The Woman in Valencia by Annie Perreault (book recommendations website txt) 📗

with us, everyone painted the same picture of her, stressing her remarkable intelligence, her piercing gaze, but also the gentle way she had about her,

my mother, head of the class, spelling bee champion and mathletics winner, loyal and dedicated friend, completely genuine, always thinking of others, especially her children, putting our happiness ahead of her own, according to my grandmother, deeply sensitive, even her skin reacted to the slightest aggression, the cold, the heat, the water, she suffered from a condition that I inherited to a milder degree, dermographism, an exaggerated form of hives, even the slightest graze with a fingernail was enough to cause red wheals to appear on her skin, and after she stepped out of the shower, each and every rub and wipe of the towel was apparent from the scarlet lines left behind on her body,

my mother, queen of repartee, who had a way of laughing at herself and of always seeing the beauty in things, who insisted on always looking for the silver lining, with a casualness that we assumed made her impervious to drama, sometimes she’d write “I love you” on her forearm for us, and her skin would immediately come up in red, letter-shaped welts that eventually faded to white,

before Valencia, my mother had been a perfect mother, an all-around perfect woman who nevertheless abandoned us in August 2015, we don’t understand it, Laure, there’s got to be an explanation, it’s not like your mother to just disappear, and yet, the explanation never came, and my mother, my famous perfect mother, stunning, unreal, never came back either…

KILOMETRE 32

… it’s been ages since I looked for you like I used to when I was a kid, buoyed by the belief that you might suddenly appear at any moment, that I’d open my eyes one night and find you standing right in front of me in my room, and the darkness would fade away, there were times I felt furious, I hated you for it, but now I know I’d welcome you with open arms if you came back, I’d forgive you for deserting us,

if only we could know, if only the answers to all life’s mysteries and affronts were written somewhere, if only we could understand what hurts people, what drives others to do this or that, you’ve become a woman I’ve stopped hoping will appear at any minute around every corner, every time the doorbell buzzes or the phone rings, the hope is still there, even though it’s fading, I go on waiting, for you to appear,

but how could I ever give up hope of seeing you again unless a police officer actually knocked on the door to tell us there’s been a development, they’ve found your body, they’ve picked up your trail? I’ve often told myself that maybe you’re adrift somewhere, suffering from amnesia, that you didn’t actually abandon us, all of us, your son and daughter, your friends, your mother, your sister, your cat, maybe you’ve simply just forgotten everything, down to your name and address, maybe you don’t know you’re supposed to be looking for us, that’s why you haven’t come back to us, I refuse to believe that you’re dead, no, you didn’t want to die, just disappear, run away, and now it’s me running through Valencia, like I’m heading out to meet you…

Run, my love, run! You can do it!

… on my way past, I give the thirty-two kilometre marker, that wall that everyone goes on about, a discreet flying finger, fist pressed tightly against my thigh, middle finger standing tall—take that, you won’t get the best of me—here’s where the marathon gets serious, the last ten kilometres can break a runner…

KILOMETRE 33

… just keep going, my body’s a battlefield, why? why am I doing this to myself? the repetitive motion, the pain, the chafing skin and searing muscles, the spaghetti arms, the cement in my legs, the toes on fire in my running shoes, I’m not going to make it, I’m not even sure if it’s my mind or my body that’s ready to give up, the seam on this tank top is killing me, a nail file rubbing against my collarbone, the skin under my armpit is chafed red and raw, I lean into the gusting wind, wild is the wind, I put one foot down, then the other, I raise one arm, then the other, I breathe in, I breathe out, legs like lead,

I try to ignore the stiffness, not think about it, I keep going, keeping running, five minutes fifty seconds per kilometre, I’ve slowed down, no matter how hard I try, I’m losing steam, but what was I thinking? a marathon in under four hours, but why? pulse pounding in my temples, sickly sweet taste in my mouth, hips screaming in pain, neck stiff and aching, I block out the pain, I ignore my brain begging me to slow down, I refuse to give in to everything that’s trying to hold me back, we don’t go there, my mother used to say…

Relax your shoulders.

Relax your shoulders.

Relax your shoulders.

KILOMETRE 34

… I’m tired, so tired, I don’t want to stop and I don’t want to slow down, the effort is more than I’ve got in me, I need to keep going, my mind is made up, failure is not an option, weakness is not permitted, no body of mine is going to give up and give out, c’mon, eight kilometres to go, the soles of my feet are burning, my heel is throbbing, my toes are chafing, stay focused, don’t slow down, I pump my arms, I lift one foot, I land, I push off, straining and leaning my whole body forward, trying to tap into my inner ferocity, I’m only at kilometre 34, I’m hanging on for dear life, everything is shutting down, I keep running…

KILOMETRE 35

… I can’t do it, I want it to stop, everything is falling apart, I’m