Winter in Full Bloom (14 page)

Camille picked up her instrument case. “I admit, I did hate you both on days when things got unbearable for me. I hated your mother for tossing me away because I was sickly, and I hated you for being the one who got to stay. Who was good and perfect enough to be loved. That was the other thing, you see. I wrestled with that hatred and with the guilt that invariably comes with it. And yet I’d been innocent in all of this. So, some other part of me felt I had a right to those dark feelings. Sometimes it seemed to be all I had left.”

She clutched the case to her. “And that moral dilemma made me crazy for a while. I was institutionalized for it. Eventually, the hatred dissolved into depression. So, I’ve been taking meds for it. That’s probably why I weigh more than you do. It’s one of the side effects of the drug. But I’ve been slowly tapering off the drugs for a while now.”

Since the moment Mother had told me about Camille I hadn’t imagined such scenarios. I wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. My words were useless and empty. Tears came in trickles and then turned into quiet sobs. I no longer cared what people thought as they passed me on the street. I saw my mother and my father’s sin, and it reeked of selfishness and cruelty.

So, I wept. Again. “I’m so sorry. I can’t seem to stop crying. I’m just—”

“Oh, dear. We’d better get you inside. People are starting to gawk at us. Pretty soon they’ll stop to ask if I’ve hit you or something. And you’re turning blue in this sudden chill.”

“I’ll stop crying. I promise.” Camille seemed uncomfortable with my emotions, but lately my tears had approached melodramatic proportions. I accepted a wad of tissues from her.

“If you don’t stop weeping you’re going to wind up with a vicious headache. At least that’s what used to happen to me.”

“I get them too.” I cleaned my face again and gave her a smile of recovery.

“That’s better. All right. I guess I shouldn’t tell you any more about my life for a few minutes so you can recover. Otherwise, you’ll end up in the nuthouse like me.” She released a chuckle. “Are you ready for tea?”

I nodded. “I’d love something to eat too if that’s okay.”

“Well, what you call dinner in America is called tea here. Or roughly the same thing.”

“Oh? Then I’d love tea.”

“Come on.” She waved me on to go with her. “I’ll show you a non-touristy place where the food is great and cheap.”

“Thanks.” Dinner with Camille was just what I’d hoped for. I followed her along the promenade and then off the beaten path into a cubbyhole of an eatery that was barely visible from the walkway. The place, The Gondola Café, looked stark and simple. Photos of American celebrities plastered the walls, and music from the sixties and seventies blared out of the wall speakers. Plain metal tables filled the room, which were overflowing with locals and tourists. Not much for décor, but Camille had promised me the food was terrific. When we went to place our order, a burly man with a rose tattoo and a widow’s peak barreled through a pair of swinging doors and looked back and forth at us from behind the counter.

He laughed, which set his jowls to jiggling. The man said, “Ya don’t see identicals very oft. Say, one of you plays the flute out there, right?” He pointed his thumb toward the promenade.

“That’s me.” Camille smiled.

“An angel. That’s what you play like.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Love. Well, what’ll it be? You’ll have to speak up. There’re a lot of yahoos in here this evening. Yeah.”

“Let’s have the meat pie with gravy,” Camille said to me. “Sounds fattening, but you won’t regret it.”

I hesitated.

“Come on, give it a burl.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I told the man in a loud voice above the crowd, “I’ll have the meat pie with gravy.”

“Make it two,” Camille said.

The man hollered back to the kitchen. “Two dog’s eyes.” He gave us a toothy grin. “Be out in a jiff.”

Dog’s eyes?
Must be a colloquialism, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any more details concerning my order. I let it rest as we settled ourselves down at one of the last open tables. “I’m amazed all these people aren’t outside.”

“The tables are probably full out there.” Camille pulled off her scarf, which was loosely wrapped around her neck, and set it on the table. She looked intently at me, something we both had been doing to each other.

“It’s hard for us to stop staring at each other I guess.”

She lifted the tiny vase of roses to her nose and took a whiff.

“I’m curious about a lot of things,” I said. “You know, the fact that we’re twins.”

“I’m pretty curious too. Remember, I’ve known about you all my life, so I’ve had time to wonder about all kinds of things.”

We both leaned toward each other at the same time. “You go first,” I said.

“Well, I have slightly crooked teeth on the bottom row and a mole on my left arm right by my elbow.”

I showed her my mole in the same spot and my somewhat crooked teeth on the bottom. Then I grinned.

“Okay,” she continued. “I can’t use a map, but I don’t know why. I get the hiccups after one sip of soda, and I always close my eyes during the scary part of movies.”

I waved my hand across the table. “Same all the way across the board, except I try not to watch scary movies. Right after I heard about you, I looked up some things online. Did you know we have the same brain wave patterns? Not identical, but close.”

“Yes, I read that too.” Camille tilted her head at me, studying me. “Maybe that’s why since I’ve met you, even in this short time … I almost know what you’re going to say. At least what you’re saying doesn’t surprise me as much as it should. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do. Scary, but fun, right?” I brightened but tried not to overwhelm her with my excitement.

“Sort of, yes.” Camille shifted in her chair. “Now for the more serious stuff. Usually, adoptions are closed, which would have made this harder … this little reunion. But I knew early on that I’d been adopted, and that it was the open kind. Naomi told me who my birth mother was and why I was given away. She wanted me to know the truth. I appreciated that about her, being straight with me, even though it wasn’t easy on me to hear it or easy on her to tell me. But the open adoption never made sense, since there was almost no communication. But the older I get the more tempting it is to ask questions … the really hard ones. Maybe someday when you and your mother are on better terms you can ask her some of my questions. Then you can email me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to ask Mother yourself?” I picked at my paper napkin, plucking it like feathers. At least I wasn’t plucking at my fingers.

“I don’t think I’d better do that. I’d end up screaming at your mother, and she’d order me out of the house. It’d be quite a scene. I don’t know how I could be civil to her. So, I don’t see the point in flying to America to be angrier than I’ve already been. Besides, that flight costs a small fortune. How did you manage it? Do you have lots of money?”

“I have money from my husband’s life insurance after he died and from my job as a secretary, but I’m not rich. I’m trying to help Julie through college, so the money isn’t flowing as well as it did before she left. But coming here was a priority. It was something I felt I had to do … to find you.” I wanted to reach out to her, to touch her hand, but it was still too soon.

“Nothing would have changed if you hadn’t come, though. We would have gone on with our lives just the same. Yeah.”

“But if I’d stayed at home and done nothing it would have … I mean, I couldn’t just let you go. Once I knew you existed, it changed everything. Even my daughter, Julie, was excited for us to meet. She always dreamed of having an aunt and cousins. I mean, you are Julie’s Aunt Camille.”

“Julie’s aunt.” She seemed to mull it over. “That does have a nice sound to it. But you let your mother go just like I let all of you go. You didn’t visit her for a whole decade. How is that different than our separation?”

“Good point, but my mother didn’t want to see me. I wanted to connect, but she made it nearly impossible. I don’t like forcing my way in when I’m not wanted.”

Camille chuckled. “You could have fooled me about that earlier today.”

“I guess I was kind of pushy.”

Our food came then—a small round pie with tomato sauce on top. “Wow, I’ve had chicken pot pie but nothing like this.”

“Hope you like it. This meat pie is rabbit with mushrooms.”

Rabbit? I paused. “Oh?” They cooked such unique meats in Aussieland. Not just the usual chicken, fish, pork, and beef fare, but little Roos and lambkins and Easter bunnies. I tried not to wince, since I didn’t want to hurt Camille’s feelings. Instead, I dug in, blew on my forkful, and eased it into my mouth. “Ohhh, this is good.” I took another decadent bite. I pointed to her left hand with my fork. “So, you’re a left-hander like I am. I think it’s pretty uncommon for both twins to be left-handed. I guess that make us … exceptional.”

Camille smiled then—a good smile—and it pleased me to see it.

The Beatles’ tune “Eleanor Rigby” started wafting out of the speakers. “You know, come to think of it, I’ve heard a lot of pop music since I’ve been here. And they talk about US news on TV a lot more than I’d expected. What’s up with that?”

“Aussies have a real fondness for America, but sometimes you wouldn’t think so when they start arguing about politics and such.” Camille took a bite of her meat pie.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, let me just say that Melbourne is a rather secular city.”

“Isn’t it hard on your faith?”

She took a sip of her water. “I attend St. Paul’s Cathedral, but I haven’t joined the church yet. My life always seems to be moving on. I’m like this piece of driftwood, never quite finding that distant shore. That was yet another reason I was hoping my boyfriend would propose. I thought it would help me to settle down. You may not know this, but even though I live in Melbourne, I’m still an American citizen. Actually, I’ve lived all over … here and there.”

“Really? Tell me about it.”

Camille ran her fingernail across her hand, leaving a white mark on her skin. “After Mum died, my stupid-as-a-bunyip father dragged me around from country to country, including the US. I guess he kept me around to cook for him. He was not only an alcoholic and abusive, but he was a wanderer. Never could stay put. And so even though I loathed him, I guess I became a wanderer too. Then because of a friend’s positive experience and encouragement I wound up here in Melbourne. So, I guess my accent and clothes and cultural leanings are all muddled.” She gave her head a little shake. “I’m a mishmash of everything and nothing.”

“Well, you’re not nothing to me.” I offered her a decisive nod.

“Your boyfriend must really care about you,” Camille said, clearly changing the subject. “He was adamant today that I needed to give you a chance to speak your mind.”

“I’m awfully glad he talked to you, but Marcus is not my boyfriend. We’ve only just met.”

Camille cocked her head at me. “I think he likes you … a lot.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way he looks at you.”

I pulled back a little, clueless but curiously happy about her announcement. “How do you mean?”

She shrugged. “You know what I mean. The
look
.”

I crossed my arms. “I want details. I want—”

“Okay, okay. Marcus looks at you like, I don’t know, like he’s a diamond in the dark, but you’re the only halogen light in the world to bring out the fire.”

I burst out laughing. “Ridiculous. How in the world did you come up with that?”

She crossed her arms, mimicking me. “Just an observation. I wish my boyfriend would look at me that way.”

“Oh?”

Camille studied me carefully. “Be honest now. You didn’t know he cared?”

“Okay. I knew a little.” I scraped up some of the gravy with my spoon, took a big high-caloric bite, and moaned over all the flavors and richness. “This is really good.”

“So, what do you plan to do with Marcus when you leave?” Camille asked. “Just dump him?”

“Well, dumping implies that we have something serious going on. If there is anything happening it would be at an early stage.”

Camille fingered the rose in the tiny vase. “Like a seedling?”

“No, like the seed.”

She grinned. “You’re kind of funny, Lily Winter.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

But I honestly didn’t know what would happen to Marcus, to us, if things progressed. Now Camille was making me squirm. Time to change the topic. “So, are you and your boyfriend serious about marriage? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m serious, but I guess he isn’t.” She turned up her nose like she had a nasty taste in her mouth. “No proposal yet, and as I think I mentioned to you … we’ve been dating for a year.”

“Will I get to meet him?”

“Mabes.”

“What’s mabes?”

“It’s just something I say sometimes. Short for maybe. People like to abbreviate words here.”

“I’ve heard about that.”

“If it’s okay … I don’t want to talk about Jerald anymore.”

“Okay.” I didn’t want to talk about Marcus either. New subject. “So, let me ask you this … if Mother wanted you to come for a visit and she paid your way, would you consider it? I think she needs to see you before she dies.”

“Dies?” Camille set her fork down. “Is she dying?”

“No, not that I know of, but she’s older now. Sometimes it only takes a little fall or an illness, to… well, you know.”

“Going back would be difficult. I always promised myself that I would never return to see what could have been. To know my other life.” Camille’s shoulders sagged, but there was the slightest resignation in her tone.

Perhaps I’d softened her toward the idea of coming for a visit. “I’d like to lie to you and say things are fine. But there’s been enough lying over the years … and secrets. I guess I was hoping we could all have a fresh start or at least give it a try.”

“You’ve become more of an optimist than I am,” Camille said. “Well, did Mrs. Gray ever mention that she wanted to see me?”

“Not yet, but the fact that Mother finally told me about you means something significant. I hope you’ll consider it. You could even go back with me when I return, and together we could—”