#estelle de prima

Sonia feels her legs begin to sway, but she manages to look her father in the eye and speak without faltering. 

“We all need to sit down and have this conversation,” she says. “The four of us. You and Mum, and Violet and I. It can’t wait any longer.”

Behind her, Violet slowly exhales. Sonia is achingly conscious of the  warmth and scent of Violet’s skin, the strength and softness of her body, the rapid beating of her own heart. For one delirious moment she is weightless, her soul soaring on a tide of joy and freedom. Then she hears her mother’s gasp of anguish and sees the depth of the disgust in her father’s eyes, and she lands back in reality with a sickening thud.

“We will be doing nothing of the kind,” says Frank, his eyes bulging. “You and your…your friend are guests in our house, and are therefore under an obligation to respect our beliefs and standards of behaviour. And one thing we believe in very strongly is the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. Discussions about sexual perversions and immorality will not be tolerated. Do you understand?”
“Well, I want you to understand something too. Roy and I are getting a divorce, ” says Sonia. “And Violet and I love each other.“ 

She doesn’t dare look at Estelle. She can hear her sobs, and the sound chills her bones.

"You are going to kill your mother,” says Frank. “I hope you’re happy.”
“Dad, please-”
“Haven’t you caused enough damage?” says Frank. “Please leave. Now.”

Sonia doesn’t move.

“NOW,” shouts Frank. Sonia trembles and moves towards the stairs. She stops at the top and holds her hand out for Violet to take. They walk out together, hand in hand, into the fresh air and the sunshine.

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Based on the snippets of information that Sonia had provided about her parents, Violet had envisioned Frank and Estelle de Prima to be a pair of reactionary relics, trapped for posterity in a paranoid, xenophobic existence, all their energies spent bemoaning the disintegration of the traditional family and the threat posed to their way of life by liberals, socialists, and immigrants. Frank had been just as she had expected, although she had been surprised he had actually shaken her hand. (The reality was that he was a man who prided himself on his good manners, especially towards the fairer sex, and any lapse was perceived as a threat to the civilized order.) And now Violet is standing in the de Prima’s living room and Estelle is standing in the kitchen, looking small and frail, and blinking in confusion. The room is blanketed in intoxicating layers of smells, pie crust and fresh-baked bread and garlic and coriander. Michael Bublé croons innocuously from the stereo. 

“Hello!” exclaims Violet. “You must be Sonia’s mother. I’m Violet. It’s lovely to meet you, Estelle!” 

Estelle’s blinking intensifies. Sonia stands at the top of the stairs, unable to move. Her mother’s head swivels in her direction.

“Where are the children? Where’s Roy?” Estelle asks.

“We left the children at home,“ says Sonia. “And Roy….Roy isn’t coming, either.” 

“But I made his favourite lemon chiffon pie!” says Estelle. She looks like she might cry. They can hear the thud of Frank’s footsteps coming up the stairs. 

“It’s okay, Estelle, I love lemon chiffon pie!” says Violet. Estelle has so far refused to acknowledge her presence. She again addresses Sonia.  

“Why aren’t Roy and the children here?” she says in a plaintive voice. Sonia looks helplessly at Violet, who gives her a smile of gentle encouragement. 

“I’ll explain when we’re all sitting down,“ says Sonia.

“Don’t worry, Estelle,” says Frank, standing behind Sonia. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly plausible explanation.” 

Sonia turns to face him, and his face is waxen with repressed fury. 

“You will not do this, Sonia,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You will not do this to your mother. I forbidit.”