The Clichés

Chapter Fifteen

Vanessa hears the ding, but she doesn't go for the door immediately. She's expecting Ethan, who's in the sitting room playing Mortal Kombat, to answer it. Helena has withdrawn into her moodiness again after another argument with Chantel. She's in her room, probably crying or looking out the window. In her state of mind, she won't go for the door even though she hears it.

Vanessa shoves the clothes she was arranging aside and comes out to the sitting room. Ethan is so engrossed in the game that he doesn't notice her.

Perhaps it's Dad, she thought. Maybe he's lost or forgotten his keys somewhere again. Last time, he left it at a bar and couldn't find it the following morning. So they had to change the locks for security.

It can't be Dylan. He calls her before coming. There's no one else who'd visit them this evening. Except for Madeline, Mum's friend. Vanessa had approached her, but she'd refused to send her mom's number to her.

"She warned me never to," Madeline said. "However, I'll call her. But not when you're here."

"But why all these rules? Is she such a recluse?"

"Not really."

"Some kind of enigma?"

"Your mom has her reasons. You should ask her if you ever see her again."

"Ever?" Vanessa gets to her feet. "Well, when you call her, tell her it's fine if she's not ready to see us. Tell her we're grateful for her giving us life. Tell her…"

Madeline collected Vanessa into her arms. At first, she wriggled for freedom, but as her tears soaked her, she relaxed. She laid her head on the woman's shoulder and wailed more.

Now, she shakes her head to dismiss the memories. The doorbell rings again, louder and more persistent this time. It's as if the person is being pursued and needs to come inside before their pursuers catch up with them.

"Coming," Vanessa says.

She peers through the aperture. She can make out the silhouetted frame of a woman, but she can't tell who she is. It would be considered rude if she pointed a flashlight at her.

"Who are you?" she asked.

Ethan, resurrecting from his game-obsessed trance, picks up a club and comes to stand beside her.

The woman seems to be sobbing.

"Who are you?" Ethan and Vanessa ask together.

"Laura Rickford," the woman says.

"What?! Mom!"

*

Laura is plump and short, with thin hair like noodles and piercing blue eyes like the sea on a sunny day. She is wearing a tartan pantsuit and carrying a portfolio, as though she was here on an official assignment, as though she hadn't left three children here over eight years ago.

She hugs Vanessa first because, while Ethan stands there transfixed, Vanessa throws herself at her. She hugs her and sways side to side with her. Vanessa ushers her in like a guest and sits her down. Then she goes to fetch Helena.

Ethan is still standing close to the door, frozen. The remote control in his hands drops and clatters on the floor. He doesn't bend to pick it up. On TV, the stilled photo of a metal superhero with green eyes and a chest full of nondescript buttons stares at the room.

"Ethan," Laura says.

"You left us." He goes down on his knees, slowly, quietly, and then tears run down his cheeks steadily like ice down a precipice. "You left us. We know Dad messed up. But why did you have to punish us for it?"