Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(90)

He nodded, and started to speak. I held up my hand, palm facing forward, to stop him. It was a very rude gesture and I must confess to an illicit thrill of pleasure as I made it. I followed this up by taking a long, pointed draft of my Dr. Pepper. Unfortunately, it was almost finished, and the straw made a very unpleasant slurping sound, but I think I managed to get my point across quite effectively nonetheless.

After I finished my drink, I caught the waiter’s eye and indicated that I’d like him to bring the bill. Raymond had his head in his hands, not saying anything. I felt a rush of pain in my chest. I’d hurt his feelings—Raymond. I put my hand over my mouth and felt tears form. He looked up at me, then leaned over and took both my hands, quite assertively, in his. He puffed out some stale air from inside his hairy little beard.

“I’m so sorry.” We both spoke the words at exactly the same time. We tried again, and the same thing happened. Suddenly, I laughed, and he did too. Short bursts, at first, and then for longer. It was proper, genuine laughter, the kind that makes your whole body shake. My mouth was wide open, my breath slightly wheezy, my eyes shut tight. I felt vulnerable, and yet very relaxed and comfortable. I imagined that vomiting or going to the lavatory in front of him would feel the same way.

“Look, it’s totally my fault,” he said, when we’d finally calmed down. “I’m so sorry if I upset you, Eleanor. I shouldn’t even have brought it up, especially today when I’m hung over—my brain feels mashed,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. It’s your business, and your decision. One hundred percent.”

He was still holding on to my hands. It was extremely pleasant.

“It’s fine, Raymond,” I said, and I meant it. “I’m sorry if I overreacted. I know that you’re a kind man who means well, and you were only trying to help.” I ventured a small smile at the sight of his face, which was full of relief.

He let go of my hands very gently. I hadn’t really noticed his eyes before. They were green, flecked with brown. Very unusual.

He smiled again, then put his palms up to his face and rubbed it, groaning quietly.

“Christ,” he said. “I can’t believe I’ve got to visit my mum now and see to the cats. I just want to crawl back to bed and sleep until Tuesday.”

I tried not to smile, and paid the bill—he protested, but I took full advantage of his weakened state.

“Do you want to come with me?” he said. “She’d love to see you.”

I didn’t even consider it. “No thank you, not today, Raymond,” I said. “Glen will have had a bowel movement by now, and I don’t like to leave her feces in the tray for more than an hour or two, in case she needs to urinate again afterward.”

Raymond stood up quickly. “Just nipping to the Gents,” he said.



I bought some cat food for Glen on the way home. The thing about Glen is that, despite her offhand manner, she loves me. I know she’s only a cat. But it’s still love; animals, people. It’s unconditional, and it’s both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world.

Sometimes, after counseling sessions, I desperately wanted to buy vodka, lots of it, take it home and drink it down, but in the end I never did. I couldn’t, for lots of reasons, one of which was that if I wasn’t fit to, then who would feed Glen? She isn’t able to take care of herself. She needs me.

It isn’t annoying, her need—it isn’t a burden. It’s a privilege. I’m responsible. I chose to put myself in a situation where I’m responsible. Wanting to look after her, a small, dependent, vulnerable creature, is innate, and I don’t even have to think about it. It’s like breathing.

For some people.





35





We had increased our counseling sessions to twice a week, which had sounded excessive when Maria first proposed it, but I was finding, to my surprise, that this was barely enough. I hoped I wasn’t turning into one of those needy people, though, the kind who are always droning on about themselves and their problems. Boring.

I was slowly getting used to talking about my childhood, having spent the best part of thirty years studiously avoiding the subject. That said, every time the topic of Marianne came up, I sidestepped it. Before each session, I told myself that this would be the right time to talk about her, but then, when it came to it, I just couldn’t do it. Today, Dr. Temple had asked about Marianne again of course and, when I’d shaken my head, she suggested that it might be helpful to think about my childhood as two discrete periods; before and after the fire, as a way of getting to the topic of Marianne. Yes, I said, it might be helpful. But very, very painful.

“So what’s your happiest memory from before the fire?” she said. I thought hard. Several minutes went by.

“I remember moments here and there, fragments, but I can’t think of a complete incident,” I said. “No, wait. A picnic, at school. It must have been the end of term, or something like that—we all were outside, at any rate, in the sunshine.” It wasn’t much to go on, and certainly not a detailed recollection.

“What was it about that day that made you feel so happy, d’you think?” She spoke gently.

“I felt . . . safe,” I said. “And I knew Marianne was safe too.”

Yes, that was it. Marianne—don’t think too hard—that’s right, her nursery class was there that day too. We all got a packed lunch, cheese sandwiches and an apple. The sunlight, the picnic. Marianne and I had walked home together after school, as we always did, going as slowly as we could and telling each other about our day. The walk home wasn’t long. It was never long enough. She was funny, a gifted mimic. It hurt to remember how much she’d made me laugh.