El Condor Pasa (If I Could)
Hours had passed, I don’t know how many. I lay on my bed, my face swollen with tears, nose so stuffed up I could barely breathe. Mother sat next to me, her voice low and gentle.
“I just want what’s best for you, Beatrice. And you don’t want to disappoint me, do you? After all I’ve done for you? I’ve raised you practically single-handedly, given you a nice house, good clothes, the best opportunities. Are you really going to pay me back by throwing your life away for some girl you hardly know?”
I swallowed thickly and sniffed hard.
“I’m sorry you’re upset. But it’ll pass. Within a year you can be married to a lovely man from church in a good house far out in the country, with not a care in your head – you never need to think about this woman ever again. Come on, sit up and give me a hug.”
I nodded dumbly, sat up and wiped my nose, and collapsed into her arms, too tired to argue, too scared to disagree. I wanted to feel something from the hug – reassurance, love, the knowledge that deep down she really did care for me – but all I felt were her bony arms encircling me. Trapping me. I pulled away quickly and she nodded.
“Come on, Beatrice. Let’s get in the car.” She started picking up things from my room and shoving them randomly into the faded suitcase I’d used when we moved from America. Clothes, records, books. I dragged myself up from my bed and followed her downstairs as she dragged my suitcase behind her carelessly.
When we reached the car outside she reached up to put my suitcase in the boot, but something fell out. She didn’t seem to notice and carried on round to the driver’s door, but I bent to pick it up.
It was The Picture of Dorian Gray. The book that Katya had given me so many months ago. I stared at it, my hands shaking, my eyes brimming over with yet more tears.
That book, when she gave it to me, was a sign that there was more to life than I could possibly imagine. That it was only getting started. When she gave me that book, I had never sung in front of an audience, or drunk an alcoholic drink, or danced at a club, or kissed anyone, or loved anyone. All of these bright exciting colourful futures opened up to me by one person… and now I was letting her slip through my fingers.
I looked up at my mother. I didn’t see someone who cared for me, or loved me unconditionally for who I was. I saw a manipulative woman who found joy from bringing others down, who only used me to bring her social status points up. I saw someone who wanted to turn me into a version of them to gaze into their narcissus pond endlessly.
Flicking through the book through my haze of tears, a tiny scribbled note caught my eye.
‘Delete it, old!’
I somehow managed to sob and laugh at the same time. Mother looked up sharply at the noise.
“What is it, Beatrice? Get in the car please,” she demanded, holding the door open.
“No.” I murmured.
“What? I wish you wouldn’t mumble, it’s so rude. Get in the car, young lady. Now.”
“No.” I said louder, standing up straighter and looking her in the eye. “I’m not a toy for you to play with and manipulate at your heart’s content. You don’t really love me. You love yourself. And now I’m going to find the only person who has ever truly loved me for who I am. Goodbye, Mother.”
I walked smartly down the drive, Dorian Gray still clutched in my shaking hand, the rain dampening my hair and weighing down my clothes. But I felt lighter than ever before.
“Beatrice!” Mother screeched from behind me. “Beatrice, you walk away now, and I will never welcome you back into my house. You chose to live in sin, that’s your own fault, but Beatrice-"
I turned round and looked at the house one last time.
“My name is Trixie.”