Chapter 25

MACKENZIE

T he scent of coconut and vanilla surrounds me in the driver's seat of Dylan's car. It takes me back to this morning, when I'd wrapped my arms around him in his living room, my cheek pressed against his bare chest. It reminds me of the way he kissed me while we sat on his couch, the way he held me like his life depended on it.

It had been everything, but the memory still sends a wave of unease through me because I had torn away from him first.

Again.

I keep wondering what it will take for me to be able to truly let go of my past.

I stop at a set of traffic lights as I near the studio and fan my face with my hand. The air con still isn't working and a quick glance over at the passenger side door determines the window winder is still broken.

I've spent the entire drive into Seabright Cove wondering if I'm doing the right thing. Just as Dylan said it would be, the journey to the studio by car has been a lot faster than by bus, which hasn't left me with enough time to contemplate all the things I need to say. The questions that need to be asked.

I discover there's a carpark behind the building the studio is located in with plenty of vacancy, so I pull into a corner spot. I smooth down my curls, take a deep breath and exhale.

"Come on, Mackenzie. You can do this," I whisper, psyching myself up. "It's no big deal. Just a little meeting with your long-lost grandmother. How bad can it be?"

With a racing heart and a mind riddled with the fear of all the things I might be about to learn, I slam the car door shut with a clunk. The gravel crunches underneath the soles of my boots as I stride toward the building.

I'm still struggling to come to terms with the fact that I have a grandmother, let alone how she may have come to find me in Cliff Haven.

When I round the corner, it's the bright red ‘closed' sign on the door of the studio that grabs my attention first.

"Damn it," I mutter under my breath.

I'm disappointed but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little relieved that maybe this dreaded conversation could be put off for another day.

That relief is dampened as I catch sight of a silhouette in the window. She's here, standing with her back to me, a mop of wavy, greying curls cascading around her. She turns and her swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks take my breath away. We may not know each other at all, but we're still connected and my heart aches to see her in such distress.

I raise a hand in a wave. The smile Grace aims at me in return is laced with sadness before she moves toward the door to let me in. The lock clicks loudly, then the door swings open, the tinny ring of the bell sounding from above.

"You're closed," I say, stating the obvious.

She curls her hair behind her ears, nodding in response. "I didn't feel much like being creative today. I cancelled all my classes."

Guilt twists in my gut knowing that I've been a factor in that decision. "I can go," I offer.

"No. Please stay," she pleads. Her response is quick, her hands coming up cautiously before she moves aside, allowing me to enter the studio. "Come in."

"Okay." I shuffle inside.

"I owe you an apology," she begins. "For how I went about saying what I said. There's just so much I need to tell you and there was no easy way to go about it. I'm sorry that I sprung that on you."

I nod, though I feel somehow that I should be the one apologising to her. I have so many things to say but the words are caught in my throat. Instead, I find myself gravitating to the painting hanging on the wall above. The image of the woman, arms spread wide, palms open, the golden strands of hair floating out around her like a halo.

Grace's gaze follows mine. "She was talented."

"My mother painted this." It's more of a statement than a question. Somehow, I just know.

"I hadn't seen her in a long time, but then she started visiting the studio all of a sudden. She painted that picture while she was here. Little did I know it would be the last time I would see her for many years. If my calculations are correct, she painted this one not long after you were born."

"It's amazing," I say, my eyes not leaving the painting. "So ambiguous. I can't seem to figure out whether she's floating or drowning."

"She was drowning," she chokes. "I didn't realise it at the time."

"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel," I say, my eyes tearing up. "I've spent my life being angry at her. For leaving me with a father that couldn't properly care for me. I didn't know her. I never got to know her, but I still feel this overwhelming sense of loss."

"No one can tell you how to feel, Mackenzie," she replies. "There's so much to process."

Bracing myself for an answer I know will be painful to hear, I dare to ask the dreaded question that's plagued me since learning of my mother's death. "What happened to her?"

She lets out an uneven breath as she curls her lips into a thin line. "Breast cancer. A very aggressive form."

My heart picks up speed, a sick feeling turning in my gut. I feel like I'm going to throw up. I sink down into the nearest chair and Grace joins me, occupying the one across from me, resting her elbows on the table.

Suddenly I'm angry, rage igniting from somewhere within. I'm furious about this whole situation, but I have nowhere left to direct it except at Grace.

"Why did you only come to find me now?" I cry. "Why couldn't you have visited when I was little? Do you know how nice that would have been? To have a grandmother there to care for me? I had no one!"

"Oh, Mackenzie." Her eyes mist over, but the genuineness in them remains. "I wish I could have, but I didn't know about you."

"What?" I had no clue this woman existed. My father had always told me that my grandparents had passed away before I was born, but how is it possible that she didn't know about me either? Realisation dawns on me. "My mother never told you she was pregnant, did she?" I suddenly feel drained. "Was she that ashamed of me?"

"She was never ashamed of you, Mackenzie." Grace reaches to the centre of the table and plucks a tissue from the box resting there. "If anything, she was ashamed of herself."

"What do you mean?"

"She had an affair with a married man and got pregnant with his child. There were a lot of things at play." She sighs as she shakes her head, looking as exhausted by this conversation as I feel. "She was always a bit rebellious growing up, and I admit, I was too strict on her as a teenager. I was too controlling and all it did was make her rebel. I had only wanted what was best for her, but I guess I never made it easy for her to tell me things like that."

"You can't blame yourself for that. She had a choice. She could have told you."

"But I do. I blame myself for her not feeling comfortable to come home and tell me about you," she replies earnestly, looking back up to the painting on the wall. "If I'd have been paying attention, I would have been able to see that this painting was a cry for help."

I track her gaze to the canvas, my own eyes now seeing it in a new light. After hearing her explanation, I can only see the sadness in it. "How did you find out about me then?"

"She came home when she got sick. She stayed with me in the weeks leading up to her passing. When she was nearing the end, she gave me an envelope with strict instructions not to open it until after she was gone. Sometimes I wish I hadn't honoured that wish, but there's no point in dwelling on the ‘what ifs'."

She rises from the chair, wandering over to the set of drawers and retrieves a wrinkled sheet of A4 notepad paper. My heart jolts at the sight of the shaky script scrawled across its lines as she hands it to me.

I don't want to read it. I'm not ready to know what it says, but I can't look away.

Dear Mum,

If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer here. I know we've always had our differences. I haven't always been the best daughter. I've made countless mistakes throughout my life that I wish I could take back, my biggest regret being that I never shared with you my greatest achievement.

Her name is Mackenzie. And she is your granddaughter.

I'm sorry I didn't tell you that you were a grandmother sooner, that I kept her hidden for so long. I did it out of selfishness, because by admitting to you that she exists, I also need to admit that I failed as a mother.

I'm writing this letter to you in the hopes that you will find her. It's my dying wish for you to connect with her because you deserve to know her. And she deserves to know you, because any kid would be lucky to have you as their grandmother.

I love you, Mum. You were the best mother I could have asked for.

I'm sorry I never said that enough.

Love always,

Beth

PS: She lives at 23 Woodville Road, Coledale.

The letter drops from my hands, some of the words partly smudged by the lone tear that's trickled down the page.

"She told you to find me. That's why you were watching me by the river," I say, sniffling.

"I went to the address she gave me, but the house was abandoned. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to find you after that. I had no idea where to look. And then one night, I heard them say your name on tv in a news report. When I saw your photo flash up on the screen, I knew. You look just like her."

"I do?" I ask.

She nods, reaching into the envelope and pulling out a tattered photograph. "She left me this too."

I take it with trembling hands. Tears obscure my vision as I look down at the picture. A happy toddler with bright blonde hair and big blue eyes sitting in the lap of a young woman, not much older than I am now. Her long blonde ringlets hang down past her shoulders, the smile she wears signifying happiness, but there is trouble brewing within her eyes.

This is my mother. This is the woman that brought me into this world and then left me to fend for myself. Now that she's gone, I know I should feel sad, and I do, but I'm still so angry about her abandonment. In a way it feels as though she's left me twice now.

"I know this is a lot for you to process," Grace says. "It's a lot for me too. I want to be a part of your life, Mackenzie, but I understand if you don't want me to be. I'm so glad I got to meet you. I know you've been through so much in your young life, but I also know you're going to be okay. You're strong. Just like she was."

It's utterly surreal, yet bittersweet to hear Grace make comparisons between my mother and I. Knowing my strength is something I have in common with her sends a rush of comfort through me. I'd always wanted to know where I came from, but I have to wonder about all the bad traits I may have inherited too.

Grace is right. This has all been so much to process, but I am grateful that she entered my life.

"I'm glad you found me," I say, placing the photograph gently down on the table in front of me. "So, do I have a grandfather floating around somewhere?"

"Not anymore," she answers with a sad smile. "He left this world when your mother was still a teenager."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. He would have loved to have met you." She reaches across the table to give my hand a squeeze. "But you do have a great aunt. My sister lives about an hour away from here."

"Wow." I raise my eyebrows in surprise then my eyes find hers. "Well, if she's anything like you I'm sure I'm going to like her."

She laughs. "We're polar opposites, but I think you'll still get on like a house on fire."

The idea of meeting another long-lost family member sends a wave of nausea through me. It's been difficult enough to learn that I'm someone's granddaughter, let alone somebody's great niece. I'm suddenly overwhelmed. I think I've taken in enough information for one day.

"I should probably get going." The chair legs screech across the wooden floor as I stand.

"There is something else," Grace says, once again reaching into the large envelope and turning over another folded note in her hands. "She wrote a letter for you too."

"No," I say, furiously shaking my head. "I don't want that."

I can't think of anything that my mother could have written in that letter that could possibly undo all the hurt of the last twenty years. I'm positive that reading it will only be my undoing.

She holds it out to me. "Please take it. I think you need to read it."

"Did you read it?" I ask her.

She nods. "I did. And you should too. In a way, it has given me so many answers. It's given me a sense of closure. I hope it might do the same for you."

Hesitantly, I reach for the letter, another A4 sheet folded in two. I fold the paper over again, hastily tucking it into the front pocket of my skirt. "I'll think about it."

I'm almost at the front door of the studio when I hear Grace's trembling voice behind me. "Mackenzie?"

I turn, looking back at the woman that I can now call my grandmother. "Yes."

"Don't be a stranger, okay?"

My forehead crumples as I nod, before pushing the door open and stepping out onto the street. I head to Dylan's car, hyperaware of the note in my pocket, wondering how something almost weightless can feel as heavy as lead.

I know that when I get back to the tavern, Dylan will have questions and I already know that I won't be in the right head space to answer them.

I feel as though I'm living in a world of uncertainty right now, but there is one thing I am sure of.

I do want to get to know Grace. This woman may have barged into my life with life-changing consequences, but I know in my heart that she is a good person. One that, like me, knows what it's like to suffer an unbearable loss.

And maybe she needs me just as much as I need her.