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“A fact that has kept me sleepless many a night.”
“Don’t worry, Auntie Cil. I’m not my mother.” Silk bussed her aunt’s cheek. “Something I want you to remember.” She backed toward the French doors. “You know how athletes are always waving at TV cameras and saying, ‘Hi, Mom’? If I ever get the chance to say ‘Hi, Mom,’ I’ll be talking to you.”
A few moments later Cilia returned to the table, but not before brushing both eyes with a knuckle, leaving a nearly imperceptible smear of mascara behind.
“Raising children,” she said. “You try to do the best you can. You worry that you’re making mistakes.”
“How long have you been raising Silk?” I asked.
“Twelve years.”
“From what I can see, you’ve done a pretty fair job.”
“With all due respect, Mr. McKenzie, how would you know?”
“She doesn’t act dreary and tired and hopeless, as if her life were already behind her, like so many teenagers do. She smiles as if she has a lot to smile about, and when she speaks she looks you in the eye.”
The way she nodded, I got the impression that Cilia was pleased with my answer.
“We should find out soon, in any case,” she said. She tapped the top of the glass table with a fingernail. “Now is when you learn what kind of parent you are. Now, when your children are fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and they’re faced with real choices—when they have to decide for themselves what’s right and wrong, what’s important and what isn’t, what they’ll do and what they won’t. Now, when they have to decide what kind of people they’re going to be.”
I took a sip of tea. What did my choices say about my own parents? I wondered.
“Sorry,” Cilia said. “I don’t mean to sound so . . .”
“Maternal?”
She nodded. “I’m not worried. Silk’s a good kid. A smart kid. She’ll do the right thing. Still, you try to protect her. All parents feel that way, I suppose.”
“Tell me about Merodie. Silk is her daughter.”
Cilia drank more tea and slowly set her glass down as if she were afraid it might shatter. “Mr. McKenzie, I do not believe things happen accidentally. I believe you earn the life you live. Merodie . . . Where do we begin? Before the alcohol took its toll, she was stunningly beautiful. The most beautiful young woman I have ever known, with the possible exception of her daughter. Unlike her daughter, however, Merodie had no self-esteem, no sense of self-worth. None. If you’ve met her parents . . .”
“I’ve met her mother.”
“Then you know some of the reason why. Something else happened, as well. I believe behaviorists refer to it as a significant emotional event. When Merodie was far too young to make sense of it, she met a man—a man with good manners, a pleasant appearance, and plenty of money. This man took her to exclusive restaurants and smuggled her into elegant bars. He gave her expensive gifts. He not only told her that she was beautiful and special, he treated her as if she were. I know because the man was my brother, Robert. He was twenty-four and she was fifteen. My brother didn’t care about the age difference. Nor did he care about Merodie. Not really. My brother cared only about what was pretty. He used it and abused it and often he broke it. The fact that he was corrupting a minor, that he was making love to a child, meant nothing to him. Eventually, Merodie became pregnant. She went to him with thoughts of marriage. My brother rejected her without a moment’s hesitation. It’s an old story, I’m afraid, and not particularly interesting.
“Like a lot of men, my brother thought doing the right thing meant offering money for a doctor. However, before arrangements could be made, Robert was killed in an accident. He drove his car off River Road in a snowstorm while under the influence of alcohol.