CHAPTER163
Figures. My mother’s cooking expertise stops at heating a can of soup.
I take a moment to work out that the brunette is the nurse Jake’s still paying to take care of her. He’s honoring his promise to Sophie, a runaway we met when she was living with my mother in Chicago and who is now being adopted by family friends of the Carreros’. He gave Sophie his word he would take care of her until her injuries are fully healed, despite cutting ties with me. It causes a dull aching lump to form in my throat and my eyes well up with tears I refuse to cry. My heart breaking all over again.
Throwing my briefcase on the nearby couch I tense up, ready for this little altercation. They haven’t heard me come in, too busy making noise in the kitchen with bubbling pots and pointless chatter. My rage simmers at the sight of her in my home, taking over. I’m still reeling with the fact that she let Ray Vanquis back in her life, after everything and yet here she is.
“Mother,” I snap, loudly and firmly. No warmth at all as both heads spin round, minor surprise replaced with quick smiles.
“Emma.” My mother gushes as she comes out of the little kitchen toward me, her face still bearing some of the yellowing bruises from being beaten to a pulp by the so-called man in her life. She attempts to hug me but meets my icy stance and statue like posture. I flinch at her touch, so she quickly recoils to stand a foot away from me awkwardly.
I notice her nurse hovering in the background, her face a picture of confusion and embarrassment, at least she has the good grace to turn back to the stove and continue cooking, acting like she hasn’t seen anything.
“Are you still mad at me?” My mother whimpers like a child, causing my anger to flare again. That childish, wide-eyed expression of hers, the one I’ve seen a million times on her frail little innocent face, reserved for an audience. I turn away from her before I say something I can’t take back.
“I’m going to get changed,” I snap and walk off, leaving her to stand in the center of the room like a lost puppy. I take satisfaction in the hurt evident on her face, maybe it’s about time she knew what it felt like to have someone who’s a part of you treat you like you don’t matter to them.
In my room, I sit on my bed and take a moment to inhale slowly, despite my outward frosty reception, I’m shaking on the inside from her visit. She affects me in ways I’ll never understand, no matter how I try to deny it. The woman knows how to make me feel worthless without trying.
She always pulls the rug out from under me, is that the curse of her being my mother? On some level, that child inside of me still wants her to wipe away my pain, unaware that she’s the one who causes most of it.
I smart at the thought and my eyes wander to my closed door.
I know that I dislike who she is. I don’t hate her … I don’t know if I love her anymore … But I don’t know what I feel.
I get up and change into casual clothes, tight jeans, and loose top, glad to be out of the confines of a suit. I used to love dressing that way, but nowadays it feels stifling and claustrophobic. My hair, already loose, has grown an inch since I had it cut, it brushes my shoulders constantly with its wild waves. I look in the mirror at my head of tawny hair, brushing it back to reveal tired eyes and a sad face.
Do I look like this all the time? Or is this the effect Jocelyn Anderson has had on me just by walking through the door?
I push back the sad expression and lift my chin defiantly, pasting on the face of self-preservation that I’ve perfected over the years. Refusing to let her see my pain.
Returning to the sitting room I see she’s trying to help dish out beef stew into bowls with a smile on her face. Bad moods forgotten, pushed to one side, like always. This is just the way she is, acting like nothing has happened. The sad story of my life with her.
I bristle and grind my teeth to curb the raw fury which rushes up. I’m on edge just watching her, while she acts like this is the most normal scene in the world. I glance at her young nurse; she seems capable and has a maturity about her.
I wonder how much she knows. I wonder how much Jocelyn Anderson has let her see.
“Food’s ready.” The young woman chirps brightly upon seeing me, laying the bowls on the small dinette table. I watch my mother hesitantly stay back. She’s waiting on my reaction before she makes a move.
I slide into a chair at the table and concentrate on picking up the cutlery, starting to eat. I know I’m being cold and rude, and right now I just don’t care. The last time I saw her she was in a hospital bed, battered and broken and I’d just learned that the man responsible was the same one who tried to rape me when I was eighteen. She’d gone back to him, the abusive prick, without a second thought to what it might do to me, or to our relationship."
