Terrible Praise Read online

  An older article on her talent as a violinist when Elizabeth was in high school. A photograph of her when she was very young, standing beside her mother, Claire Dumas, with her instrument raised proudly for the camera. A wide smile on her round face, her mother’s hand clasped around her shoulder. Mrs. Dumas shows none of her daughter’s exuberance, her mouth set in a hard line, a severe beauty with perfectly manicured nails, dressed in an immaculately tailored navy suit A late pregnancy, it seems, from Claire’s intentionally variegated gray hair.

  A single photograph in a public newsletter from 2002, and then nothing. No further scholarly articles. Not so much as a résumé floating in the ether. No record of Elizabeth on any social media. The silence is enticing. One moment Elizabeth was a precocious, budding talent, gifted in mind and musical ability, full of promise, and the next moment she was gone. The lack of information is intensely irritating as I rub my temples, and close the lid of my laptop.

  There is no great mystery here. She is a woman like any other. Perhaps the pressure of school caused the abrupt discontinuance of further education, or nursing was simply her heart’s passion. I shake away the pointless musings and undress, throwing my garments into the fireplace. I can incinerate them tomorrow.

  I feel cheated somehow, like Elizabeth has reached out and closed a door in my face. My thoughts circle her as I climb into bed and drift into a fitful sleep.

  * * *

  Standing on the shore of the Danube in Moldavia, the earth begins to drum beneath my feet. The wind whips my clothes tight around my body as the tide surges against the shore, cool water frothing between my small pink toes. Behind me, a lone figure looms atop the grassy mound, beckoning me back, waving skinny arms high above her head. She calls out, but the words are lost to the breeze. I scramble up the hillside, tugging on long grass with my small fists as my feet struggle to find foothold in the black dirt and sand.

  At the summit, I see my mother bent before me. Her dark, curling black locks strike her flushed cheeks. She fusses over my wind-swept hair and wraps me in a warm wool cloak, licking the tattered edge of her own soiled dress to scrub the dirt from my face and hands. I pull away from her and she clicks her tongue, sweeping me up in her arms and taking off in a sprint toward the village. From over my mother’s shoulder, I see the river bob with whitecaps. The drumming has become a thunderous drone, and fearing a storm, I wrap my arms tightly around her neck. The vast gray sky has only a thin covering of clouds that the sun will burn through soon, and the rain is a fine mist that collects in tiny droplets on my lashes.

  My mother pushes us through a large crowd where everyone waits, but no one speaks, and sets me down to stand beside her. She frets over my appearance again, she holds my hands in a firm grip, speaking with some urgency. The drumming echoes in my ears, drowning out her voice and I try to pay attention to her, but I cannot make out the words. She turns me around and holds my back flush against the front of her legs as the first emerald banner peeks up from the valley.

  There appears one rider charging down the hill. And then there are ten. And then there are many. I want to turn and run but my mother fixes me to the spot. I settle for placing my hands over hers, pressed against my chest like a living shield. The horsemen encircle the great crowd, all of them on black horses save one. They part before my mother and me, making way for him to ride into their ranks and dismount.

  His steed is white, double the size of any I have ever seen, and his armor—bright and silver like all the others—is draped with emerald cloth. He dismounts and stands beside his horse, patting its thick neck and watching us closely. As he removes his helmet the only sound is that of my own startled gasp. I have never seen another with hair the color of mine. Pale and gleaming, a finer yellow than that of his horse’s mane. His eyes are so light a blue that the sky itself appears sickly in contrast.

  Another horseman rides into the crowd behind him, quickly coming to his side. My mother’s fingers tighten on my chest as the second horseman takes a quick glance around the crowd and settles on her face. He does not remove his helmet. Only two black eyes can be seen, nothing more of his face. He gestures to my mother and then to me. The Lord says something under his breath to his companion, and with the cuff of his armored hand strikes the second horseman across his helmeted cheek. The masked man falls to one knee and shakes himself, blood dripping from beneath his visor. Without another word, he stands and mounts his black steed, riding off alone.

  The pale-eyed Lord approaches my mother on foot. He removes one metal glove and offers a veined, blood-red hand. My mother’s fingers wrap around my wrist as she extends my trembling arm to this beguiling stranger. I struggle away, but my mother pushes me forward. His huge palm swallows my wrist and he kneels to get a better look at me. My chest heaves under the force of my own broken sobs and frantic breathing, but as the stranger stares into my eyes the world grows quiet and soft.

  The Lord picks me up and carries me to his horse. When he releases my wrist, I miss his touch immediately, and with one hand on the reins I reach for him as he returns to my mother. He places a hand on her shoulder, whispers something, and my mother falls to the ground in tears.

  Mounting behind me, the Lord wraps one arm around my waist. My mother sobs into the earth, crying out to us, but once again her words are lost. A beautiful melody fills every fiber of my being in this Lord’s embrace and drowns out everything else, every care I have ever carried.

  The horse beneath us rears as we turn to leave, and I notice a figure standing at the edge of the crowd. She is dressed in a drooping blue shirt, too long for her torso. Her legs and arms, naked in the unseasonable chill, are covered with goose flesh, and her long chestnut hair billows out behind her in the breeze. She covers her mouth with her hands, trembling with tears. All the calm leaves me, fresh panic seizing my nubile young heart, as my Lord speaks low in my ear.

  I sit bolt upright in the dark, my fine covers a mess between my tangled legs as I kick them down the length of my four-poster bed. I go quickly to my washroom, splashing the cold water against my face and neck. I grip the sides of the marble sink and take in my disheveled reflection as the water runs in rivers down my chest. Fane’s voice echoes in my mind, requesting an audience.

  For hundreds of years and in a dozen countries, I have had that dream. The memory of the day my mother presented me to Fane. But never in all my long life has it ended with anything other than Fane’s arm closing around me as we rode off toward Brașov.

  The panic was not mine. The fear was not mine.

  They were Elizabeth’s.

  I dress myself quickly, and leave my chambers to answer my Lord’s call.

  II

  A Pale Horse

  For five nights straight, I’ve had the same dream.

  Standing on a foreign shore, I watch a pale-skinned girl play beside the water’s edge. I make my way toward her and she scurries up the side of a hill with more agility than me. My movements are comically slow, like the dust wants to shackle my feet. I try to retrace the child’s small steps in the sandy black soil, but my legs sink and by the time I reach the top I have to pull my waist free from this smothering hold. I sit for a moment at the top of hill, trying to catch my breath. The world around me is a beautiful green tapestry, rolling from one foothill to the next, dotted with wildflowers I can’t name.

  The girl is a speck of brown against a lush and vibrant background, growing fainter by the moment. My panic for this child can’t be explained, and I run after her to warn her, but when I reach the crowd I’m too late. The man has the girl in his arms, on his white horse—a monstrously large beast, animal and rider both—stamping its feet in the long grass, but the child’s face is so serene. Whatever her fate, she has already made peace with it and though the outcome is a mystery to me, this is not something I can accept. Her mother’s broken-hearted wailing brings tears to my eyes. Her mother shouts the same broken plea repeatedly in a language that is familiar but nothing I understand. Latin bon
es, to be sure, a romance language, but what is the accent? The girl notices me as the man turns his horse to leave. I think to call out to her, but I don’t know her name.

  “Elizabeth?”

  My mother has been calling to me for the last ten minutes, shrieking from the foot of the stairs.

  “I’m coming.”

  I plant my feet on the floor and take a slow, deep breath. Even in the calm light of day I can still feel the dread when I saw that child’s tiny body fall into the man’s huge arms as his horse reared. I hold my head in my heads and run my fingers back through sweaty hair.

  “Elizabeth,” my mother’s wail echoing through the whole house. “This is an emergency.”

  I doubt that. With the weary sigh of the perpetually fatigued, I reach for my cell phone on the nightstand. Seven a.m. She had better be bleeding. I push my limbs through last night’s hastily discarded scrubs and make my way downstairs.

  Mother’s velour-clad ass is sticking out of the refrigerator. I’m not entirely sure what she’s looking for, but it clearly wasn’t hiding in the carton of smashed eggs oozing onto the floor. The kitchen cabinet doors are ajar, bowls and plates pushed around inside. On the counter, each ceramic jar has had its lid removed, their contents tossed.

  “Mom?” I stagger toward the coffeepot. “Mother?” She continues her assault, focusing her efforts on the freezer and will not answer me. I start the first pot of coffee, for what I already know will be a three-pot day and take a seat on the counter.

  “Elizabeth, we have chairs.” My mother waves me down with an impatient hand, and I move to a stool at the oak island behind her.

  “You said there was an emergency, so, where is it?”

  “Well that is what I would like to know.” My mother turns with a face full of shaky makeup. I stifle a groan and humor her.

  “What are you looking for, Mother?”

  “My car keys, Elizabeth. Don’t play dumb with me, you’re a lousy actress.” She punctuates her displeasure by stomping her slipper-clad foot, and I can tell the soft thud is less gratifying than she anticipated. She’s sure to slam the freezer door to reinforce her rage.

  So, a bad day then.

  “Ma…” She blatantly ignores me. “Mother.” She crosses her arms with a scathing stare. “Two things: One, I don’t accept jabs about my acting abilities before I’ve had my morning coffee. Two, I have your keys. We talked about this.”

  My mother scoffs with a flutter of her shaky hands and pointedly procures her cup of coffee before the pot has finished brewing. Apologies are still a long way off.

  “Elizabeth, please. You were terrible in that play,” she responds, resolutely ignoring any suggestion that she has forgotten our discussion about driving. “What was the name of it?”

  “The Tempest.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. You were horrible, all long gaping silences and stilted dialog. That’s not an insult, dear, it’s a fact. Now, I have to get to the gym.”

  I walk around my fuming mother and pour my coffee. I set my mug down in front of her and clasp my hands. “I was sixteen.”

  “Age is hardly an excuse for poor performance,” she says with a disapproving tut. I laugh in spite of myself, which only infuriates her.

  “I didn’t call you down here to laugh at me, Elizabeth,” she warns. “I am late for my appointment with Luke. So, be a dear and fetch my keys.” Returned is the honey-tone as she waves me on with a commanding hand. The graceful gesture is cut short by an ill-timed tremor, and she wraps her fingers firmly around her mug. Decreased mobility, moments of rigidity, loss of orientation and coordination, we were prepared for all that with her Parkinson’s. But dementia as well? The diagnosis was terrifying.

  Mother taps her overgrown French tips against the granite countertop. It’s far too early to have this argument for the fiftieth time. I take a sip of coffee and instantly feel more myself.

  “Mother,” I begin, and her face hardens like she already knows I mean to refuse her. “You haven’t had an appointment with Luke in ten years.” No discernible reaction. “He started his own company in San Francisco with his partner Adam. Remember?”

  Mother takes a deep breath, holding the air captive and for a moment I worry that this is a new type of tantrum. She exhales slowly through her nose. “Elizabeth, I don’t know what you’re playing at,” she almost sounds amused, “but I saw Luke last week. Like I have seen him every Tuesday for the last six years.” Her eyes shine, the same way they always do when she catches me in a lie. Few things please her more than being right.

  “Yes,” I agree. “You saw Luke every Tuesday, and the occasional Thursday for six years, until about ten years ago.” The irritation is there, of course it is, but I keep my own anger and confusion just out of reach.

  My mother wavers in the small ways to which I’m growing accustomed. A slackening of her tense jaw and she settles in her seat like she means to stay there. Her eyes seem to take in the kitchen for the first time, the unfortunate mess. Fear and uncertainty are foreign emotions to her. She’s so thin in that stained jumpsuit, it hangs on the protruding bones of her too-sharp shoulders. I lay a consoling hand on hers, but she quickly pulls away, tucking both hands neatly in her lap.

  “What day is it, Mom?”

  “Tuesday!” she snaps. “Or have you been listening to me at all?” The tremble is there, threatening the tight, pale line of her thin lips.

  “No. The full date, Mother.” I keep my voice as gentle as I can.

  She runs over me with a skeptical eye, and purses her lips. She doesn’t answer. Lost time is becoming increasingly frequent, but no less troubling for either of us. She takes a loud, undignified slurp of her coffee, and remains unnervingly silent. Her fingers push the magazines strewn atop the island into even stacks and perfectly matched corners.

  “When Luke left town, you had a big party for him here.” I don’t know if the context will help. She gets so angry with herself, and we’re both much more comfortable with that rage being directed at me. “We spent three hours in Nordstrom because you wanted to find him the perfect tie.” An unwitting smile spreads across my lips. “You said ‘a man needs a strong tie if he’s going to be taken seriously.’ Do you remember that?” I can’t check the hope, or the pleading tone, clogging my voice.

  Mother tilts her chin, considering, and I know from that distant look she recalls something about that day. “We got back to the car and that bald guy in the Volvo dinged your driver’s side door right in front of you. He tried to lie about it. I thought you were going to kill that poor man.” I laugh again, I can’t help it. A warm laugh at the memory of my mother in her prime, filled with righteous indignation and wholly without fear.

  “Served him right,” she sniffs. “Lying to my face like that. I have eyes.” She smiles a little herself, but I can tell this has upset her deeply. I hate mornings like this. Days, weeks like this. I hate this disease.

  When I was young, my parents were invincible. I believed in their superhuman strength and intelligence right up until my father passed, but not even his death could convince me of my mother’s mortality. She was unshakable, energetic, and independent. She didn’t crack, even widowed at forty-six and suddenly a single parent. My mother wept silently, only once, at the burial, and then it was business as usual. Recitals for me, meetings at the country club, fundraisers for the impoverished. She never missed a beat. Not once in her sixty years and now this. It’s like staring at a stranger.

  “I know I’m a poor substitute for Luke,” I offer with a tentative grin. She doesn’t seize the opening for a well-timed jibe. “But how ’bout we finish our coffee and walk along the pier? I promise to annoy you as much as possible to ensure your heart rate stays up.”

  Mother exhales wearily and rolls her eyes. “A walk will have to suffice,” she decides, pushing away from the island to begin the Herculean task of tidying the kitchen. “But please, I can’t be seen with you like that, dear. Do something with your hair.”
r />   I drain the dregs of my cup, and rub my bleary eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

  * * *

  As a child, I was thoroughly convinced that The Windy City possessed a magical air current all its own. A meteorological phenomenon, unique to my hometown and explainable by some science I didn’t yet understand, but mystically localized none the less. I made the mistake of entrusting my awe to my mother, who promptly explained with an impatient snort that the name was derived from a fierce political debate. She chided me for my childishness—obviously displeased with my spectacular misunderstanding—and thought that was as good a time as any to clear up any lingering fantasies I might have about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, despite the fact that she had never lied to me about either one. I was ten, and that was the last time I ever made the mistake of sharing my enthusiasm with her—no matter the subject.

  I’m more than a little surprised she agreed to walk with me to Navy Pier. My mother despises tourists and the general public alike. Perhaps this strange and sudden acquiescence to take a leisurely stroll through the bustling early morning crowd is yet another signal of her rapid decline. Do I make enough of an effort to ensure she is socializing? Is she getting adequate exercise with her nurse? Most days I find myself wishing that my mother was here to care for my mother, which could be a symptom of my own deteriorating mental health.

  For much of the walk we say nothing. I’m too lost in my own worries and her attention is rapt by the strangers we push past in their smart suits, skirting the shiny facades of the mammoth buildings. Every couple hundred feet she bumps into someone. She either misjudges the space needed to circumvent collision, or more likely, her unsteady gait is to blame. I keep a firm hold on her elbow, worried that she might be mistaken for a feeble old woman on vacation and subsequently mugged. I suppose our walk might feel like a vacation of sorts to her. She drinks in the city the same way tourists do, although my mother has lived here all her life.