“Peter, I—”
“It was never about her,” he continues quickly, “but rather about what happened between us, between you and me. Or, actually, I suppose it was mostly about me. That I didn’t know how to handle what you told me. But now… I know that I can…”
He keeps talking, says things that lead my thoughts to a future I had previously hoped for and believed was possible. Now I know better, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting inside. If only everything had been different.
“Peter,” I interrupt softly. “I’ve made up my mind. There’s no other way forward from here. I realize that now. I’m sorry.”
I hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and there’s so much more I want to say, so much I could say. I squeeze my hand around my phone and press my lips together. Be strong. You need to be strong.
“But why?” he wonders. “Don’t you love me anymore?”
I take a deep breath. How can I explain? Where should I start?
“Lamb and au gratin potatoes was never my favorite meal, I think. It was yours. But since you were so fond of it, it had to become my favorite meal, too. Your love, our life together, meant everything to me. I had never had a successful relationship before, had never met anyone I loved so ardently and unconditionally, so I was desperately keen on making it work with you. I didn’t know how to do that, just knew that more than anything else I wanted us to be compatible. I wanted you to feel that we were.
“So I made lamb and au gratin potatoes for you on special occasions and sometimes just on ordinary days, as well. I made it that night when you’d agreed to sit down and eat together and really talk. That night when I got dressed up and used the best china, when I hoped that we would find our way back to each other after the distance that had grown since I revealed my secret to you. That was the night you told me about Anna.
“I had brought home flowers. Perhaps you remember the bouquet that was on the kitchen table, or maybe you don’t. When my tears and your attempts to comfort me ended, we went to bed and fell asleep from exhaustion. That’s what you think, right? You don’t know that I lay awake tossing and turning, that I finally got up and wandered around the apartment, hounded by something wild inside me. The flowers were still sitting in the vase in the kitchen, and when I saw them, something came over me, something I couldn’t explain. Or didn’t want to explain. That’s when I got out the scissors.
“My scream didn’t wake you up. At least, you didn’t get up to see what was going on. And I didn’t leave any traces. The only difference the next morning was that the flowers were gone. You never commented, so I assume you didn’t notice they were gone. Maybe, as I said, you hadn’t noticed they were there, either. Maybe you only noticed half of my efforts for that dinner, that night. Maybe it was like that the whole time we were together.”
“Really? Have you stopped loving me, Elena?”
No, I could say, I haven’t—not yet—not by a long shot. I bite my lip and can’t help but think of the voicemail he left me the other day. I love you, always have, always will. But words are one thing, and actions are another. I wait until I’m sure that I can keep my voice steady.
“Thanks,” I say then. “Even though it ended badly, I want to thank you for these years, for showing me the joy of being close to another person. I will take that with me, the knowledge that it’s possible, that it’s worth it.”
The words sound overbearing, but that can’t be helped. They need to be said. I need to say them.
“So this is really over, Elena? Do you mean that?”
This won’t be the last time we talk to each other, I realize. We’re going to need to deal with all the practical matters—sign the paperwork and divvy up our things. But we’ll say goodbye now. I feel that clearly, here and now.
“Goodbye, Peter. Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”
We hang up, and I almost succeed in holding back my tears. When I look up the staircase at the police station’s front door, both the view and my vision are foggy. But my resolve doesn’t waver when it comes to this, either. Slowly I begin to walk up there, one step at a time.
53
It’s Sunday afternoon, and despite the tentative sunshine peeking over the roofs, the yard is empty. Veronica came home a few hours ago. I saw her open the trunk of her SUV and unload her suitcases onto the sidewalk. Philip came out to meet her and gave her a long hug before they carried the things into the house and closed the front door behind them. Since then there’s been no sighting of anyone from the Storm family.
I drum my fingers on the edge of the table and look down at the paper in front of me. The plan was for me to write a shopping list, but at the same time there are so many other things swimming around in my head.
I wonder how Leo is doing and how he’s feeling. And then of course I think about what happened at the police station yesterday. I was shown into an office where I spoke to a man in a uniform with a receding hairline. He had friendly eyes. I thought that several times during our conversation. He took notes while I talked and asked a few clarifying questions, but mostly he listened. He said they’d be in touch with me soon and then told me I was free to go.
“It was good that you came in,” he said.
Just what exactly those words meant remains to be seen. I’m prepared to accept the consequences of my actions, no matter what they are. A possible prison sentence doesn’t frighten me. For the first time in a long time, I feel something resembling faith in the future, even hope. What I’ve been through, what I’m still going through, is a tunnel, not a dead end.
I bring the pen to the paper. My sister is coming over for dinner tomorrow even though it’s a totally normal weekday. She pretty much invited herself, and I said she could come on one condition: that she brings Walter. I remember how affectionate and warm her voice was when I heard them talking on the phone through the bathroom wall. If she and I are going to strengthen our relationship, it makes sense for Walter to be a part of that, too. Besides, I need more people in my life, not fewer. In reality, it’s kind of lame for a puzzle to only have two pieces.
The only question is what kind of food to make. Anything besides lasagna, I think, and catch myself sniggering a little at my sister’s lack of culinary imagination. Once I’ve jotted down the ingredients for a curry recipe that doesn’t seem too hard to make, I add a few other things to my list, the kinds of things I may need for the week ahead. Fruits and vegetables, whole-grain bread and rice, turkey and salmon fillet. I should start eating properly again, taking care of myself. You need to eat… otherwise you’ll die, as my sister had said last Friday night. And I don’t want to die, not yet.
Mama. My pen stops. How long does it take for frozen grief to melt away once it’s begun to thaw? There’s no definitive answer to this question, but at least I’m not alone anymore. My sister and I can help each other handle the longing when it strikes or when something new pops up that Mama turns out to have said or done, the kind of thing we maybe don’t always understand. I twirl the pen in my hand and shake my head. That thing my sister told me, what my mother had told her about me… I still can’t get it to add up.
I can’t decide if it’s a blow to the image of my mother or if it simply adds some nuance. Maybe I don’t need to decide. Maybe it’s enough to point out that she wasn’t superhuman, that like any other person, she must have struggled with doubt and anguish—and no one wants anything other than to do right by their child, even at times when that’s damned near impossible.