Echoes in the Hallway

“Thank you for meeting with me today,” I said, looking into Roma’s eyes — my attention, unwavering, from across the living room — as I reclined into the softness of one of the maroon upholstered chairs on either side of the huge television screen. The slanting rays of the mid-morning sun were slowly beginning to force their way through the towering columns of wispy white curtains falling languorously from the high ceiling to the waxed wooden floor at the far end of the room. Seated on the sofa diagonally opposite mine, Roma reached for a lighter, and clicking it open, lit a thick white pillar candle fitted into what looked like a tall cylindrical glass jar.  

 

“I love candles,” she stated as she crossed her legs — putting the right one over her left —before leaning back on the sofa. 

 

The space, mulled by notes of lemongrass bursting forth from invisible locations, claimed us in a way that surprised even me. The supple beige cushions adorning the seating that bordered the massive perimeter of the room sprang to life under blobs of sunshine, while tiny crystals sparkled from the walls reminding me to be mindful of the honey-toned velour rug my thirty-year-old feet were sinking into. Roma tucked a thin lock of hair behind her right ear; the rest of it was secured tightly into a knot at the top of her head. Her once clear skin had turned patchy — perhaps it was the sun or the passage of time that had taken its toll — I wouldn’t know. I wish I had known. 

 

“Victor is travelling today. To Dubai,” she mentioned in passing, pursing her lips and adjusting her black satin dressing gown into place over her lap. 

 

Roma’s hair gleamed a rich burgundy in the invading light. I wondered how long she’d been dying her hair. I heard that she believed her twenty-year marriage to Victor relieved her in many ways. She found herself again, and didn’t feel choked. Victor was wealthy, with business interests in many countries across the globe. That is how they met. Roma was an interior designer who worked on a project involving one of Victor’s villas in the Middle East. She was ambitious and passionate about design. But her young family — her husband and little son —remained at the centre of her life. 

“Are you still designing?” 

“No,” she shot a glance at me and continued in a raspy voice, “but I keep in touch. I did this place up myself.”

I looked up at the details of the imposing ceiling, and its numerous spotlights. I imagined how they would glow when the sun was down and night engulfed the mansion. 

 

“What will you have to drink?” she asked purposefully.

“Juice,” I replied, looking at the filled decanter set atop the marble centre-table standing between us.

 

With a wave of her hand, Roma signalled to the house-keeper to leave just as he rushed forward to serve the drinks. Although the room was flooded with warm sunlight, the air-conditioning ensured that everything felt cold to the touch. Roma’s familiar fingers lifted the heavy stopper out of the mouth of the crystal decanter and placed it neatly on the leather tray. She then took a tall glass and proceeded to fill it with the juice from the rocking decanter. 

 

                                                                       ***

 

John’s tenth birthday. He’s thrilled. It’s two days away; he has yet to buy new clothes. There’s a lot of homework to do, and with exams around the corner, the schedule is tight. He still has incomplete things on his to-do list. Anyway, it’s got to be done. Chocolates too! He hops into the car with Mom in the driver’s seat, and they’re off to the store. The invites for the party have been sent out. The cake has been ordered. Mom has everything under control. John’s birthday arrives. The huge arch of gold and silver balloons framing the entrance to the garden in their front yard glistens against the soft hues of the setting sun. Music reverberates through the street from the two speakers parked on either side of the garden. The lawn is buzzing with frenzied commotion as John and his friends skitter about trying to make the most of their evening together. The show begins. The magician takes his place at the large table set up in one corner of the garden. Parents and children alike watch with rapt attention as the magician throws a ball into the air only for it to turn into a dove that flies away in seconds. Coins and cards are made to disappear and reappear at will much to the excitement of everyone present. Loud cheers and claps fill the evening air. Finally, the magician asks, 

“Children! You want money?” 

The children erupt into applause, screaming, “Yes!!”

The magician dips into his pocket, fishes out empty slips of paper and throws them into the air — much to the disappointment of the expectant children. There is a hush. The magician explains to the children smilingly, “You cannot get money free. Ok children? Shtudy well, worrk hard. Then only you will get money. Ok? Good!”

A two-tier cake is rolled into the centre of the garden with John’s favourite flavours of icing on it. Mom and Dad are at his side as John cuts his birthday cake in the midst of his friends and their families. 

 

With breakfast already served on the table, John hurriedly puts on his shoes, pulls out a chair, and sits down to eat. His mouth is full when he looks up and sees Dad running down the stairs. 

“Hurry John, it’s getting late,” Dad tells him as he fetches the car keys from the cabinet near the main door of their house. 

“Mom’s not dropping me today?” John asks, quickly gulping down the morsel of food in his mouth. 

“She stepped out for a while,” Dad replies, walking out into the garage to start the car. 

The lights in the house are switched on; dusk has set in. John lingers for a while in the living room before going into his room. Minutes later, he’s out again. Approaching the office room, he places his nimble hand on Dad’s shoulder,

“What’s taking mom so long?”

Dad is sitting at his desk, busy writing something on a sheet of paper.

“Finish your homework. She’s delayed,” he informs John, removing his thick-framed glasses and patting him on his head.

 

It’s been a few days since Mom has been away at an aunt’s house. John is not going to school today. Instead, he’s going to meet with Mom. He wears his favourite blue shirt and black trousers. Mom always tells him he looks smart in this shirt. Their car comes to a halt a few feet from the main gate leading up to the aunt’s house. Just as John opens the door to bolt out of the car, Dad stops him,

“You wait here. I’ll go and bring mom, hmm?”

John quietly sits back, closing the door leisurely. Rolling down the windows, he slinks into the front seat all the while popping up at regular intervals to catch a glimpse of the main door. Suddenly, the main door opens. Dad steps out in animated conversation with someone behind him. John springs up and cranes his neck looking through the windshield. He quickly adjusts his shirt and is waiting. Mom emerges from the main door as Dad turns around and begins striding towards the car. Before John can unlock his door, Dad is back in the driver’s seat. 

“Where’s mom? Isn’t she coming?” 

“No,” retorts Dad, sighing as he turns on the ignition.

John is now restless. 

“I want to see mom. I’m going to meet her,” he insists — his little voice quivering as he urgently unlocks the car.

“No!” shouts father, and continues sternly, “sit back. Let’s go.”

“But why?!” John pleads, with tears welling up in his eyes.

“She doesn’t want to meet you!” blurts Dad angrily. 

John looks at the main door. It is shut. Swallowing hard, he backs down, faces forward and leans back against the seat. His eyes are now still, with the remaining tears rolling gently down his flushed cheeks. Father changes the gear and they drive away. 

 

                                                                         ***

 

“Is it alright?” Roma enquired, as she poured herself a drink too. 

“It’s good,” I stuttered, wiping the orange juice off my lips with the napkin she had handed to me. 

A spray of water rattled the window panes surrounding us. The gardeners had lost control of one of the hoses as they watered the plants outside. Roma was a little shaken but soon regained composure, and took a big sip from the glass in her hand. She then stood up. Glass in hand, and sauntering over to a phone perched delicately atop a three-legged table in a corner of the living room, she picked up the receiver and poked her fingers at a few numbers on the dial. As she whispered into the phone, her eyes darted across the room, checking out the sofas, the curtains, the ceiling, the flooring, the telephone — except me. I never anticipated being there. What would I say to her; what I would not say to her. What should I say; should I say anything at all. Maybe she’s been finding out about me; she’s been there all along. Sitting there in an unfamiliar room, witnessing an unfamiliar life, felt unnervingly familiar. I hoped I could pop out for a breadth of fresh air, but soon Roma was back on the sofa in front of me. 

“What do you do?” she enquired nonchalantly, trying to engage with me as best she could. 

“I am into business.”

“Nice an…” 

“Why did you not want to see me?” I interrupted impatiently.

Up until that moment the air between us was dead. Every word of what we spoke struggled to survive in the vacuum of emotion in that room. Roma continued to sip on her drink — her eyes fixed on the glass she was holding. 

“Mother?” I muttered feebly. 

She glared at me for a split second, quickly shifting her gaze to the centre-table as she gracefully placed the glass on it. 

“John,” she took a deep breath, exhaled, and remarked, “I have something to give you.”

“Why didn’t you meet me that day? Why?” I persisted.

 

Roma left the room, returning moments later carrying a tiny red velvet box. My eyes followed her as she entered from the echoing hallway into the living room through the arched doorway, gliding past me, turning around and settling daintily on the edge of the sofa. 

“Your father’s wedding ring,” she stated, stretching out her right hand with the red velvet box nestled in her palm. 

My lips parted to speak, when the housekeeper appeared at the doorway informing Roma that she had a visitor. I secured the red velvet box in my pocket. 

“If you can excuse me…” she said firmly yet politely, her lips refusing to break into a smile. 

Taking a long hard look at Roma, I exited the freezing living room, into the cocooning hallway and out onto the driveway, leaving the idyllic mansion behind. Forever.