So, I say nothing…
If I protest now, the girl who I have come to love will lose more than I ever could.
And she doesn’t deserve that.
Fenna deserves a life, an opportunity to work, earn her keep, to take care of her family, and is worthy of a tarnish-free reputation. Fenna is everything I am not and will never be. Fenna deserves a chance.
After all, I have thrown all of mine away like beautiful nothings…
Head tipped forward, I offer her a tiny nod and keep striding toward my belongings and when my fingers curl around the cold metal handle of that trunk, I take a breath, smile, focus on the door ahead and then tug the weight of my life right along with me…
“We are sorry, Mila.”
Yes, so am I…
They are infected words spoken so eloquently that it almost makes me believe them.
Mother’s broken voice drifts on the briny summer breeze which slips in through the windows and then makes its way into my ears. “We are so sorry, Mila.”
I wait for Father to speak, to say something, but instead there is only silence.
The man who helped to give me life never says much of anything although he sees everything…So why on earth do I expect him to speak from his heart now?
Mother weeps even more, and in this moment, it is emotion that I do not care for, so I dismiss it, just as she has done with everything that I am since I broke free from her belly all those years ago.
I am resigned to believe that tears will not help me.
Neither will pity, either from self or from others.
Pulling my hat on, I continue forward, fingers flexing with a thrill and cheeks blazing…
I will not have my flames smothered or allow my blazing soul to be snuffed out.
I will not be told how to live, who to be and given the reason for why I breathe.
I will be wild.
I will be brave.
I will let my heart fly free.
Trembling, sweaty hand resting on the door latch, my thumb sends it down.
CLICK.
I pull the heavy door toward me and with the action the bright sun beams down upon my face, dusting it with warmth, and life which I could have sworn had just been leaving it. I gift Mother and Father with one last glance, a sad one that’s imbued with both regret and disappointment two-fold, and then I step over the edge, perhaps into nothingness, leaving all that used to be my old life behind, feeling no use at all for taking any pieces or parts of it with me…along with the heavy iron chains.
It can all stay here.
ONE
The Present
April, 1901
The Hague, South Holland
Netherlands
Tess
WE NEVER HAD CHILDREN…
Adriaan was never happy about that.
Still, he smiles, just as he is doing now.
It is our way—no matter what happens…we smile.
So, after I draw in a long breath and inhale the minty fragrance from the cup of tea placed in front of me, I do the same. Adriaan’s eyes meet mine as he strides across the kitchen, eyes peeled on everything, grabs his suit jacket then slips it on with the casual ease he always possesses.
I’m fixated on the view through the single-pane glass for a while.
But then those footsteps grow louder as Adriaan makes his way toward me and earns my attention once again. “I’ll be home just in time for dinner, Tess.” He backs away and regards me with kind eyes, hand reaching up to caress my cheek gently.
“Okay.” I nod.
His stare remains on me for far too long and then his eyes flicker to the window just beyond where I’m sitting. Up and down they go—me and then the window and then back on me again.
I ensure my smile remains…as weak as it is this morning.
Adriaan smiles.
It is a kind smile as it always is.
Each time I look at this man I am reminded of my very own father—a man who although he was never perfect was of more good attributes than faults. How kind he was—how gentle—how understanding. Maybe it is the reason why I married this man…I still don’t know…They always say all little girls eventually grow up to marry their fathers in one way or another.
Eyes still somewhat stuck on the window, I chuckle at that realization.
Adriaan’s hand lingers on my cheek for a while as if he’s examining every detail of my features, looking me over as if he’s never seen me before, examining me as if there’s something in my eyes he may just be failing to see. The scrutinization makes me uncomfortable so as discreetly as possible, not to hurt his feelings, I slip out of the display of affection I once used to crave without asking myself why.
Allowing his hand to fall by his side, Adriaan lets out a breath and then smiles.
A breeze drifts in through the windows and fills this large kitchen with the lingering scent of summer. The faint noise from the city just outside makes me feel just a little bit of excitement about the day ahead, although it’s always the same. My eyes shift to face the world beyond the window once more which is so close yet seems so far away and unreachable, unattainable, distant—blue sky, bustling streets of the Scheveningen district, busy harbor. There is an entire world beyond the confines of this miraculous home I feel as if I’ve lived in forever now.
It has been ten years that I, Tess Sophie Janssen, have called this place my home.
It has been ten years that I have called Adriaan my husband.
It has been ten years that I have found myself sitting on this stool at the same time every morning, sipping the same tea, thinking the same thoughts, dreaming the same impossible dreams, and looking down at the very same street below wishing I could leap right out the window and make a break for it, run somewhere far away, do something incredible with my life, but I never do.
Although only a few distinct things have changed in the last few months…
Still, it has been ten long years.
And in that time Den Haag or The Hague has changed much…
I was born here on a sunny Tuesday morning in July and I’ve always called this city—which was founded by the last counts of Holland—my home. Population now is around two hundred thousand hopeful souls. After the international peace conference held here a few years ago, along with the series of international peace treaties and declarations, later named the “Hague Conventions,” and being the home of international law and arbitration are what this city has become well-known for around the world.
As a girl, I would sit by the water’s edge and fish for cod and sole with my father while listening to him blabber on about world peace and learning to find the beauty in everything even if it doesn’t seem to be there at first glance. Still, he would always encourage me to find it even if I were looking at a pile of shit.
Only now I can’t even find the beauty in my own work anymore.
Art is my life.
One busy afternoon my mother dragged me to the Mauritshuis to view Johannes Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring and in that moment something happened to me. I stood with my hand in my mother’s own staring into the chocolate-colored eyes of the sad girl in that painting. The dark space which lingered behind her. The blue and golden turban she wore. The gold jacket she had on with a white collar. The titular pearl earring. The way her eyes were wide and lips were parted as if she was about to say something magical and worth knowing. The expression on her face is nothing short of enigmatic. It was undeniably captivating. The mystery girl in that painting was perfect. The portrait was undoubtedly intimate. I imagined both the artist and the girl in that painting seated for hours as he worked to make it all come to life on the canvas. Vermeer—a man who was born right here in The Netherlands—had captured a true story in that girl’s eyes.