Umbilical - Chapter 20
umbilical Excerpt #2 from Letters to My Mother by Constance Taylor every life begins with the same story: the same eviction, wearing nothing but a white coat, and the cut chord on the table, ignites the same cries, the same hands that wrest you away from the breast, from the god you must worship until the day you die.
20
The air was cold this time of the year.
The harsh November wind slapped against my cheeks as I waited for a bus outside of the station to take me away from the city. I had spent the afternoon lugging two suitcases across town and could hardly wait to sit against a surface that did not feel so frigid against my skin. Desperate to leave before Oscar got home, I had merely thrown on whatever I could find in my vicinity—an oversized knit sweater my mother had picked out for me—and stashed the rest of my closet into my bags. Coupled with a puffer jacket, hot pink beanie, tartan scarf, and high-heeled boots, I looked utterly ridiculous.
I scribbled a few words down, hoping that writing would take my mind off the stares that were definitely being thrown my way when a familiar string of steps caught my ear. I looked up to watch Oscar walking towards me, his hands buried in his long black coat as a timid smile warmed his face.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, disappointed that he had found me so quickly.
“I could ask you the same thing.” He responded, amused.
“We’re divorced now, Oscar. Don’t go pretending like you care.” I was not unhappy about his presence. I was simply in a hurry to never see him again, preferably for the rest of my life. Oscar and I had been a story that had gone on for far too long and should have never been written to begin with.
He crouched down in front of me, resting his hands on my knees for support. “I’ll take you to her. I’ll bring you home.” His kindness brought shame to my hostility.
“Why would you do that?” I squinted my eyes, hoping the distortion would provide more clarity. Although Oscar had changed much in the past few months, I did not think he could ever see me as deserving of his grace again.
“Because I’m sorry. And because I promised your father.” His eyes drifted away, unable to meet mine for a few moments. But when they finally did, I was unable to stop the tears from welling in my eyes and slipping down my cheek, one by one. He wiped them with a tenderness I had not felt in many years. “I promised to take you home if our marriage didn’t work out. He said that he’d care for you and mend your heart.” He paused and cracked a grin. “Lucky for me, your heart’s doing just fine.”
I shoved him away, momentarily making him lose his balance. He caught himself by holding my arms, and I pulled him to his feet. “Your heart’s doing just fine, too.”
He nodded once, and led me to his car, loading my heavy suitcases into the trunk. I hurried inside, hoping for warmth, comfort, and familiarity. I threw my jacket and scarf in the backseat, effectively quelling the urge to look put together. The car still smelled like it did on our first date: pine, leather, and a hint of cologne. Oscar joined me seconds later, starting the car to the sound of “Nostalgic Rock FM.” He hummed their jingle and drummed the beat of the song that followed on his steering wheel.
I chuckled. “You still listen to this old stuff.”
His eyes became distant once more. “With you saying that… I’m realizing how long it’s been since we’ve gone somewhere together.”
I considered his words and felt a pain in my chest. “I lied,” I blurted out.
Oscar sighed, more tired of me than annoyed. “About what?”
“I wasn’t taking a bus home. I can’t.” Although I had not told him where I was going, I had never corrected his assumption. It suddenly felt dishonest of me to pretend like I had a home. Like our divorce had not completely shattered my world.
“Why not? You told me things were going great.”
“No, I lied. I actually made things worse.”
“Constance.” The exasperation in his voice pierced like daggers into my skin. Only he could utter my name and make it sound like a warning.
“I told her that our relationship couldn’t be salvaged and that cutting her out of my life would keep me sane.” I quickly explained, knowing that I had not even begun to scratch the surface and knew that I never would with him. “And she agreed. She said she couldn’t bear being near me when I looked at her like that.”
“She has a problem with that whole intensely accusatory stare you do? I can’t think of a reason why.” He answered, sarcastically.
“Shut up, Oscar.”
He gave me a satisfied grin and I responded in kind. “Where were you planning on going anyway?”
“The next bus was headed to Liverpool.”
“So, you thought you’d just move to Liverpool?”
“Why not? I can write from anywhere.” It sounded ridiculous saying it out loud, but that was the only explanation I could find to rationalize my decision to uproot my entire life and move to a city I had never stepped foot in.
“And you can write better when you live somewhere that means something to you. Stop running away, Constance. Go home and be great.” That was the first time Oscar had made any positive comment regarding my writing.
“I’m not running away! I dealt with my problems, and now I can start anew.”
“You know, if your lies were money, you’d be a billionaire.” He paused to concentrate on his driving as he entered the highway. A car honked at him for being slow, which he always was even though I told him that he had to match the speed of those who had been on the highway for longer than him. He usually responded with some metaphor about life. This time, I said nothing to spare myself from the philosophy lecture. In fact, I did not need an Oscar-approved driving lesson to get one, as he resumed my psychoanalysis. “You dealt with your problems alright. Now, you’re divorcing me and your mother. And look, I’ll be fine. But she’s family, she’s your mother.”
“I know! It’s just—” I could not find the words. I could not explain to him that the accusations I had levied against my mother in my poems were only a fraction of the story. “I don’t want to be her daughter anymore or I’ll end up just like her.”
“Only you are in control of that.”
I could not say a word for the rest of the trip. I pretended to sleep for a while as Oscar hummed 80’s rock melodies. After a two-hour drive, he parked in front of my childhood home. Before I could jump out, Oscar began asking the one question I prayed he would have forgotten about.
“I just need to know this one thing, Constance.”
“I did it,” I replied before he could truly ask. “I slept with him. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” He helped me unload my suitcases and walked me to the front door. He waited by my side as I mustered up the courage to ring the bell. I reached out my hand, but he stopped it, interlocking his fingers into mine. “Wait.” He cupped my face with his other hand. “I’m proud of you, Constance. And if all you get out of this leap of faith is a string of beautiful words, call me. I want to be the one to publish your manuscript this time.”
“Thank you, Oscar.”
He kissed my cheek and walked back to his car. I heard the rattling of a set of keys as a familiar face swung open the front door. Suddenly, I felt like I could hardly breathe.
. . .
“Dinner is ready.” Lawrence stood in the doorway of my father’s library. He hesitated before taking a step inside the room. When I raised my brows and sat straighter in the armchair, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Duck.”
“Hmm?”
“Erm… we’re having duck. Duck confit.”
I nodded once and watched him swivel on his heels in retreat. Before he could venture too far, I called out. “Hey, Lawrence.” He peeked his head in the doorway once more. “Thank you for letting me in.”
“You know she would have done it, too.”
I was not convinced. “When will you head back to Falmouth?” Strangely enough, the only person who could bring me comfort in the house was him.
“When will you have me go?”
“Never, please.”
His eyes softened as he made his way across the room. He sat in the armchair I had always favored when my father sat at his desk. Sometimes, he would read stories far too complicated for me to remember. “Do you want to come with me?”
“I don’t think I should.”
“I understand.” He rose from his seat and made his way to the dining hall. I followed closely behind, enraptured by the promise of a healing meal.
I noticed that the table had only been set for two people. “Where is she?”
“She’s not hungry.”
“She won’t be hungry for a while, right?”
Lawrence looked away. “No, she won’t be.”