Chapter 62

I played absolutely no role in the night going sour. It could have been the remarks Madeline said under her breath that ruined the night. It could have been that Meg had no desire to admit the finality of her decision. Or it could have been Alex, who wanted to be on Meg's lap instead of in his own seat.

Perhaps it was everything combined. Whatever the reason, it was a night I thought of occasionally over the years. Every bit of it knotted my stomach.

I ate in silence at the end of the table, head down and lost in my own thoughts as much as I could be through the bickering between mother and daughter and Alex's need to interject a firm 'no' at both of them.

For the most part neither of them acknowledged my presence and I enjoyed a hot meal while composing in my head, melodies strung together, each one hoping to be remembered when I returned to my desk after supper. Quite frankly, I could not leave the table soon enough. Music called to me, beckoned me to commit my every breath and stroke of the pen to her service.

Over the years I had heard people gathered around tables toast to their success, to their marriages, children, business dealings, and health. In my mind I raised a glass and toasted my own success in not only selling my music, but having work commissioned.

My music. There were individuals in the world interested in purchasing something I had created. Hours of sitting hunched over a desk, writing and rewriting, staring blankly at the wall or popping out of bed in the middle of the night to a dream filled with melodies demanding to be committed to paper had finally paid off, both literally and figuratively.

More than financial gain, after years of feverishly composing symphonies, sonatas, unfinished operas and burning an opus in quite the dramatic fashion, my talent had been recognized. If I could do nothing else right in the world, I could create music. Despite the ugliness the world saw on the outside, I could create the unexpected.

I did not realize I had raised my glass to toast myself until Madeline shot out of her chair and pointed at Meg. "You are a selfish, spoiled little girl," she seethed. Her voice shook with each venomous syllable.

Meg laughed, swallowed the wine in her glass in one long gulp, and continued eating.

I lowered my glass slowly like a deer afraid to draw the attention of a lion on a hunt. Lost in my own daydreams, I had missed everything that led up to Madeline's outburst.

"Do not say a word," Madeline challenged. She remained standing, her body bent at the waist as she stood over her daughter.

"Good. I have no intention of saying a word to you," Meg said through her teeth.

"To your own mother? To the one person who has cared for you your entire life?"

"I am sure if Father saw you right this moment he would dig himself out of his grave and tell you that you are nothing but a petty-"

Madeline sucked in a breath and turned away before Meg finished speaking. My jaw went slack, and I was grateful my glass was on the table since I was certain it would have slipped from my grasp.

To my knowledge, neither Madeline nor Meg mentioned the Navy officer who had left Madeline a widow and Meg without a father at a young age. All I knew for certain was that Meg had stepped far outside the careful boundary of what was acceptable in an argument.

Long moments passed and no one spoke, not even Alex who sat in his high chair, his eyes wide as he looked at Madeline and frowned. He reached out, his hand flexing and balling into his fist, a sign that he wanted her to come closer to him. With her back to the room, she did not know he wanted her attention, however, I doubted it would have mattered.

"You," Madeline said in a whisper, her tone more even than I expected. "You are leaving me to live with a man you should not have married in haste, to a home with his family that does not welcome you. If I am petty for caring about my own daughter, then so be it."

"Of course you say it like I am leaving you."

"You are leaving me."

"I am leaving everything I've ever known and all you can think of us is your own self pity," Meg shot back.

I would like to think I made every attempt not to stare at the two of them, but truthfully I was so horrified by their heated exchange of words that I could not even pretend to take interest in my food a moment longer. They had cut into one another with viciousness borne of fear and neither one wished to back down.

"Then stay," Madeline begged.

Meg glanced in my direction so quickly I almost did not catch her eyes meeting mine. Her expression was twisted in rage that made her nearly unrecognizable.

"I can't," she said. "I won't."

Her attention was back on her mother before I could react. One flash of her eyes at me and I realized she placed the blame on me, at least in part. Again my mouth dropped open, but I did not know what to say in return. My anger seethed, but one look at Alex and I held my tongue. I would keep still for his sake.

Madeline slowly turned to face her daughter again. "You did not think this through."

"You sound just like Madame Lowry."

"is that so?" Madeline asked with an air of satisfaction as though she had won the argument.

Meg's mouth remained twisted in a frown. "You enjoy this, do you not? Madame Lowry refuses to call me anything but Giry. Not Meg, not Mademoiselle Giry and certainly not Madame Lowry. No, she does not think I am part of her family.

"She thinks I have married Charles out of pity or in search of fortune," Meg continued. She waved her arms carelessly about, nearly knocking over her glass of wine before she abruptly stood. "She will not allow me to stay in the house with them or see Charles without her being present at his bedside. I am nothing to her. Worth less than the dog on her lap."

"Meg," Madeline whispered. She held her hand over her heart, her expression sobered. "You should have said something."

Meg's lip began to quiver, but she shook her head and stoically continued. "What would I say? That I am ashamed of the position that I have put myself in? That Madame Lowry is correct and I am not part of her family? Should I tell you the truth, Mother? Should I tell you how much I love the man I married and that every time I look in his eyes, I see less of him? I see a man who wishes to die. I see a man who does not wish to be married to me because of how his mother speaks."

Her words did not describe the young, dashing fellow who had looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and asked to marry Meg. The man who had gained Alexandre's affection was vibrant and quick to smile, not wasting away in search of death.

"You cannot return to London," Madeline said firmly. "I will not allow it."

Alex somehow managed to wriggle out of his high chair and stood on the seat. I saw him as he leaned toward Meg, who was not looking at him, and I abruptly stood.

By instinct alone Meg turned ever so slightly and caught Alex before he fell out of his seat. She made no attempt to acknowledge him. Instead, she held him on her hip and shook her head at her mother. With my son safe, I returned to my seat and emptied my glass of water.

"I cannot leave Charles," Meg replied, her tone authoritative just like her mother's. "I will not abandon my own husband."

"Charles?" Alex questioned. He grabbed Meg's face in order to garner her full attention. "Maison?"

Meg placed Alex back into his high chair and sat facing him. "Eat your food before it is cold."

Alex pointed at the table, then looked Meg in the eye, his expression serious. "Maison. May. Charles. Maison." Again he pointed at the table.

"I am going home to Charles," she explained.

Alex shook his head and repeated his words again, this time adding that Charles stay.

"Alex, enough," Meg scolded.

Alex was undeterred by her harsh tone. He leaned forward, swept his hand across his plate, and scattered his food over his tray. "No, May."

When she didn't acknowledge him, Alex once again attempted to stand up. He grabbed a handful of small potatoes, smashed them in his fist and proceeded to throw his food as far as he could as he wriggled out from his seat.

"Stop it," Meg said through her teeth. "You are acting like a spoiled little..." She grabbed Alex roughly by both arms, plucked him out of his seat, and put him over her knee where she spanked him a single time.

Alex was far more stunned by being rocked over her lap and facing the ground than anything else. The light swat to his rear had no effect on him given he was wearing both a thick diaper and a woolen jumper.

"Meg," Madeline gasped. "My God, what are you doing to him?"

The realization showed on Meg's face immediately after she sat Alex upright and held him awkwardly away from herself. From where I sat it looked as though she held up some disgusting beast she had no desire to sit on her lap.

Alex clearly had no idea what to think of the situation. He glanced over his shoulder at his high chair and uneaten food, then toward Meg, who still held him out, and then across the table at me.

"Here," Meg said once she caught me staring at the two of them. She stood, still holding my son away from her body, and placed him in my arms. Once I had him, she wiped away unshed tears and sniffled, her face ghostly pale. "I did not mean to hurt him. I would never…"

Her sentence remained unfinished, her gaze purposely averted. For a moment the mouse of a girl returned. She turned and began gathering her plate as well as Alex's in nervous fashion. Now that she was out of his reach, Alex became frustrated. He called to her several times, softly at first, but then more insistently as she continued to ignore him.

All the while tears fell down Meg's blotchy cheeks, and seeing her too far for his liking and in distress, Alex also burst into tears, which caused Meg to bolt out of the room. Madeline looked from the doorway leading to the kitchen back to me and Alex.

"She did not mean to hurt him," Madeline said apologetically before she followed after her daughter.

With a sigh, I abandoned my food, took Alex up to my room, and locked the door as he was tall enough to reach and turn the knob, but not yet aware of how a lock worked.

There he screamed for nearly an hour, fists pounding on the door and his face a deep shade of red. No toys calmed him, no rocking soothed him, no music caught his attention and quite frankly I had no interest in playing. Whatever melodies had flitted through my mind earlier were nowhere to be found.

With nothing else to do, I simply watched Alex in the midst of the most inconsolable tantrum he'd ever had and made certain he did not slam his head into the wall or otherwise injure himself. I half-expected Meg to tap meekly on the door and ask to take my son for a bit, but the longer he cried, the less that seemed likely.

Eventually he collapsed belly down on the rug, his feet kicking like some half-dead insect jerking involuntarily. His breathing evened out, interrupted by the occasional hiccup, and his bloodshot eyes closed. He called out weakly a few more times until exhaustion set in and he no longer had the strength to fight it.

I left him to sleep on the floor for a good ten minutes and covered him with a blanket before I added more wood to the fire. The house was eerily still and I wondered if Madeline and Meg were still in the house or if they had gone out for a walk to clear their thoughts and mend their relationship. It didn't much matter to me if they stayed indoors or braved the cold seeing how the night went.

The more I thought about what had transpired, I found myself less concerned with Meg striking Alex and more concerned with the manner in which she had handed him over to me. In all truth, she had barely tapped him and Alex had not noticed her frustration until she sat him upright and did not press his body to hers. He noticed the change in her demeanor, the way she kept him at a distance when he wanted to slide his hand up her sleeve or curl his fingers around her skirt. My son wanted to be close to her, to hold her face in his hands and have her kiss him.

Alex had learned he was not to touch my face. He did not receive praise or affection returned the same way he did when he pulled Meg close. I picked him up from the floor, blanket and all, careful not to wake him. His tears had dried, his normal color returned, his lips quivering as he dreamed.

He knew I loved him, I told myself. My affection was shown by the hours I spent with him on my knee or on the floor surrounded by toys. He did not need to touch my face to show his love. I could tell by the look in his eye.

But he smiled wider when Meg came into the room and when she pulled him into her arms and kissed him all over. He could not wait to put his arms around her neck and press his lips against her cheek and blow raspberries.

As I looked at Alex asleep in my arms the day before his first Christmas, I did not feel a sense of jealousy toward Meg. I felt sorrow for all I lacked in Alex's eyes, for the perhaps hundreds of times he wanted to reach for my mask and I pulled his hands away and distracted him with toys or books.

Meg would leave within days. She had made up her mind and there was no changing it. With her gone, Alex would lose the one person in his life who showed him the type of affection he craved.

We were alike in that way, I realized, our desire for intimacy and bonding. I had stopped asking for anything at all as a young child, no praise, no soft touch from my mother and rarely ever for my father to stop when he struck me repeatedly. I wondered if Alex would eventually give up as well.

He wanted more than I could give, but he was too young to understand why I denied him. Ever since he had first been placed in my arms, I could not bring myself to kiss Alex while he was awake. I feared him grabbing a hold of my mask, I feared him pulling it away. I feared what my own son would think of me if he saw what I truly was.

But now he was sound asleep, his small hand grasping my shirt, his mess of curls in his eyes. I brushed back his hair from his forehead and saw the small bump from his fall earlier in the day. It was starting to take on the familiar colors of a bruise.

I drew him closer and pressed my lips to his forehead. I kissed him three times before I allowed his hair to fall back into place. He stirred in my arms, his lips curling into a faint smile. I shivered at the sight of his perfect lips, perfect face, and slightly disheveled but still perfect curls. I had never felt more unworthy in my life, save perhaps the night with Christine that had created Alex, or the evening when she kissed me and left for good.

"May," Alex sighed.

"She loves you," I whispered. "And so do I."

"Daaa," he said with a giggle. His smile widened and he pulled at my hand, drawing it to his face without ever opening his eyes. He brushed his lips against my knuckles before he was sound asleep once more.

I wanted to tell him I loved him more, but that did not seem like the truth.

The clock downstairs in the hall chimed, the sound muffled by the closed door. It was Christmas. I wished for Alex's sake it meant more than lose.