The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2017-08-13 02:53 pm
andhiswife) wrote2017-08-13 02:53 pm
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Every knot was once straight rope
Greta hasn't said anything to Saoirse about the misunderstanding at the hospital -- the one neither of them had bothered to correct. She'd explained it all to Baz, with no small amount of embarrassment. In that case, she hadn't had much choice. The bill would have arrived, and the paperwork would have ratted her out, and then he and Simon would have wondered why she hadn't told them.
Fortunately, they hadn't seemed to mind. She wonders if being perceived as a bit of a bumpkin (who of course wouldn't understand how hospitals work) has been to her advantage. At any rate, she's not about to argue that she knew exactly what she was doing. Better to shoulder the embarrassment of an honest mistake than delve into how dishonest the whole thing truly was.
Saoirse's kept the cast. Greta's stomach twists every time she catches a glimpse of the pink plaster, both a reminder of the day, and an unnecessary hindrance. She could have been healed in a moment; this could have been so much simpler. But there was an agreement: her coach and teammates and half of her teammates' parents had all seen the injury, and it would have been too conspicuous for her to show up to the next practice looking as if nothing had happened. There might even have been grumbles about unfair advantages.
Greta would have argued that speedy healing is perfectly fair when all the other children are twice Saoirse's size and knocking her into the dirt every other minute, but she can see the wisdom of keeping any magical influences well-hidden. She doesn't like it -- and the Greta of eight months ago would have gawped at the thought of not liking a bit of magical restraint -- but she understands it.
It's nearing the end of her shift, and she's putting the last few dishes away, making sure everything is in order. There's a spare lemon tart wrapped in a handkerchief and waiting by the door, so she won't forget it. (Despite Mad Sweeney's reassurances, she can no longer convince herself that a mouthful of bread -- even her bread -- is a sufficient offering for someone so bloody enormous.) And then there's a knock on the door, one she easily recognizes as Saoirse's. Though she knows the sight of the cast will give her a pang, Greta finds herself smiling fondly as she goes to open the door.
"Hello, sweetheart." She almost adds that Saoirse doesn't need to knock, that she can come visit whenever she likes, but then she remembers that with only one hand at her disposal, doors must be harder to handle. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something before I go."
Fortunately, they hadn't seemed to mind. She wonders if being perceived as a bit of a bumpkin (who of course wouldn't understand how hospitals work) has been to her advantage. At any rate, she's not about to argue that she knew exactly what she was doing. Better to shoulder the embarrassment of an honest mistake than delve into how dishonest the whole thing truly was.
Saoirse's kept the cast. Greta's stomach twists every time she catches a glimpse of the pink plaster, both a reminder of the day, and an unnecessary hindrance. She could have been healed in a moment; this could have been so much simpler. But there was an agreement: her coach and teammates and half of her teammates' parents had all seen the injury, and it would have been too conspicuous for her to show up to the next practice looking as if nothing had happened. There might even have been grumbles about unfair advantages.
Greta would have argued that speedy healing is perfectly fair when all the other children are twice Saoirse's size and knocking her into the dirt every other minute, but she can see the wisdom of keeping any magical influences well-hidden. She doesn't like it -- and the Greta of eight months ago would have gawped at the thought of not liking a bit of magical restraint -- but she understands it.
It's nearing the end of her shift, and she's putting the last few dishes away, making sure everything is in order. There's a spare lemon tart wrapped in a handkerchief and waiting by the door, so she won't forget it. (Despite Mad Sweeney's reassurances, she can no longer convince herself that a mouthful of bread -- even her bread -- is a sufficient offering for someone so bloody enormous.) And then there's a knock on the door, one she easily recognizes as Saoirse's. Though she knows the sight of the cast will give her a pang, Greta finds herself smiling fondly as she goes to open the door.
"Hello, sweetheart." She almost adds that Saoirse doesn't need to knock, that she can come visit whenever she likes, but then she remembers that with only one hand at her disposal, doors must be harder to handle. "Are you hungry? I could fix you something before I go."
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Inside, she's pasted child-cut paper flowers of varying sizes, and between them in her careful, six-year-old penmanship, are words.
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She opens the card, first taking in the paper flowers that have been carefully cut and pasted inside. It all looks like Saoirse's handiwork, and Greta can only imagine how much time and care she must have taken to do all this with only one good arm. "Oh, this is beautiful," she praises, reaching out with one finger to trace the edge of one of the flowers. "You must have worked so hard."
And then she reads the message, also printed with evident care, and the pleased, indulgent smile she'd been wearing slowly slips off of her face.
I know we lied to the nurse lady at hospital, oh dear, but you are a good mum.
Greta sits down with a bump, her eyes beginning to sting, a lump already forming in her throat. Was she a good mother? God, she'd wanted to be. She'd tried. But when all was said and done, she didn't get much of a chance at it before she was brought here. And as much as she's mothered Saoirse, or any of the other children she's met, she's never really thought that it counted -- that they saw it as anything more than a bandage over a wound she couldn't heal.
But then, Saoirse's always been missing this. It's right there on the page.
I never knew my mum but I pretend she must have been like you.
Greta's vision blurs, though not before she finishes reading the rest. Oh, no. She has to say something, she can't just burst into tears in front of the poor girl, but she knows that if she tries to say anything, that's exactly what will happen. She presses her fingertips over her mouth, lifting them just enough to manage a shaky, inadequate, "... Oh."
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"Here," she says, leaning against the cabinets, shifting a little so the handles aren't digging into her back, then holding out her arms in invitation. "Come here, sweetheart," she coaxes, managing a sheepish, tired smile.
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That's not the whole explanation, and she knows it won't be wholly reassuring. "And it reminded me of just how much I love you," she continues, smoothing back the girl's hair, "which is quite a lot." She's smiling more easily, now. And if she emphasizes the last three words with a storytelling cadence, it's only to lighten the mood, not to cover up a falsehood. She does love Saoirse, though she's avoided saying it for reasons that now seem inadequate. Because she's a selkie, and loving a selkie -- truly loving one -- is synonymous with letting them go when the time comes. Now, of course, it seems borderline criminal that she hasn't mentioned it earlier. She could have been saying since nearly the beginning.
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"Your mother would be so proud of you," she says. She could say more on that subject: that she's so sorry Saoirse's mother isn't here, and that they never really got to know one another. She knows exactly how much that hurts, never getting to see your child grow up. And she knows she'll start crying again if she tries to voice any of that, so she doesn't. She just turns to press a kiss against Saoirse's forehead.
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More to the point, she wants to make up for it. Wishing is a habit she might be able to break herself of, but wanting, she suspects, is never going anywhere. And she wants to be... whatever Saoirse needs. Even if it ends up breaking her heart, in the end.
"If you ever need mothering," she says carefully, resisting the urge to just say a mother, instead, "you can come straight to me. All right?"
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Granted, this could all still end in tears. Trusting Darrow to let them remain together might be an exercise in futility. But for as long as they're both here -- for as long as she's allowed -- she's more than willing to be a sort of surrogate mother for the girl. It's what she was doing anyway, more or less. Maybe there's no harm in being open about it.
Greta retrieves the thank-you note from where she'd set it on the floor. "Can I take this home with me?" she asks. The refrigerators in the Gardens' kitchen already sport artwork by some of the younger children, Saoirse included. But this one... she thinks she'd rather keep it close than display it someplace as highly trafficked as this. She doesn't want it to come to harm by accident.
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She misses her son with a sudden ferocity. She misses the way he was simply and unquestionably hers.
But she smiles, because it's a sweet gesture, and because she's already worried the poor girl enough. "Thank you," she says, brushing her free hand over Saoirse's hair, then cupping her cheek for a moment. "I think I'll put it up on my fridge."
And this, she thinks, is about all the tenderness she can stand. Any more, and she'll end up carrying Saoirse home with her, too. "All right," she says bracingly, more for her own benefit than Saoirse's. She gently shepherds the girl off of her lap so she can get back to her feet. "Now, are you sure you don't want a snack?" she asks, smiling down at her.
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