My Champagne Problems

20: Louis Roederer

'We make stupid decisions sometimes'

"The moment you recognized that marketplace I knew you would eventually figure it out," she mumbles to herself.

"Stop going around in circles," I tell her, frustration lacing my words.

She sighs. "You remember that place because that's where we lived," she confesses much to my utter confusion.

"No, we didn't," I frown. "I would remember that," I add.

"We did," she persists. "You don't remember much from that time," she adds. It's evident from my expression that I'm not buying into her story.

"The doctor said it was your brain's way of protecting you," she adds.

"Protecting me from what?" I demand.

"From trauma that...it changed everything for us Liv."

"What trauma?" I demand again.

"Bab--"

"What happened?" I cut her off before she can change the topic again.

She sighs at my unweaving persistence. But I'm not about to back down, not now at least. I hold my posture, my expressions giving away not more than what I wanted her to see. A trick I've learned from Enrique.

"You," she pauses, clearly trying to frame her words appropriately.

"Just tell me," I persist sternly, not wanting to give her enough time to fabricate a lie or sugarcoat the truth.

"You saw someone get shot," she blurts out. My mind goes numb. No thoughts. No flashbacks. Just blank numbness.

"I don't remember," I tell her slowly giving myself enough time to process and jog my memory, but still nothing.

"What do you want me to say Liv?" She asks in a defeated tone. "I've spent most of your childhood hoping and prying you never remember that god-awful afternoon," she explains, sincerely lacing her words.

"Who was it?" I ask solemnly. She frowns.

"Why does that matter?"

"Because it does," I reply.

"A woman," she replies vaguely.

"Did I know her?"

"No," she replies rather curtly. "You were just three and very reserved, you barely knew your classmates," she adds.

"Did you know her?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at the visible discomfort my question borough her.

"N-yes," she sighs.

"Who was she?" I ask again. 'Why is this question bugging me so much?'

'And why can't I remember any of this?'

"She lived in our neighborhood, that's all I know," she replies defensively, but there is something more, I can tell. Something she isn't telling me.

"And that's all I'm telling you," she adds in a definite tone. Like the one, she uses when she doesn't want me to argue with her, and one that I usually obey. But not this time, this time I want to argue. I need to.

"Mum plea--"

"I'm done talking about it," she cuts me off curtly. Silence fills the air once again. 

"I don't expect you to forgive me, not so easily at least. But I hope you will, eventually," she says hopefully, offering me a meek smile before leaving me alone on the balcony.