Chương 7
Eli stood outside it after dinner. A strip of green paint showed beneath the white frame. He pressed the handle but did not open it.
Behind him, Mara said, “You’re allowed.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“No.”
She stood beside him, not too close. She had changed from the plum blouse into an old navy sweater belonging to Graham. The sleeves were too long. She folded the cuffs twice.
“I lost a baby,” she said.
Eli turned.
“A long time ago. Before you were born.”
“Did Dad know?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t I?”
“Because it wasn’t your job to carry it.”
“Celia made it my job.”
Mara looked at the closed nursery door. “She made the lie your job. The loss was already there.”
“Did you pretend?”
“No.”
“What did you do?”
“For three months, almost nothing. Then I went back to work and became angry at anyone who asked if I was feeling better.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
“Did you hate them?”
“Some of them.”
“Did you fake another baby?”
Mara’s gaze sharpened. “Grief explains why people lose their balance. It does not give them permission to knock everyone else down.”
“That sounds like something you practiced.”
“I have been talking to your father all day.”
She reached for the door handle, then let her hand fall. “Celia asked me last month whether Graham would still marry her if something happened to the pregnancy.”
“What did you say?”
“I said of course.”
“Did you tell Dad?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought she was anxious.”
“Was that before the baby died?”
Mara’s mouth tightened. “After.”
The hallway seemed to narrow.
“You knew?”
“No. I knew the question. I did not know what had happened.”
“Did she ask anything else?”
“She asked whether the wedding could be moved earlier.”
“Why?”
“She said she wanted to be married before the third trimester.”
“What did you say?”
“That changing everything would be impossible.”
“Did she ask about money?”
Mara looked at him.
“What?”
“I heard you and Dad.”
“When?”
“This morning. You said she asked about the trust.”
Mara closed her eyes. “You need to stop listening outside doors.”
“I wasn’t outside. You were in the pantry.”
“That is not better.”
“What trust?”
She leaned against the wall. “Your father created a trust for you after your mother died. He planned to create another for the baby.”
“Did Celia get it?”
“No.”
“Did she want it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always say that when the answer is bad.”
“That is an unfair thing to say.”
“Is it wrong?”
Mara studied him with a mixture of irritation and reluctant respect. “Celia asked whether the new child’s trust would exist before birth or after. I told her after. That does not prove anything.”
“It proves she asked.”
“Yes.”
“Did she ask after the miscarriage?”
“Yes.”
Eli opened the nursery door.
The smell of fresh paint remained. A white crib stood beneath the window, still wrapped in protective cloth. On a shelf were six picture books, three stuffed animals, and the box of tiny socks. The rocking chair that had belonged to his mother sat in the corner.
Eli walked to it and pushed one hand against the back.
The chair moved with a soft wooden creak.
Mara stayed in the doorway. “I should have told Graham about the questions.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I liked her.”
“You don’t now?”
“I don’t know what I feel.”
“You liked that she made Dad easier.”
Mara looked surprised.
“She did,” Eli said. “He laughed more.”
“Yes.”
“He stopped checking if I was asleep.”
Mara frowned. “What do you mean?”
“After Mom died, he checked every night. Then Celia started sleeping here, and he stopped.”
“Did that bother you?”
“No.”
It had.
He sat in the rocking chair. It was uncomfortable, exactly as Graham had said. The wooden arm pressed against his elbow.
Mara entered the room and sat on the floor near the crib, though there was a clean upholstered bench behind her. “Your father loved your mother,” she said. “He also became very tired of being sad.”
“Celia wasn’t sad.”
“She was, sometimes.”
“Not like us.”
“No one is sad like someone else.”
Eli rocked once. “Is Dad going to forgive her?”
“Forgiveness and marriage are different.”
“That means yes.”
“It means adults often forgive people they do not trust enough to live with.”
“Why?”
“Because carrying anger is heavy.”
“So is carrying a fake baby.”
Mara looked down, and a brief laugh escaped her before she covered her mouth. The laugh turned into a sob she did not seem to expect.
Eli stopped rocking.
Mara pressed her hands over her face. Her shoulders shook twice. Then she inhaled, lowered her hands, and wiped beneath her eyes with the cuffs of Graham’s sweater.
“That was a terrible thing to laugh at,” she said.
“It was funny.”
“It was not.”
“A little.”
She nodded despite herself. “A little.”
The next afternoon, Celia returned to the estate.
Eli was supposed to be at school, but a burst pipe flooded the first-floor hallway, and the students were dismissed before lunch. Graham considered taking him to the office. Eli refused. Mara suggested the library while Celia packed upstairs.
They agreed he would remain there with the doors closed.
The library occupied the west side of the foyer. Its tall shelves muffled sound, but the old doors did not meet evenly in the middle. Through the narrow gap, Eli saw Celia enter carrying two empty suitcases.
She wore a camel coat and dark glasses. Her hair was tied low instead of arranged in its usual polished bun. Graham met her near the staircase. Mara stood several steps behind him.
No one hugged.
“Why is his backpack here?” Celia asked.
“School closed early,” Graham said.
“You said he wouldn’t be home.”
“He is in the library.”
Celia looked toward the doors.
“He will stay there,” Graham added.
“I don’t want him watching me.”
“He isn’t.”
May you like
Eli moved back from the gap.
For the next hour, footsteps crossed the ceiling above him. Drawers opened. Closet doors shut. Once, something heavy fell. Mara’s voice came faintly through the floor, followed by Celia’s sharper reply.
