Chương 14
“Is Uncle Victor bad?”
No one answered immediately.
Eleanor felt Celeste watching her.
She understood that she was being given the first chance.
Years earlier she would have produced something certain.
Something polished.
Something a child could carry away as an answer.
Now she said, “Victor did bad things.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Is he bad?”
Eleanor folded her napkin once.
“I don’t know if people are one word.”
Mia frowned.
“He locked Mom downstairs.”
“Yes.”
“He lied.”
“Yes.”
“He stole money.”
“He moved money he had no right to move and lied about it.”
“That’s stealing.”
Celeste said, “Pretty close.”
Mia looked at Eleanor.
“So?”
Eleanor took a breath.
“I love him.”
Celeste’s face changed slightly.
Eleanor continued.
“And I think he deserved to be stopped.”
Mia considered that.
“You can do both?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love him while he’s in jail?”
“Yes.”
“That seems annoying.”
“It is.”
Rachel laughed.
Celeste looked down at her plate.
When she looked up, her eyes were wet.
No one mentioned it.
After dinner Mia found the kitchen drawer Eleanor had once tried to organize.
She opened it.
“What happened here?”
Eleanor looked over.
“What?”
“This is terrible.”
Celeste came to inspect.
She stared into the drawer.
Utensils lay in three confused piles around batteries, tape, wine stoppers, rubber bands, and a screwdriver.
“My God,” Celeste said.
“I was going through a difficult period.”
“You have twelve employees.”
“I was attempting normal life.”
“This is not how normal people live.”
“How would you know?”
Celeste laughed so hard she had to lean against the counter.
Mia began reorganizing the drawer.
Eleanor told her not to.
Mia ignored her.
Celeste watched her mother be ignored and smiled.
The moment lasted perhaps four minutes.
Nothing important happened.
No truth was revealed.
No old wound closed.
The drawer simply ended up less chaotic than before.
After everyone left, Eleanor walked through the quiet apartment collecting glasses.
At the sink, she found the pale-blue tin case.
Mia had forgotten it.
For one sharp second panic moved through her.
Then she heard footsteps in the hall outside.
The doorbell rang.
Eleanor opened the door.
Mia stood there with Celeste behind her.
“My case.”
Eleanor held it out.
Mia took it carefully.
The dent from Eleanor’s silver heel remained across one corner.
She had grown used to seeing it.
That disturbed her less than it once had.
Damage did not always disappear because someone became sorry.
Sometimes the object stayed dented.
Sometimes it still opened.
Mia checked the latch.
Then looked at Eleanor.
“You didn’t kick it again.”
“No.”
“Good.”
Celeste shook her head.
“Mia.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Mia started toward the elevator.
Celeste stayed by the door.
For a moment she and Eleanor stood facing each other.
There were still subjects they could not discuss without fighting.
Victor.
David.
The years Celeste disappeared.
The investigation.
Money.
Eleanor’s husband.
Whether Celeste would ever call her Mom without irony.
They had tried lunch the previous month and ended with Celeste leaving before dessert because Eleanor criticized Mia’s school.
Three days later Celeste apologized for shouting.
Eleanor apologized for giving advice no one had requested.
Neither apology had prevented the next argument.
Their relationship had not been restored.
It had become something else.
Slower.
Less obedient.
More real.
“Tuesday again next month?” Eleanor asked.
Celeste leaned against the doorframe.
“You hated Tuesday dinner.”
“I hated your restaurant choice.”
“You ate everything.”
“I was raised correctly.”
“You were raised by terrifying people.”
“That too.”
Celeste smiled.
Then glanced toward Mia.
The child was waiting by the elevator, holding the tin case under one arm.
Celeste lowered her voice.
“She asked about the memorial yesterday.”
Eleanor’s smile disappeared.
“What did she ask?”
“Why you called her a beggar.”
Eleanor looked down.
“What did you say?”
“That you saw her clothes before you saw her.”
Eleanor nodded.
“That is true.”
“I also told her you were grieving.”
“That does not excuse it.”
“I know.”
The elevator doors opened.
Mia stepped inside.
Celeste remained.
“She asked if rich people think poor people are dangerous.”
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly.
“What did you tell her?”
“That sometimes everyone is afraid of people who make them uncomfortable.”
Eleanor looked toward the elevator.
Mia was pressing the hold button.
“Mom.”
“Coming.”
Celeste stepped backward.
Eleanor said, “I would answer her if she wants.”
“I know.”
“Not tonight.”
“I know.”
Celeste looked at her mother.
“You’re learning.”
“Painfully.”
“That’s usually how.”
She turned.
“Celeste.”
She looked back.
Eleanor almost said I love you.
The words were true.
They were also too easy.
Instead she said, “You left your scarf.”
Celeste glanced at the chair behind Eleanor.
“Keep it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Then throw it out.”
“That seems wasteful.”
“Good night, Mother.”
The elevator doors began closing.
Eleanor picked up the scarf and tossed it through the narrowing gap.
Celeste caught it against her chest.
Mia laughed.
The doors closed.
Eleanor stood alone in the hallway.
Then she went back inside.
Weeks later, she received a photograph from Mia.
No message.
Just a picture.
The pale-blue tin case sat open on a small wooden desk. The gold chain spilled across the edge. The sapphire face of the locket reflected light from a nearby window.
Beside it lay the broken plastic horse, now repaired with a strip of clear tape around one leg.
Eleanor enlarged the photograph.
She nearly replied with something sentimental.
She deleted it.
She tried again.
Nice repair.
Mia answered immediately.
It still looks broken.
Eleanor stared at the words.
Then typed:
Yes.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Mia sent:
That’s okay.
Eleanor put the phone down.
Outside her window, traffic moved through the city. A horn sounded. Someone on the sidewalk below was arguing into a headset. A dog refused to cross the street until its owner picked it up.
Nothing in the world had paused for the Vance family.
Victor was still in prison.
Celeste was still in therapy.
Mia still checked locked doors.
Eleanor still woke some mornings thinking she needed to call her assistant before remembering she no longer chaired anything.
Some donors had returned to the foundation.
Others never would.
Several lawsuits remained unresolved.
There would be no clean restoration.
No version of events in which everyone agreed on what should have happened.
There was only the next choice.
A month later, Eleanor stood outside a school auditorium while Mia searched through her pale-blue tin case for a pencil she insisted was inside.
“You have six pencils in your backpack,” Eleanor said.
“Not the green one.”
“What is special about the green one?”
“It’s green.”
“That explanation has the unfortunate quality of being irrefutable.”
Mia ignored her.
Celeste came down the hallway carrying two paper cups.
She handed one to Eleanor.
“Normal-person coffee.”
Eleanor took it.
“Thank you.”
Mia found the pencil.
She snapped the case shut.
A group of children ran past toward the auditorium.
One bumped Mia’s shoulder.
The tin case slipped.
Eleanor moved instinctively and caught it before it hit the floor.
Mia stared at her hand around the dented metal.
For half a second all three of them were still.
Then Eleanor held it out.
Mia took it.
May you like
No one said anything.
They walked into the auditorium together.
