Chapter 12
My relationship with Eleanor changed after her letters.
That sounds impossible.
She was dead.
Still true.
Before, memory had smoothed her.
Beautiful wife.
Wise mother.
Perfect moral compass.
Isabella’s imitation worked partly because I had reduced Eleanor to recognizable qualities.
Lily hatred.
Jazz.
Certain phrases.
A saint can be copied more easily than a person.
The letters restored contradictions.
Eleanor was jealous of my female attorney for an entire summer.
She once lied about liking my mother’s Christmas pudding.
She hated one of my closest friends for no reason she could defend.
She considered leaving me during our sixth year.
That one hurt.
Why?
Because I disappeared into work after Charlotte’s first pregnancy loss.
Yes.
Before Charlotte, Eleanor lost a pregnancy.
We almost never spoke about it.
I worked more.
She needed me more.
I called work protection.
She called it absence.
The marriage nearly broke.
Then recovered.
I had forgotten the danger once the ending became death instead of divorce.
Important.
Love is not made more real by pretending it was never fragile.
I began telling Charlotte stories about Eleanor that were funny, not sacred.
“Mommy burned toast.”
“Mommy got lost driving.”
“Mommy once yelled at Daddy for buying an ugly couch.”
Charlotte liked those more than “Mommy loved you very much.”
Maybe because specifics feel alive.
I understood what Eleanor meant.
Do not organize my absence.
Let memory remain messy.
Isabella had tried to become a polished version of Eleanor.
May you like
Impossible task.
Wrong task.
