“So you admit to having scars.”
“I never denied that I do.”
“You just hid them, then?”
A long breath heaves out of her. “I did in the past. Now, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Mum always told me that once I embrace my scars, I’ll feel more comfortable in my skin. I want to be comfortable in my skin more than anything. I want to stop my head from tormenting me with the past.”
A shiver goes through her and she snuggles closer to me, as if I’m her safety. I’m anything but fucking safety, but I want to be a haven for her right now.
“Anyway.” She clears her throat. “Your mum must’ve gone through certain circumstances to get to that point.”
“When I was young, she often struggled mentally. Sometimes, she’d be the best mother alive—teach me things, dance with me, play with me, dress me up, and even teach me things. Other times, she’d become a ghost. It wasn’t temporary, it didn’t last a few minutes or hours. It went on for days on end. She’d look at me and see straight through me. I’d call her and she wouldn’t hear me. She’d speak, but no words would come out. It was like she was trapped in a space I couldn’t reach.”
Cecily shifts closer, and the friction of her skin against mine makes me feel a deep sense of revolt. Not against her, but myself for never being able to forget those snippets of my childhood, even though it was a long time ago.
“Did she get better?” Cecily asks with easy compassion. Not pity.
“Eventually. I haven’t seen the ghost since she was pregnant with Annika. That was nineteen years ago. Isn’t it weird that I still have these vivid images of those times?”
“It’s not weird. In fact, it’s perfectly normal. You were what? Five? Six? You were a child, and any child exposed to that type of imagery would develop a strong reaction that would be reinforced the more they grow up. Our perception of the past depends greatly on our state of mind during that certain event. Any type of trauma can alter not only our memories but also our perspectives and personalities.”
“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” I smile down at her. “It’s a turn-on.”
She pushes at my chest playfully and shakes her head. “Everything is a turn-on according to your logic.”
“Only when it comes to you. Not my fault you’re the sexiest person alive.”
Red creeps up her face and she rubs the side of her nose before she clears her throat. “Point is, it’s not your fault you feel that way about what happened during your childhood. But it’s not your mother’s fault either.”
“How is it not her fault?” I slowly close my eyes and take a moment before I open them again. “She gave birth to a child she couldn’t care for.”
“That’s not true. You said she took care of you after learning how to cope with her mental health issues. Anni always said that your mum is the best and she sees her as a caring, affectionate figure, which means those episodes never happened with her. To say mental struggles are her fault is no different than victim blaming. I understand your issues, and the feelings of abandonment you must’ve had, but you also need to understand that she would’ve stopped it if she could. That, deep down, she was fighting her demons to be able to go back to you, and she eventually succeeded. That’s the part you should celebrate, because it takes a lot of willpower, energy, and strength to fight one’s demons.”
I stare at Cecily silently as if I’m looking at an extraterrestrial being.
I’ve always hidden that slight animosity for my mom from the whole world. Hell, I even hid it from myself sometimes because I was disgusted that I would be holding such emotions against her.
No matter what, I shouldn’t feel this conflicted about the woman who gave me life, but I do. I’ve sometimes thought of her as a ghost and had this idea that I wasn’t wanted.
Like Annika, I care for my mother, and I’ve never been able to imagine my life without her. However, I also haven’t been able erase that ghost version of her, no matter how much I’ve tried.
And yet, Cecily has managed to open my eyes to a different perspective. To the fact that maybe Mom wasn’t too far gone back then. That maybe she tried to fight for me, after all. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t want to speak about the first six years of my life and barely keeps any pictures from that time.
God-fucking-dammit.
Now I feel like the worst asshole to ever exist.