Read Online Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Kallos
Ads: Link
meat, good lineage, a private school education, fresh fruit and vegetables. And she was young—much younger than King Oscar.
In life, she was glimpsed rarely, and even then, only in the confines of her home. When she appeared, she was not dressed like other at-home mothers of the era, who wore belted shirtdresses with prim, up-the-front buttons that met the crisp half-moons of Peter Pan collars. No, Margaret's mother spent her days draped in transparent, diaphanous peignoir ensembles that showed off her fashion model figure and played up her resemblance to Greta Garbo. She had many peignoirs, all in complicated colors that could not be easily named.
Margaret's mother spoke little. When she did speak, it usually presaged events that were incomprehensible, dire, or both. Mostly, she lurked: on the other side of doors, in shadowy corners, against walls. She watched and listened, her exquisite face rarely reflecting any sign of emotion. Only occasionally did Margaret notice her mother's mouth contract, giving it a taut, wrinkled look that was like the smocking on Cook's starched cotton nightgowns.
Sometimes Margaret rummaged through a smelly box of photographs of her mother which she'd found while playing in the attic, photographs which predated marriage and maternity and showed her mother in the open air, in the light, dressed in tennis skirts, skiing ensembles, swim-suits. In all the pictures, she was wearing smiling expressions that Margaret had never seen; incredibly, her mother must have once been happy. In other photos, she was in the company of other laughing and athletic-looking young people; even harder to believe was the possibility that her mother had once had friends.
Margaret concluded that something terrible had happened to make her mother the way she was; being a child, and an only child at that, she naturally assumed that she was that something. Luckily, though, this assumption did not engender a loss of self-esteem; Margaret was a happy child, loved in all the right and good ways that children need to be loved. Papa O and Cook petted and kissed and hugged her; she was disciplined when such measures were required, praised and rewarded for her successes; the rooms of the house were always teeming with people, so she never suffered from loneliness or neglect.
Her relationship with her mother was one a curious child might have with a rarely glimpsed neighbor living behind shuttered windows. And just as it is the absent guest who excites the most conversation, so it was that Margaret's mother became a great stimulant to her creative powers. She spent much of her young life imagining what was going on in her mother's head, giving voice to her stony silence.
It was not uncommon for Margaret to overhear grown-ups remark what a shame it was that the child looked so much like the father. But she didn't mind. She was proud to be allied with her father, in both her pudgy physique and her sunny disposition. Over time, she came to think of her mother as an ice-hearted queen, a sourpuss with whom no one kept counsel. She was fascinating, but only from a great distance, and only as a tantalizing fiction.
Margaret had two distinct memories involving her mother, two stories that she could have told. Like so many family stories, they had one meaning when viewed through the eyes of a child, but quite another after the veil of childhood was lifted.
In the first memory, Margaret is seven years old and dressed in an ornate shepherdess costume: linen blouse, rose-patterned brocade skirt, maroon bodice with a lace-up front, a bright shawl, a headpiece of silk flowers. Papa O had the costume made for her in Europe, just for her, there is no other like it anywhere in the world, and she is modeling it for him. He is applauding and laughing. He pops a sweet into her mouth, a rum truffle. He holds out a package. She unwraps it, carefully; she knows there will be something very fragile inside.
It is a small statue of a shepherdess.
In life, she was glimpsed rarely, and even then, only in the confines of her home. When she appeared, she was not dressed like other at-home mothers of the era, who wore belted shirtdresses with prim, up-the-front buttons that met the crisp half-moons of Peter Pan collars. No, Margaret's mother spent her days draped in transparent, diaphanous peignoir ensembles that showed off her fashion model figure and played up her resemblance to Greta Garbo. She had many peignoirs, all in complicated colors that could not be easily named.
Margaret's mother spoke little. When she did speak, it usually presaged events that were incomprehensible, dire, or both. Mostly, she lurked: on the other side of doors, in shadowy corners, against walls. She watched and listened, her exquisite face rarely reflecting any sign of emotion. Only occasionally did Margaret notice her mother's mouth contract, giving it a taut, wrinkled look that was like the smocking on Cook's starched cotton nightgowns.
Sometimes Margaret rummaged through a smelly box of photographs of her mother which she'd found while playing in the attic, photographs which predated marriage and maternity and showed her mother in the open air, in the light, dressed in tennis skirts, skiing ensembles, swim-suits. In all the pictures, she was wearing smiling expressions that Margaret had never seen; incredibly, her mother must have once been happy. In other photos, she was in the company of other laughing and athletic-looking young people; even harder to believe was the possibility that her mother had once had friends.
Margaret concluded that something terrible had happened to make her mother the way she was; being a child, and an only child at that, she naturally assumed that she was that something. Luckily, though, this assumption did not engender a loss of self-esteem; Margaret was a happy child, loved in all the right and good ways that children need to be loved. Papa O and Cook petted and kissed and hugged her; she was disciplined when such measures were required, praised and rewarded for her successes; the rooms of the house were always teeming with people, so she never suffered from loneliness or neglect.
Her relationship with her mother was one a curious child might have with a rarely glimpsed neighbor living behind shuttered windows. And just as it is the absent guest who excites the most conversation, so it was that Margaret's mother became a great stimulant to her creative powers. She spent much of her young life imagining what was going on in her mother's head, giving voice to her stony silence.
It was not uncommon for Margaret to overhear grown-ups remark what a shame it was that the child looked so much like the father. But she didn't mind. She was proud to be allied with her father, in both her pudgy physique and her sunny disposition. Over time, she came to think of her mother as an ice-hearted queen, a sourpuss with whom no one kept counsel. She was fascinating, but only from a great distance, and only as a tantalizing fiction.
Margaret had two distinct memories involving her mother, two stories that she could have told. Like so many family stories, they had one meaning when viewed through the eyes of a child, but quite another after the veil of childhood was lifted.
In the first memory, Margaret is seven years old and dressed in an ornate shepherdess costume: linen blouse, rose-patterned brocade skirt, maroon bodice with a lace-up front, a bright shawl, a headpiece of silk flowers. Papa O had the costume made for her in Europe, just for her, there is no other like it anywhere in the world, and she is modeling it for him. He is applauding and laughing. He pops a sweet into her mouth, a rum truffle. He holds out a package. She unwraps it, carefully; she knows there will be something very fragile inside.
It is a small statue of a shepherdess.
Similar Books
