Liar, Liar

5 - Brooke

She's making me go to school today. I'm not at all ready for the sympathetic smiles, not-so-subtle staring and insincere 'are you okay?'s, but, to my dismay, no amount of pleading has seemed to faze her in the slightest. Then again, her own daughter's death hasn't either.

I've spent the last few days trying to choose which part of Lorraine's townhouse I dislike the least; not an easy task, considering its Victorian style makes it look like something out of a Braham Stoker novel. However, sitting on the windowsill seat in my room, looking out at the beautiful maple tree that shades my window from the morning sun, I decide that this spot is tolerable. Comforting, in fact. The tree reminds me of dad. There was one even bigger than this out the back of our lakehouse. When I was young, climbing it was the first thing I'd do whenever we went out there. I remember looking out over the glassy water, a gentle breeze caressing my cheeks, and feeling a sense of calmness. A sense of relief. Like I could escape from the world for a little while. Like I was on top of the world. Dad noticed how much I loved that tree. One Summer, shortly before my birthday, Dad went away for work. I was so mad at him. I thought that surely, surely, he could work some other time. But he left, and I was sad. The following week, the day I turned 10, mum and I arrived at the lakehouse, without Dad. She tried to console me, telling me that he would be here for my birthday dinner, but I didn't believe her. I ran around the side of the house, desperate to find solace in my tree. But when I looked up, about to climb, I noticed something was different. Dad sat there, up in the tree, on the porch of the little wooden treehouse he had built for me. "Happy birthday!" he yelled excitedly, jumping down to kiss me on the forehead. I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I smile to myself as I remember one of the happiest days of my childhood. One of the happiest memories of Dad. The tree starts to blur as my eyes well up with tears. 

A knock at my bedroom door startles me. I quickly wipe my eyes and clear my throat before I call out a hoarse "come in". I turn to see a small woman who looks to be in her mid-forties opening the door and peering in. She has a pretty face, with thick black hair pulled into a tight bun and an apron around her waist. A thick Spanish accent follows: 

"Good morning, Miss. I am Maria, one of Madame Deschamps' maids. I have been told that you are to be at school in half an hour, so I thought I should check you are awake. Would you like some breakfast before you go?"

I smile. "It's nice to meet you. Yes, thanks, I think I will have something to eat. I'll go and make some toast now."

Maria looks as though I have sworn at her in seven different languages. "Nonsense! That is my job. I clean, tidy, and cook. You would like toast? I make you toast. I will make it for you now. It will be ready for you in the dining room in five minutes."

"Oh really, it's okay. I can do it--" Maria puts her hand up to silence me. 

"No, no. I will not hear of it. I will see you shortly downstairs." She turns around and walks out the way she came.

"Uh, thank you!" I call after her. Note to self: don't try to argue with Maria. I gather my things and pull my sheets up on my bed. Satisfied that my room is clean enough to be respectable but messy enough that Maria will not think I'm trying to take her job, I head out, making sure to take one lingering glance back at the big maple tree before closing the door behind me. 

As I'm walking to the dining room, it occurs to me that perhaps Lorraine will be eating breakfast too. As I reach the end of the hall, I cross my fingers, hoping I'm wrong. I let out a sigh of relief when I round the corner and see no one but Maria placing the last of a very large assortment of spreads on the table.

"Your grandmother like to eat early. You don't have to worry about seeing her", Maria says without looking up. 

It's like she's read my mind. 

"Oh, thank you. Uh, how did you-"

"I know her relationship with your mother was... strained." She looks up at me. "I can't imagine that would make her relationship with you any less so." 

I nod and take a seat in the dining chair Maria is gesturing to. 

She is about to walk away when she pauses and turns back to face me. "I was about your age when I lost my mother. I never knew my father." She looks down at her feet. "I know it's not my place to discuss these things, but I wanted you to know that." She looks back to me and lowers her voice. "I know we don't know each other well, but I also know that Madame Deschamps can be... difficult to get along with. If you ever feel like speaking to someone about what happened to your parents, please know I would be happy to listen."

I don't really know what it say, so I settle for a 'thank you'. She nods in acknowledgement and walks out, leaving me to study each of the jar labels in front of me. Marmalade. Peanut butter. Nutella. Strawberry jam. Blueberry jam. Raspberry jam. 

I settle on Strawberry jam. Mum's favourite. 

A/N: SO SO Sorry I have not updated for so long. It's been busy. But I'm back at it now! Get excited woooh :-)