Completely (New York 3)

Her eyes glistened when she brought them back to Rosemary’s face. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say what you feel. If you’re sorry, you’re sorry. If you’re not, you’re not. But I’m not taking you to lunch if you’re planning to act like a spoilt child who can only deal with her feelings by pushing them onto her mum, or the people her mum is with.”

“You don’t care how I feel.”

It was an old accusation, nearly as old as Beatrice, and Rosemary wished it didn’t sting. It seemed impossible to be a mother and not be vulnerable to your child accusing you of not loving her correctly—because what did Rosemary fear more than that? She was afraid she’d never been good enough as a mother. She was afraid she’d never loved her child the right way, to make her feel safe, and launch her into the world where she could thrive. But she couldn’t let that fear control her. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she asked. “I leave messages on your phone, I remember your birthday—I bought you that camera you can’t stop pointing at people, I’ve covered your credit card bill, which has been shockingly high these last months—”

“That’s only money.”

“That’s me, thinking of you in America, thinking of what you’re trying to accomplish and supporting you. That’s me, reaching out to hear your voice. That’s me, trying to be your mother.”

“You gave up being my mother.”

“Did I? When exactly? It wasn’t part of the divorce settlement. I didn’t write it on a paper and send it to you in the mail. Did I mumble it in my sleep?”

“You left.”

Rosemary shook her head, adamant. “I have a right to my life, just as you have a right to yours.”

“You couldn’t get away from us fast enough. You couldn’t think of anything but your plan, getting what you wanted.” Her daughter’s voice had risen to a higher pitch, the voice of a younger girl. Rosemary knew that voice.

It was the voice of her daughter when she hurt. Always, when she spoke with that voice, she flailed at the people she loved, and she lied to herself. There wasn’t any getting through to Beatrice when she was like this. It took time for her to cool off, sort through her feelings, come back to herself.

Rosemary didn’t have time.

She tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, steady enough to push through the fog of feelings to the girl inside her daughter’s nineteen-year-old body. “What is it that you think I wanted?”

“Attention.”

She let that sit for a moment.

She’d been starved for attention in her marriage. She’d described herself to Kal as wallpaper—not a reasonable description, or entirely fair to Winston, but she’d felt so many times that motherhood would absorb her, dissolve her, disappear her. Rosemary had wanted attention. She’d longed for the kind of attention that pointed light on the parts of herself no one had cared about in years. But that wasn’t why she’d left.

“You needed your father,” she said. “And your father needed you, very much. I worried if you didn’t find each other, it would be too late for the both of you. I worried that if I stayed, I wouldn’t have anything to teach you but how to become like me. I didn’t want you to live my life. I wanted you to be…”—Rosemary gestured at her daughter, her slouching posture, her strange clothing, her tattoos, her magnificence, her grace, her power—“I wanted you to be you.”

She felt, as she said it, how absolutely true it was. Rosemary had wanted nothing more than for her daughter to have space and time and love, so she could find herself. Be herself. And yet when she’d wanted the same thing for her own life—to identify herself, her authentic wants, her goals—she’d given herself no space, no time, and no love. Instead, she’d made herself an impossible task list drawn from the distant past.

Climb the highest mountains in the world. Write a bestselling book.

As if, by achieving these goals, she could force herself to be happy.

Surely women found happiness by following their hearts, not by following a script.

Rosemary stepped closer to her daughter, who stood still, her arms by her sides. She hugged her, but Beatrice didn’t move. “Bea.”

“What?”

Rosemary closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of her daughter’s hair. All she’d wanted was to hold her daughter in her arms, to see and feel Beatrice and be permitted to love her. She’d wanted to feel like a mother again, to receive something back for her love, to know that even though Beatrice was launched in the world, they still had a bond, still needed each other.

Maybe she’d wanted attention from Beatrice.

Maybe she’d wanted to feel important. To know it mattered deeply to her daughter whether she lived or died.

It seemed absurd when she really thought about it. Of course it mattered to Beatrice. Of course they needed each other, were bound to each other by ties of blood and tears, arguments and learning and love.

At the same time, of course Beatrice wasn’t about to put her arms around her, or soften, or offer a genuine apology. Why should she? She was nineteen years old. Rosemary had taken herself out of her life and flung herself into danger. Then she’d turned up in the middle of her daughter’s busy day and announced she had a few hours to spare.

It made perfect sense, knowing Beatrice, that she would choose to spend their time together like this.