December, 28th
Sylvia:
For a long time I drew inspiration for my art from the great losses of my life. The loss of my virginity and innocence, the traumatic end of my childhood, the placing of my baby for adoption, not being able to have any more children.
My art is essentially very depressing. I'm surprised anyone can even bear looking at it; the only solution is that it is misunderstood. No one wants to hear that a painting exorcizing the anguish of postpartum depression in complete loneliness is a pleasant addition to so and so's art room in their country home... but the business part of my practice, usually dealt by Melanie but where I dip sometimes, tells me misunderstanding comes in very handy sometimes. It pays the bills, or it could pay the bills if Melanie's impressive fortune didn't already.
For the past months, however, I've been very inspired by Margaret. Her tribulations and her mind are just a gust of fresh air into my old, worn out ideas. Her presence in my life means forgiveness, means healing. Means that my journey has been rocky and strange, but there are rewards.
I will never recover my daughter, I will never be anyone's mommy. Margaret keeps me at an arm's length and I accept that. It's alright. She gives me more than I had ever hoped for and I'm content.
This end of the year is, as usual, rainy and cold. I'm running to a last minute meeting with a very nice gallery owner who wants to put together an exhibit. At first I was reluctant but the notion of expanding from creating art to manage art sounds interesting. I'm almost at the corner and I try to stop, when I stumble and slip on a loose tile and slide, in a very awkward turning of my body, onto the street and the coming traffic.
The last thing I'll see will be the lights of a car, like cold and impassive yellow eyes on a cold December day. The last image flashing before my eyes will be Melanie Sanders' tough, sad and beautiful face.
Margaret:
My phone rings and I pick up at once. There's noise on the other side of the line and I have some difficulty understanding the mumbling through it. There's a silence and another voice sounds, like the phone was snatched from the first person and a second will deliver a message.
-"Is this Margaret Hale? I'm talking to you on behalf of Melanie Sanders. Sylvia Bell has had an accident and is badly injured. If you can, please come to the University Hospital..."
I say I will. My aunt orders a car and I arrive to the Hospital twenty minutes later. I have no troubles finding Melanie, and I have to brace myself before stepping into the room because crying is very loud.
Melanie is almost insane with grief. Sylvia's dead body is still on the bed, still warm, the skin on her forehead grazed, her right arm's and leg's bones obviously broken. It's a painful spectacle. I hold Melanie, whose moans and sobs shake me badly, and try nothing to comfort her. Her voice soon gets into a litany of memories and feelings, the violence of the shock subsiding.
I offer my help to arrange the funeral and Melanie accepts it.
Sylvia Angelica Bell, my birth mother, is buried on December 29th, Thursday. The funeral service is private and attended only by a dozen people. Melanie is composed and detached, the wildness of her sorrow tamed.
Before I leave she tells me that there's something for me in Sylvia's will, which will be read in January. I suppose Sylvia left me a painting or maybe a small memento, and think nothing of it, not even mention it at home to my aunt or Henry.