Chương 8
Eli tried to read. The same paragraph remained in front of him until the words lost meaning.
On the table beside him was the museum catalog Celia had edited the previous year. Her name appeared on the acknowledgments page. She had written a note inside the cover when she gave it to Graham.
For the house that finally feels like home.
Eli closed the book.
The library doors opened without warning.
Celia stood there.
She had removed her coat. In one hand she carried the wooden sailboat from Eli’s room.
He rose.
“I told Graham I needed a book,” she said.
“That’s not a book.”
“No.”
She closed the doors behind her but remained beside them. Without the false pregnancy, her body looked unfamiliar, though it was the body she had always had.
“You turned this toward the wall,” she said.
“You were in my room?”
“It was on the dresser when I packed the sweater you borrowed.”
“I didn’t borrow it.”
“The gray one is mine.”
“You gave it to me.”
“I said you could wear it.”
“That’s giving it.”
She looked at the sailboat. “I suppose it is.”
Eli waited for her to hand it over. She did not.
“Your father said the footage shows you didn’t loosen the tab before yesterday.”
“I know.”
“I believed you had.”
“Why?”
“Because it was easier.”
The answer unsettled him.
Celia placed the sailboat on the nearest table. “I saw you looking at me for weeks. You watched my clothes. You watched what I ate. You followed me out of rooms.”
“I didn’t follow you.”
“You stood outside the bathroom at the museum.”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to come out.”
“That is following.”
“You moved the stomach.”
Celia’s face tightened. “The strap twisted.”
“So I was right.”
“You needed to be right more than you needed to be kind.”
“You needed me to be wrong.”
“Yes.”
The word came without hesitation.
Eli looked toward the closed doors.
“Are you going to tell Dad I’m here?” she asked.
“He knows you’re here.”
“In this room.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I want to hear what you say.”
She let out a tired breath. “You are very much your father’s son.”
“Dad doesn’t listen.”
“No,” she said. “He collects facts until feelings become unnecessary.”
Eli did not know whether she had insulted Graham or described him.
Celia walked to the window. Outside, men from a plumbing company moved equipment across the drive. One carried a coil of red hose over his shoulder.
“The baby was real,” she said.
“You already said.”
“I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“No, you understand that a doctor wrote it down. That is not the same.”
“What is?”
She removed her glasses. The skin around her eyes was swollen.
“I had names,” she said. “I knew where I wanted her to go to school. I knew she would have your father’s chin because the technician said she could see it on the scan, even though she was probably being polite. I had a list of songs for the hospital. I had a note on my phone about which stroller would fit through the museum elevator. She was not an idea.”
Eli’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“Then why did you pretend she was still here?”
Celia looked down at the marble windowsill. “Because the day she died, I called Graham. He was unavailable. I called again. Then I sat in a clinic room with a paper sheet beneath me while a nurse explained what would happen next. There was a box of tissues printed with blue flowers. I remember hating the flowers.”
“That doesn’t answer.”
“I went home. The nursery door was open. Your father called from New York and asked how the scan went. He sounded happy.”
“So you lied.”
“I said it was fine.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted one more hour before I became the woman whose baby had died.”
“But then it was five weeks.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The next morning, your father sent flowers. Your grandmother called. The wedding planner asked whether I wanted to change the menu because of the pregnancy. Every person I spoke to already believed in a future I had lost. Correcting them felt like losing it again.”
“So you bought the insert.”
Her mouth trembled.
“That was not grief,” Eli said. “You went to a store.”
“I ordered it online.”
“That’s worse.”
“I know.”
“You had to choose it.”
“Yes.”
“You had to pick the size.”
“Yes.”
“You had to put in the address.”
“Yes.”
“You had to open the box.”
“Yes.”
“You had lots of times to stop.”
“Yes.”
He had expected her to argue. Her agreement made him angrier.
“And you made Grandma feel it kick.”
Celia turned away.
“You pushed her hand.”
“I moved beneath the dress.”
“You made her cry.”
“I know.”
“You bought the socks.”
“I had bought them before.”
“You put them on Dad’s desk after.”
She closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see his face.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yes.”
Eli’s chest hurt. “Were you going to keep doing it until the wedding?”
Celia did not answer.
“Were you?”
“I thought I might become pregnant again.”
He stared at her.
“I know how that sounds.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I thought if I could replace the loss before anyone knew—”
“You can’t replace a baby.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew it then.”
“I knew it somewhere. I did not let myself know it where it mattered.”
The library seemed too warm.
“Dad said adults can have ugly thoughts,” Eli said. “But you did ugly things.”
“Yes.”
“Because you thought he wouldn’t marry you?”
Celia folded her glasses and unfolded them. “When Graham and I met, he was still wearing his wedding ring.”
“He always wears it.”
“Not anymore.”
“He keeps it in his desk.”
“I know.”
May you like
The answer made Eli feel as if she had entered a room that belonged to him.
Celia continued. “For the first year, every good day with him felt borrowed from someone dead. Every room in this house had your mother in it. Every holiday had a correct way it had been done before me. Your grandmother compared our cooking. Mara compared our clothes without realizing it. You watched me as if I were a substitute teacher who would leave if you refused to learn my name.”
