Jasmine Thompson—Let Her Go
Ella Henderson—Missed
“Thank you, Harmony, you seem to know just what I needed to hear,” one of the moms from my toddler class says sincerely, balancing two seven-month-old twins on each side of her hip.
“I may not have kids myself, but I do teach my fair share. I can’t imagine how hard it is juggling twins on your own, but you know you can always come here and let them loose at the messy play while us adults have a real conversation.”
She smiles at me gratefully. “I’m so glad that I found this class, it’s made this mom that little bit saner.”
I chuckle and wave goodbye as she walks out of the doors, leaving me to tidy up before my afternoon session. I’m tidying away some papers when I come across a unicorn that Izzie—Tristan’s daughter—from my Saturday morning session drew for me. My heart clenches and I have to turn the page over, not able to look at it.
I’ve tried to put my all into today’s session but after the shock and the emotional roller coaster of the weekend, I’m tired. When we got home from the hospital last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about “Baby F” as they call him. What it felt like to hold him, to close my eyes and feel a baby lying on my chest for the first time; it was an indescribable feeling. Another reminder of what could never be.
“Gerry?” He doesn’t move or even acknowledge me, but I know that he’s not asleep by his uneven breathing. “Gerry, I know that you’re not asleep. Why won’t you talk to me?”
Silence.
I sigh and dangle my legs off the edge of the bed, my head hanging in my hands. “Please, talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talking about, go to sleep,” he mumbles.
“Gerry, I…” A sob breaks free from my throat as I hug myself. “He or she was my baby too. This isn’t fair.”
He grunts and realizing that’s all I’ll ever get out of him, I push off the bed and slam the bathroom door behind me, sliding down onto the floor in a puddle of my own grief.
I walk over to the sink with the bucket of dirty painting tools, running the paintbrushes under the taps and watching the colors run together, making a murky brown color before it swirls down the drain. I grip the side of the sink and pull in a deep breath. I’ve come to terms with everything that had happened, or so I thought. So why does the fact that Tristan has kids affect me so much?
Because they should be yours.
I stumble, the voice in my head shocking me, but it rings true. Things could be so different but I need to stop thinking about the “what ifs.” My experience at the hospital with the babies has given me a sense of purpose. “Baby F” slowly started to shake less the more I held onto him, and holding him made the ache I constantly have when I’m around children start to ebb away, bit by bit.
I lean my head in my hands, blowing out a big breath. My mind has been all over the place this last week; I feel like I haven’t stopped and I’ve barely spent any time with Clay and Izzie.
I’m neglecting them, at least, that’s how it feels. In reality, I know I’m not but I can’t help the guilt that I consumes me.
Between Pete trying to turn the board against me, Nate and my mom confronting me, and my head bursting with memories of Harmony mixed in with my grief about Nat, I haven’t had any reprieve from my own thoughts.
A knock on my office door gains my attention and when I look up, I come face to face with my mother. Her gray eyes are dark—the same as mine—and have a storm brewing behind them; I know this isn’t going to be good.
Why the hell can’t Catiya stop anyone from waltzing on in here? First Nate and now my mother.
She closes the door behind her and sets her bag and coat over the black, leather sofa. Her movements are slow and measured, the air crackling with tension. Neither of us says a word as she walks forward, her sleek, red skirt moving with her every step before she sits down in the chair opposite my desk, crossing her legs and placing her hands in her lap delicately.
“Tristan.” Her voice comes out soft, but I can hear the slight edge to it. “Where would you like to start?”
“Start?” I ask, leaning back in my padded leather chair and raising my brows. What the hell is she talking about?
“The board trying to push you out? You hardly seeing the children? Natalia? Or Harmony?” She pauses for effect. “Where would you like to start?”
I make a noise in the back of my throat. There’s no way I’m discussing any of that with her, it’s none of her goddamn business and she should know better than to think I’d tell her what I’m thinking or feeling.
“I’m not discussing this with you,” I tell her, standing up and walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that line my office. The view is incredible. I can see the whole city from up here: the tall buildings that line the sky, the people rushing along the sidewalks that look like dots, and the sky that is a dark, stormy gray; much like my mother’s eyes right now.
“You’re my son, Tristan. You’re going through so much on your own, I...” she huffs. “Unload some of the burden you’re feeling, talk to me.”
I slam my hand against the window, the force causing vibrations to spread up my arm.
“Why?” I grit out, spinning around and crossing my arms over my chest. “Why do you want me to talk to you? Huh? So you can see how fucked up I am? So you can sit there and judge me and my parenting?”
“I’d never—”
“Just because you’ve been a better mother these last few years, doesn’t mean that you were any good when I was a child. You were never there, in body you may have been, but in mind? You were somewhere else.”
“You don’t understand,” she says, her voice cracking. “Your father, he had control over everything that I did and everything that I was.”
I clench my jaw and drop my hands to my side, realizing that history is repeating itself. I hate how much I resent her for not being there when I needed her to be, and now she wants to rectify that and all I’m doing is pushing her away. But that’s what I do best, isn’t it? I it’s better to push them away than have them leave you.
“I see it,” she says, standing up. “I can see you turning into me, Tris, and I hate it. Listen to what you said and tell me that it isn’t exactly what you’re doing to your own children.”
I shake my head and walk back over to my desk. I can’t keep blaming her, I know this, but it’s just so damn hard to open up to her. I’ve been doing it all on my own for years, so what difference will opening up to her now make?
I slump down in my chair, my gaze fixed on the rolling clouds outside as I decide that it’s better to give her something than nothing at all. At least I’m hoping it is.
“Pete tried to turn the board against me. He tried saying that I’m turning into my father, that I’m doing what he did.” I move my gaze to hers before saying, “I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle.”
She nods knowingly before sitting down. “Have you managed to stop them?”
“I don’t know. Pete’s gone but... shit… I have no idea. Nate is looking into the board members for me, he thinks that there may be something else going on that they’re trying to cover up.”
She clears her throat. “So you’re still talking to him then?”
“Yeah,” I say on a breath, although what I really want to say is that I have to talk to him because he’s my goddamn lawyer and I have no choice if I want to find out what they’re planning.
I close my eyes, bringing my hand up to my face and massaging my temples against the headache that is starting to form. I hear the sound of the chair squeaking and the soft thuds as her feet move forward on the carpet. “Have you thought about talking to your dad about the board?”
“No,” I huff. “I’m not going to him for help, I’m done with him.”
I look up at her, my eyes scanning hers as she worries her lip. “I know he was never the best father and I know that what he did was wrong, but… this was his company for a long time. He might be able to help—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt, not wanting to bring up all of that history again. All it would do is make me think about her, about what I walked away from and I can’t keep going there. I have too many things swirling inside my head as it is.
I flinch when her hand touches my face and when I open my eyes, I see her worried stare. “You need a break,” she says, sitting on the edge of my desk.
“No—”
“Let me take my munchkins this weekend. Have a real break: one where you don’t work, where you can stay in bed until eleven in the morning, not having to worry about anything.”
“I can’t do that,” I say, shaking my head and hating how my voice sounds like the ten-year-old boy that I used to be.
“Sure you can.” She smiles softly, patting my cheek twice and lifting up off the edge of the desk before straightening her cream shirt. “I’ll go with Edward to pick them up after school, then I’ll take them to school with him tomorrow and bring them back on Sunday.”
“No,” I say for a second time, only this time it comes out more like a question. I shouldn’t need a break, I’m their father.
She moves over to the sofa, picking up her coat and bag and turning back around to face me. “You deserve a break, Tris. Take it.”
I huff out a breath, letting my head drop back. “Fine,” I say, bringing my gaze back to hers as I stand up. “But you’re not to take them to the art class on Saturday.”
“What—”
“I mean it,” I grind out. “They’re not to step foot in there. I don’t want my kids anywhere near her.”
She tilts her head to the side, assessing me before she gives me a nod of acknowledgement and walks out of my office.
This week has been difficult. Trying to keep it together to teach all of my classes and putting on a brave face for Mom has been exhausting. I have a day off tomorrow; Sundays are always a day to relax, except now my Sundays have a new purpose. I’m going to be going to the hospital again with Mom regularly.
“Mom, are you ready to go? We’re going to be late,” I call up the stairs.
Saturdays are my favorite day in the studio, I get to work in there with Mom.
“Coming, coming,” she replies, bouncing down the stairs. “Are you excited for watching week?”
I open the door and usher her out and into my car before answering her. “I am.”
I’m not. I’m dreading the thought of Izzie and Clayton not turning up, but I’m also dreading the alternative; Tristan’s eyes boring into me while I try to teach.
She doesn’t reply, choosing to let me have my moment as I peel out of the driveway.
The ride to Willow Arts seems quicker than usual; I thought we’d get caught in the mid-morning traffic, but we don’t. We make it in time to open up before Kelsey walks in with her aunt that I met at gallery night.
“Morning, Kelsey, morning, Elaine.”
“Hi, Miss J, hi, Tilly,” Kelsey says, knowing the drill and walking over to the beanbags before lying down on a pink one.
“Morning, where do you want me? Kelsey’s mom couldn’t make it,” Elaine says.
I point over to the beanbags. “You can take a seat with her, or there’s coffee in the kitchen out the back.”
She puts her hands together in a praying gesture, making me chuckle, before walking out into the back room.
More people arrive and I tense up; this is where I’ll find out if Izzie and Clayton have been pulled from the session or not, and if they haven’t, do I need to prepare myself for another run-in with Tristan?
I can’t take my eyes away from the door as all of the kids and parents file in, waiting and watching for two particular faces, but when all except those two are here, I finally relent and start the session.
As I finish talking to the kids and they go off into pairs with their parents trailing behind, the bell on the door chimes and my heart leaps up into my throat. I swallow it down and turn around slowly, ready to come face to face with… Charlotte?
Clayton and Izzie hang up their coats and walk over to me. “Everyone is working in pairs today so you two will have to pair up. If you go and see Tilly, she will let you know what everyone is working on today.”
Izzie’s blue eyes stare up into mine, she’s not as peppy as she usually is and Clayton nods, not saying anything as he walks over to my mom.
Charlotte clears her throat and I turn toward her anxiously; this is the woman who used to despise me being with her son. She made it well known that I wasn’t good enough for him.
“Charlotte, it’s good to see you again. Are you staying for watching week?”
“I wish I could but I have a quick coffee meeting with a client and Tristan’s… well... he deserved a break.” She’s silent for a beat, her gaze flitting over my face before she laughs, something I’ve never heard her do before. “It’s okay, Harmony, you don’t have to pretend you don’t still think I’m a wicked witch.”
I could think of more colorful things to call her. The confusion clouds my mind and I stammer over my words. “I—well, I...”
Her lilting, carefree laugh sounds out again before it dies down and she looks at me more seriously. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last weekend, I hope you’re feeling better?” I nod and she continues. “Good. I won’t keep you much longer, but the kids, they’re... not themselves today. I won’t bore you with the details, but I thought I should let you know.”
“Thank you,” I reply, my anxiousness at talking to Charlotte being replaced with worry. “And please, if there’s anything I can do, let me know and I’ll do it.”
She pats my hand and I look down at it like she’s burned me. “I have no doubt about that, but that won’t be necessary. Treat them like you normally would, it’ll be good to give them a sense of normality. I’ll be back to pick them up soon.”
She doesn’t wait for a reply as she takes one last look at Clayton and Izzie before she walks out of the front doors.
I can’t control my feet, they move in their direction before my head even clicks on that that’s exactly where I’m going. “Hey, guys. How are you getting on with your dream boards?” I ask them. The A5 card in front of them is blank and I frown down at it. “Do you need some help?”
Clayton shakes his head and looks around at the other parents with a frown on his face. “No.”
“Are you sure? I could help you come up with some ideas.”
He jumps down off his stool without saying another word as he drags his feet along the floor toward the beanbags. I watch as he pulls a book off the shelf I’ve put in purposely for him, and flops down into a beanbag.
I pull my focus away from him and look down at Izzie who is twiddling her thumbs. “Izzie, is everything okay?”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Clay is sad. I don’t like it when he’s sad.”
I sit down beside her and hold her hand. “Can you tell me why your brother is sad, sweetie?”
Her gaze lifts to Clayton before it moves back to me. “He’s sad about Daddy not seeing our painting on gally night, and he’s sad that he isn’t here,” she explains.
“Oh, really?”
She nods. “Nana took us because Daddy shouted about art class.”
I swallow the big ball in my throat, I had a feeling this would happen, but I won’t let him do this to these kids. “Maybe I could give him a call and see if he wants to come down and see your painting?” The words are out of my mouth before I even think about what I’m saying, it’s what I’d do for any other student, just because their dad happens to be my college sweetheart shouldn’t make a difference.
“You will?” She smiles, showing off her pearly white teeth.
I nod. “I can’t guarantee he’ll be able to come and see it while you’re still here, but if he comes and sees it on his own, do you think it’ll make you and your brother happy?”
She nods enthusiastically and runs toward Clayton, telling him her good news. The discomfort I’m feeling is stomped down and forgotten about as a small smile pulls at his lips.
I check how everyone is getting on before making my way to my office and pulling out my cellphone and the permission slips, looking for Tristan’s number. As that thought runs through my head, my stomach flips and I have to try and remember why I’m doing this. Be professional, Harm, this isn’t about you.
My finger hesitates over the call button for a split second. What will he think of my call? Will he think I’m interfering, or will he simply see me as the caring art teacher that I’m trying to be? Either way, he needs to stop being so selfish.
I press call, my heart racing in my chest as I hear the ringing sound.
After a few more seconds, the ringing cuts out and his voice oozes over the line and wraps itself around my body, the gravelly edge sending shivers down my spine.
“This is Tristan Carter, I can’t take your call right now. If it’s urgent, please call my assistant, Catiya, at…” He reels off a number. “If not, then please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
It beeps and I’m not prepared to leave a message so I stammer at first. “Erm, hi. It’s, Har—Miss Jameson, from Willow Arts. Nothing to worry about, but Clayton and Izzie are upset that they couldn’t show you their project from gallery night, and I… wanted to ask if you’d like to come down sometime so you can see it? They worked really hard on it and… well, now I’m rambling but you’re welcome to come down and see it for yourself if you wanted to. Okay, bye.” I go to hang up but remember I didn’t give him any timings. “Oh, and I’m open until five tonight.”
I hang up, feeling like an idiot for not being ready or having a firmer message for him. Rolling my eyes at myself, I place my cellphone back into my purse and walk out to help Mom with the kids.
I manage to avoid another awkward run-in with Charlotte. As soon as I saw her walking down the cobblestone path, I made a beeline for my office, feeling like a child for doing so. But I’m not ready for more of her… niceness?
Strange thing to think, I know, but we weren’t exactly the best of friends ten years ago, so I don’t see why she’s acting like we are now. Civil? Sure, but how she was this morning? That was weird.
“Why were you hiding from that woman earlier?” Mom asks as we wipe down the wooden benches.
“I erm…” I sigh. “It was Tristan’s mom. I know I’m bound to see her or him, or even the kids’ mom and I know it’s been ten years, I just… it feels like I’m that same nineteen-year-old girl again and with trying to get my life back on track, I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.”
Mom chuckles. “You moved back here and chose an art studio on his side of the tracks. You can’t act shocked that he’s here.”
“Yes, I can. I wasn’t expecting him to turn up with his two kids in tow, so excuse me for needing a little time to wrap my head around things,” I retort flippantly.
She holds up her hand. “I won’t say anymore on the matter after this, but I have to say my piece.” She looks into my eyes. “Don’t let any of this rule your life, or your job for that matter. You can’t hide away from all of the parents and kids, this is your studio. You should be there to greet them when they come in, not hiding away in your office like a child.”
I know what she’s saying is right, but my mind isn’t feeling all that rational right now. “It won’t happen again. I’ll pull on my big girl panties.”
“Now that’s more like it.” She stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “Are you ready to go home?”
I look at my watch, seeing it’s only four thirty; I said I would be open until five. “You take my car, I’ll get a cab home. I think I’m going to get some of this emotion out onto a canvas, I’ll feel better then.” I smile at her but she doesn’t look convinced so I say, “I’m tired and confused, so please let me deal with it the only way I know how. I’m okay despite these feelings, I promise.”
She puckers her lips and blows out a breath before pulling off her apron. “Fine, but you know where I am if you need to talk. Bye, Harmonica.”
I kiss her on her cheek and watch her walk out.
My cellphone’s ringtone blares and I rush to answer it, thinking that it’ll be a call back from Tristan. I’m disappointed when it’s Gerry’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Harmony, I’ve received my divorce certificate in the mail.”
“So?” I told him not to call me again.
“I… I wanted to let you know. I’m coming back to see my parents next week, I was wondering…” He sighs. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee while I’m there?”
The line is silent because I can’t physically push the words I want to say out of my mouth. How dare he! “Gerry, I—”
“Look, I know I’ve been an asshole but… I want to apologize in person.”
His voice sounds small and all of those old feelings I had for him resurface for a second before I squash them back down. “No. I’m sorry but I don’t think an apology is necessary. Years ago? Yes. But now? No.”
“I… Well that certainly changes things. I was hoping you were going to be reasonable.”
I hear a female voice in the background calling his name and my heart sinks.
“She’s… She’s there, isn’t she?”
“I… I have to go.” There’s a click and I know that he’s gone to save an explanation, not that he owes me one, we are divorced now after all.
I’m so stupid! I put myself in a situation where I would get my heart broken; again. I let myself be ridiculed for my career choice on the daily. I let myself believe he was the reason I kept afloat all of these years. He may have been the one that stopped me from drowning at the start, but I’m the only one that’s kept me from falling back under.
Sad tears stream down my face as I slide my cellphone onto my office desk on my way out of the room before walking up the stairs to my studio.
I stand and stare out of the window on the balcony doors for what feels like forever, watching the bright light of day turn to dark before turning and gazing at the covered easel in the corner.
I take tentative steps toward it as if it would scare if I made a loud noise. I touch the soft material of the sheet that’s over the top of it and fist it in my hand, pulling at it gently and revealing my masterpiece.
It screams of happy times and beautiful places, of love and warmth and… everything I no longer have. My hand shakes and a sob vibrates through my body, taking hold of every single nerve ending.
I feel the pain of everything all over again: the way that I was left, the months that followed, and then meeting someone else that finally seemed to pay attention to me and care. Then came the ridicule, the arguments, the tamped-down words I always wanted to say.
The finality of it all.
My chest heaves as I pull in big lungfuls of breath as I try to calm myself down now that I’ve had my meltdown. My sobs slowly turn into sniffles, and as I sit here staring at the painting in front of me, feeling numb, I know that it’s time to move on.