the dinner table – a look that said “this can’t continue or she’ll ruin dinner” – except in this case Rindy got the distinct impression she was ruining something a lot bigger than dinner. The look told Rindy that it would be at least another year before she’d have a chance to open her presents with her mother and Therese. Another year before she’d get to witness first hand her mother cremating the turkey, or Aunt Abbey getting a little too jolly on eggnog, rather than simply reliving the moments second hand when Therese showed her the pictures the following fortnight.
“Rindy, honey, please…” Her father extended his hand this time and Rindy knew taking it meant defeat. At ten year old she also thought defeat meant weakness and so she cried when she put her hand in his.
She cried because it wasn’t until years later her mother would teach her that defeat sometimes also doubled as a word for compromise, and more often than not compromise lead to the greatest of gifts.
-.-.-.-.-.-
8 Years Later:
Rindy let her bag slide from her hand and a smile spread across her face. It was December 24th and for the first time in 14 years she’d be spending the following day with her mother. Not that she had time to let that sink in right now. Not when Therese was already half running down the hall with her arms open wide to greet her in a hug, calling over her shoulder to inform her mother that she’d gotten here safe.
“Is it just me or have you grown?” Therese hummed, her arms already wrapped around Rindy’s shoulders.
“I don’t know that girls grow much once they reach my age?” She’d inherited her mother’s long, slender figure, though her final growth spurt had been at sixteen or so.
“God maybe I’m shrinking then.” Therese stepped back, smiling at her own joke, and Rindy laughed.
At the same moment her mother appeared in the hall and her laugh was instantly swallowed in a gasp of joy. “Mom!”
Her mother never ran in the same fashion as Therese. Honestly the only word Rindy could think to describe her mother’s approach was a glide, her elation at seeing Rindy evident in her smile and the sparkle in her eyes. The fact she’d seen Rindy the week previous for lunch seemed immaterial. Rindy supposed her mother had missed enough of her life growing up when she’d been in her father’s custody, and now that she was in college, living her own life free of bargaining over who got what weekend and for how long, her mother was making every second spent together count.
“Rindy, my darling!” She really didn’t mind at all Rindy thought as she was once more wrapped in a hug. After all, every second really did count when making up for lost years.
“How’s college? How did your final exam go? Are you hungry?” Her mother released her from the hug, already a flurry of questions. Behind her mother’s shoulder Therese laughed.
“College is good.” Really college was more than good.
Costume design had been no one first choice for Rindy. Her father wanted her to become an accountant until she found a husband to take care of her, while her grandmother saw no reason for her to find a job at all when marriage could be just around the corner. She’d liked neither of those options very much, though she did on some level appreciate their desire to have someone look after her, she never saw the appeal.
Her mother on the other hand had always seen her as a teacher, or a scientist, or an engineer. “Brains to burn,” she’d always claim proudly whenever Rindy had come over for the weekend with A graded homework to show off. Therese on the other hand had subtly pushed her towards journalism. “My friend Danny works for The Times, he could get you an internship,” she’d mentioned casually once over dinner when Rindy had brought up college applications.
Her mother had been put out by the thought at first, still hell bent on her little girl curing cancer or teaching someone that might, but Therese had reminded her of Rindy’s often overly inquisitive nature and her mother had very quickly come to see how journalism may be the right path. After all, he’d been a week shy of her ninth birthday when she’d fully investigated and come to the conclusion that her mother and Therese were more than just roommate, even going insofar as to put this theory to them over dinner.
It was the closest her mother had ever come to blushing.
She’d not gone down the path of journalism either though. In fact she’d known what she wanted to do with her life long before people had started pushing her in every which direction. She’d tagged along with Therese to enough theatres on days when her mother had been working late in the furniture store to see exactly what went on behind the scenes of a big show, and she swore it had been love at first sight. Of course she found fascinating the way the model sets she’d watched Therese toiling over became full scale realities. Though what had really caught her eye were the costumes. The intricate designs and delicate stitching, the endless fittings she’d witnessed and the way the actors transformed once completely stitched into a piece.
Costume design had been her first real love, an as of yet it hadn’t been a disappointment.
“I’m actually making the costumes for the drama departments next production,” she boasted eagerly, selfishly loving the ay her mother face lit up with pride.
“Is it a period play?” Therese asked, eager as ever to lend her theatre knowledge picked up over the years.
“Set in the 20s actually,” Rindy explained, excitement seeping into her voice while she removed her jacket. “Really you should see some of the headpieces I get to put together.”
“I hope you have drawings.” While her mother didn’t share the same vast knowledge of the arts as Therese, her love of fashion was unparalleled.
“I’ve sketches in by bag.” Rindy motioned to her case. “I can show you both later.”
-.-.-.-.-
Dinner was long and lively.
Rindy often got the sense that her mother and Therese spent a great deal of time in their kitchen – whether it be cooking, eating, or just lounging at the kitchen island – and so it never surprised her that they dragged out their courses. Nor did it bother her.
While her father and grandmother had cooks and servers at every meal, and although Rindy greatly appreciated each and every one of them for all they did to make meals feel special and important, Rindy simply adored dinner with her mother and Therese. Each course was slightly over done, and the gaps between them drawn out on account of the fact they had to finish prepping each course before serving, but it had a much more laid back tone that had Rindy feeling like she’d been wrapped in a snug blanket. She’d sit at the table and watch her mother and Therese dancing around one another, occasionally scolding one another, as her mother tended to the food and Therese grabbed plates to serve everything on. There was laughter and teasing and every now and then the occasional broken glass or a roast potato making a mad dash across the kitchen floor, but Rindy found every moment to be one she wouldn’t change for the world.
Except perhaps the dishes.
She loathed dishes, even as a child, and especially now as she begrudgingly stood at the draining board wiping off each dish Therese washed and handing them to her mother to put away – apparently Therese couldn’t be trusted to return things to their rightful place.
Naturally then, with contempt for her current chore simmering inside her, she jumped at the opportunity to get away even just for a moment.
“Oh…” Her mother stopped in her tracks for a second, her hand clutching a plate – and took a deep breath, almost as if to steady herself. “God dammit,” she murmured, more to herself than present company, before reaching up and stacking the plate on its shelf.
“Heart burn?” Therese asked, almost nonchalant, probably knowing all too well Rindy’s mother didn’t like to be fussed over.
“Just a touch.” Her mother didn’t even bother denying it which told Rindy it was more than just a touch.
“Your tablets are in the drawer in our room.” Evidently Therese knew just as well that for her partner to complain something need really be bothering her.
“I’m-“ her mother began, but Rindy saw her get out of jail free card shining in front of her, and jumped at the chance.
“I can run and get them?”
“Darling honestly it’s just-“ this time her mother was caught out by another stab of stomach acid.
“Top drawer on the right hand side of the bed Rindy,” Therese informed her, already reaching to the press to her left to grab a glass she could fill with water. “And don’t stay down there all day to avoid dishes,” she added then just as Rindy turned to leave.
Dammit.
-.-.-.-.-.-
She found the tablets instantly when she looked in the drawer. A small see through vile with a screw top lid, wedged between her mother’s reading glasses and some hand crème.
She closed the drawer and looked around the room briefly, not really intending on staying. She couldn’t help but marvel at how similar it looked to the last time she’d been in it – years ago now, when she’d been just a child. Her mother’s robe still hung over the back of the chair at the vanity, while Therese’s was hung up neatly on the back of the door.
Photos lined the tops of the bedside lockers as well, just as they had years ago. On her mother’s side a picture of the two of them when Rindy had been four or five and to its left one of her mother and Therese, their faces young and wind swept and their arms around one another. On Therese’s side of the bed the photo of Therese and her mother was slightly more recent, one taken in this apartment. There was another smaller photo Rindy didn’t remember from her previous visit to the room there as well though and she was almost, but not quite, shocked by its presence. It was one of her and Therese, taken on a day they’d gone to the zoo when Rindy had been seven. She found herself smiling at the fact Therese kept a picture of her by her bed, it reminded her of the picture she kept tucked into her mirror of herself and Therese.
“Eh-hem?” From the doorway someone cleared their throat and Rindy pivoted to find Therese leaning in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. “Dishes?”
“Sorry…” Rindy really hadn’t meant to linger.
Therese’s frown softened into a smile that reminded Rindy of the one she’d often given her when they’d first started spending a little time alone together when her mother had been out – as if she were unsure of where they stood, as if she were unsure of whether or not it was her place to scold her, or kiss her on the forehead when she tucked her in at night.
“I was just thinking actually…” Rindy didn’t like seeing Therese like that. She remembered her mother telling her once she thought Therese still felt guilty over what had happened fourteen years ago.
“Oh?” Therese looked a lot less apprehensive now.
“Of the last time I was in here properly,” she continued. “You remember?”
“You were six.” Of course she remembered, she had a picture of Rindy on her bedside table and parents always remembered small details like that.
“I’d had a nightmare,” Rindy tacked on, her imagination fully immersing itself in the memory now. ”Something silly probably but I was petrified and I ran in here and crawled in between you. Tried so hard not to wake either of you up.”
“You stood on my arm,” Therese dead panned.
“I said tried,” Rindy shot back, still smiling at the memory. “And you didn’t even grumble, just opened your eyes and looked at me, then wrapped your arm around me and told me to try and sleep.”
“And the next morning when we all woke up you told your mom about the bad dream and she made you pancakes in bed,” Therese continued.
“And I got crumbs all over your good sheets,” Rindy concluded.
They both laughed.
“What do you two find so funny?” Her mother grumbled, appearing suddenly from behind Therese’s shoulder. “Can I trust no one to get me some pain relief?”
She was in a mood now and Rindy and Therese both knew it. They only managed to laugh harder.
-.-.-.-.-.-
Her mother’s mood didn’t last long. By the time Therese had prepared three hot whiskeys – her mother claiming if Rindy couldn’t drink at Christmas then when could she drink – her mother was already beckoning the two of them into the living room to sit with her around the fire. Rindy stepped into the room with Therese close behind her and smiled at the sight of her mother, sprawled out across the couch with photo albums strewn across the cushions.
She tidied herself up when she saw Rindy and Therese, curling her leg in on themselves and pulling the albums neatly into her lap, and Rindy took the opportunity to sit at her mother’s side with Therese opting to curl up by her partner’s feet. Therese handed her mother her drink and Rindy watched with a small half smile as her mother thanked Therese by raking her finger once through her hair.
“I thought we might look at some old photos,” her mother announced, as if her intent hadn’t already been clear.
“There’s a lot to get through.” There were three albums already piled in her mother’s lap and Rindy saw two more, still sitting on the shelf.
“Your mother insists on meticulous documentation of my work,” Therese explained, torn somewhere between embarrassed and boastful.
“I only save your good photos, it’s not my fault there’s so many.” Her mother, smooth as ever. Therese thanked the comment by pressing a kiss into her knee cap and Rindy found herself smiling at the two of them again.
The first few pages of the album were pictures Therese had taken of different sets. Some of the set alone some of people rehearsing, and all of them with a distinctly striking quality that left Rindy wondering, as she often did, why There had never tried her hand at professional photography.
She’d gotten her answer to that years ago though. When she was fourteen and she’d found herself bored one evening looking through one of the photo albums. It had been filled with pictures Therese had taken years ago, “from a trip your mother and I went on when you were still only a child, just before her divorce”, she’d explained, watching Rindy flip through the pages and pages of pictures, most of them candid’s of her mother. She’d explained then that she had no desire to photograph professionally because no newspaper would ever accept the photos she wanted to take.
“There’s more of a freedom in set design,” she’d explained, gently taking the album from Rindy and flipping forward a few pages to a picture Rindy later learned was Therese’s favourite. “I can design what I like and as far as the audience are concerned the set merely serves to further the world the actors are creating.” As she spoke her eyes never strayed from the photo of Rindy’s mother, her immaculate curls windswept and her head tucked under the collar of her old fur coat for warmth as she stood against the wind, facing Therese’s camera with a sly smile. “They rarely look close enough to see the depth I put into the sets as stand-alone pieces of art. They almost never think to consider the intricate details they see and why they’re there.” Her fingers traced the contour of Rindy’s mothers’ face. “I can say what I want, express myself however I feel is best and I never worry about what people might say. With photos everything the artist is thinking is right there in the picture, well, if they’re any good.”
Rindy had understood instantly it was fear that had topped Therese from pursuing photography – fear of what people would think of her work and fear that they’d persecute her for her art. Rindy remembered desperately wishing she had some kind of advice, even a kind word, though part of her knew there was no need. Knew Therese loved her work and, moreover, knew that at least this way the photos could remain part of a beautiful, private collection.
And now as her mother flipped forward past the pictures of sets Rindy saw that private collection sprawling out in front of her. Birthday parties and trips out, quiet mornings she’d spent with Therese and her mother as a child, and cold evenings the three of them had spent in front of the fire when Therese had discretely snapped a picture while they’d conversed over hot chocolate.
“Oh god, look!” Her mother pointed to a photo of Rindy, taken when she was around eleven, shaking with silent laughter at the sight of the image.
They’d gone to the ice-cream parlour after a trip to the cinema and Rindy had insisted on a cone, in spite of her mother’s belief that a tub of ice-cream would be a far lesser risk mess wise. Rindy had been adamant she wouldn’t drop the cone though and to her credit she hadn’t – she’d been proud of herself for that – though she had managed to cover her entire face in strawberry ice-cream. She remembered her mother insisting she’d picked up some of Therese’s less refined dining habits and Therese had merely rolled her eyes at the comment before crouching down to capture the moment on film.
“That got in your hair and everything,” Therese reminisced with a grimace.
“We almost had to cut a part, it was so difficult to unknot,” her mother agreed.
Rindy smiled but said nothing, instead taking the opportunity to turn the page. In the back of her mind she had the vague realisation of how lucky she was to be able to share this moment with her mother, and even more so with Therese. Growing up hadn’t always been easy. She’d never had both her parents in the one room for more than a few minutes; she spent what felt like half her life in the back seat of a car being driven from her father to her mother and back again tearful for the most part. Worse still she’d never been able to talk about her family with her friends. Her father had always warned her against it, knowing better than she did at the time that they did not live in a world that would look kindly upon Therese or her mother. It was a sheltered life, even an isolated life at times and without a doubt a life full of compromise.
She knew now though compromise didn’t always mean weakness, nor did it mean defeat. Compromise meant moments like this. Moments she got to spend with the ones she loved, even if they’d been a long time coming.