Chương 10
Her sister, Margaret, managed to believe both things depending on the day.
“You should forgive him,” Margaret said during one phone call.
“I might.”
“He’s your son.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then why keep all these legal things going?”
“Because forgiveness isn’t a bank correction.”
Margaret sighed.
“You’ve always been stubborn.”
“You say that like you weren’t at my wedding.”
After they hung up, Eleanor sat in the kitchen and wondered whether stubbornness was merely the flattering word she used for refusing advice.
She had become suspicious of flattering words.
Strong.
Independent.
Generous.
Family-oriented.
All could hide bad decisions if used conveniently.
A year after the night of the bat, Daniel asked to see her.
Not at the house.
He had not been inside since the confrontation.
They met at the same diner.
The waitress was different.
The coffee remained terrible.
Daniel had found work managing crews for a construction company owned by someone else.
He hated having a boss.
Eleanor found this mildly satisfying.
He looked healthier.
Older too.
Not dramatically.
There was more gray near his temples.
“You look like your father,” she told him.
Daniel smiled.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
They ordered.
He paid for his own soup without discussion.
Eleanor noticed.
She wished she had not.
Tiny signs of improvement were dangerous because mothers could build whole castles from them.
Daniel stirred his coffee.
“I brought something.”
Eleanor stiffened.
He noticed.
“Not a flash drive.”
“Good.”
He took an envelope from his jacket.
Inside was a check.
The amount was small compared with what he owed.
Eleanor looked at it.
“You don’t have to hand-deliver these.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because mailing it felt like paying a parking ticket.”
Eleanor placed the check beside her plate.
Daniel looked nervous.
“I’ve been seeing someone.”
“A woman?”
“A therapist.”
Eleanor nearly said good.
She stopped herself.
Daniel laughed.
“You were going to say something.”
“No.”
“You made the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide not to say what you’re thinking and then congratulate yourself.”
Eleanor stared at him.
“That sounds made up.”
“It’s not.”
For a moment they were mother and son in an ordinary diner.
Then the moment passed.
Daniel lowered his eyes.
“He asked me why I thought asking you for money was worse than taking it.”
Eleanor waited.
“What did you say?”
“That asking meant you could say no.”
The answer sat between them.
Eleanor slowly folded the check envelope.
Daniel continued.
“I think I was more afraid of hearing no than I was afraid of doing something wrong.”
“That sounds expensive.”
He smiled sadly.
“Yeah.”
“What are you afraid of now?”
Daniel looked at her.
“That you’ll forgive me before you trust me.”
Eleanor frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
“If you forgive me, I’m afraid everybody will act like it’s over. Margaret already does.”
“My sister has the emotional sophistication of a yard sale.”
Daniel laughed.
Eleanor did too.
Then he said, “But you shouldn’t trust me yet.”
The words disturbed her.
She had expected him to ask for trust.
She had prepared for that.
Not asking was harder.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Nothing.”
“I hate when people say that.”
“I know.”
They ate.
Afterward, Daniel walked her to her car.
Eleanor unlocked the driver’s door.
He glanced at the vehicle.
“You still driving this thing?”
“It works.”
“The navigation system thinks half the city is farmland.”
“I know where I’m going.”
He smiled.
Then he became serious.
“Can I ask something?”
“You usually do.”
“Would you ever let me come to the house again?”
Eleanor looked at him.
He did not add soon.
He did not say for Christmas.
He did not mention George.
He waited.
She looked past him at the parking lot.
A cart from the grocery store next door rolled slowly until its wheel caught against the curb.
“I don’t know.”
Daniel nodded.
“Okay.”
“That isn’t no.”
“I know.”
“It isn’t yes either.”
“I know.”
He stepped away.
Eleanor got into the car.
Before closing the door, she said, “The hydrangeas died.”
Daniel blinked.
“What?”
“The ones you planted near the back fence.”
“Oh.”
“You put them in too much sun.”
“Dad picked that spot.”
“Your father could be wrong.”
Daniel smiled.
“I’ll write that down.”
Eleanor drove home.
In late October, she called him.
She stood in the backyard wearing gardening gloves and looking at three dead hydrangea bushes.
“Are you working Saturday?”
Daniel was quiet for so long she checked the screen to make sure the call had not dropped.
“Morning.”
“What about afternoon?”
“I’m free.”
“I need help moving plants.”
Another silence.
“Mom.”
“It’s gardening, Daniel. Don’t make it emotional.”
He laughed.
“Okay.”
“You bring a shovel.”
“I own several.”
“Do you?”
“Technically my employer owns several.”
“Then borrow one legally.”
He laughed again.
Saturday arrived cold and clear.
At two-fifteen, the doorbell rang.
Eleanor froze in the hallway.
Her body remembered before her mind did.
For one second she saw Vanessa’s bat.
Daniel’s face after the slap.
The papers jumping on the coffee table.
Her forged name.
She stood still until the memory released her.
Then she walked to the door.
Daniel waited outside holding a shovel.
He had not used his old key.
He could not have.
The locks had changed.
But even if they had not, Eleanor realized, he would have waited.
She opened the door.
Daniel looked past her into the living room and stopped.
The gray sofas were the same.
Cream walls.
Family photographs.
Wooden coffee table.
The room looked almost exactly as it had that night.
Almost.
The packed suitcases were gone.
The scattered papers were gone.
The bat was gone.
The attorney envelope was gone.
On the coffee table sat a bowl of peppermint candies and a library book Eleanor was halfway through.
Daniel stayed on the porch.
“You said backyard.”
“Yes.”
“So should I go around?”
Eleanor studied him.
“You can come through.”
He stepped inside.
May you like
Slowly.
As though the floor belonged to someone else.
