“She may recover a great deal.”
“She may recover very little.”
I asked:
“What should I do?”
“Do not interrogate her.”
“Do not force recognition.”
“Give her familiarity.”
“Let memory come toward her.”
So I tried.
Badly at first.
I turned Cedarbrook Estate into an archive.
Photographs.
Recipes.
Music.
Old ornaments.
A blanket my aunt had saved.
I drove Eleanor past the elementary school I attended.
The neighborhood where our old house had stood.
The park where she once bought me frozen fruit bars.
Nothing.
She smiled.
Listened.
Asked questions.
But recognition stayed outside the door.
One afternoon, we were looking through an album.
Eleanor pointed at a photograph.
My father.
Young.
Holding me on his shoulders.
“Who is he?”
I froze.
“My father.”
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Then my husband?”
I closed the album.
“We can stop.”
Her expression sharpened.
“Why?”
“You’re tired.”
“No.”
“You always tell me about you.”
“About the house.”
“About your aunt.”
“About school.”
“But every time I ask about this man, you change the subject.”
I stood.
“Not today.”
“Claire.”
I hated hearing my name from her without recognition.
Still, she continued.
“What happened to him?”
I walked away.
For twenty-five years, I had carried one belief.
My father died because of me.
I was ten.
We were crossing a street.
I had seen my mother on the opposite side.
I ran.
A car came through the intersection.
My father pushed me away.
He was struck.
I survived.
He didn’t.
Children create simple equations out of impossible things.
I ran.
Dad died.
Therefore:
I killed Dad.
Nobody in my family ever said that.
I said it to myself.
Every year.
Every birthday.
Every good thing that happened afterward contained some hidden accusation.
He died and you lived.
I never told Adrian how deep that belief went.
And I did not want Eleanor remembering the day.
Because if she remembered seeing her husband die saving me, what would she see when she looked at me?
Three weeks after Eleanor arrived at Cedarbrook Estate, we went walking near the old neighborhood.
