When We Were Bright and Beautiful(100)

I take her hand. Can I trust her? I want to believe I can, to allow myself to feel her remorse, but I’m not sure. My relationship with Lawrence has crippled me in so many ways, some irrevocably. I doubt my own instincts. I don’t trust myself to know what’s right or wrong, true or false. Don’t women like Eleanor always forgive themselves? There’s always a reason, context, extenuating circumstances. In this manner, she and Lawrence are not dissimilar. In fact, if we’re weighing the scales, aren’t her crimes worse? After all, Eleanor is the mother. She’s the mother. We look to our mothers to protect us from the world, from outsiders, sometimes from our own fathers.

“I’m tired,” I tell her. “I need to lie down.”

“Cassie, we’re not done yet. We need to see this through to the end.”

I was right, I realize. She wants something from me. “Which means what?”

“Come to court.”

“I won’t testify.”

“No, of course not. I’m only asking that you show up and sit with your family.”

Eleanor’s face is gentle. I see softness, a warmth that used to be missing. I don’t know if I can trust this. I want to, though.

“You really believe my being there will help Billy?”

“I do, Cassie.” She smiles. “A united front,” she adds.

Your son is a criminal, Eleanor. Even if I could help him, I don’t know if I should.

“Maybe,” I tell her. “I’ll think about it.”





58


THE TRIAL RESUMES MONDAY AT TEN. OVER THE WEEKEND, the media exploded with the latest twist. Lawrence and I are being compared to Woody and Soon-Yi, with headlines like: “Dirty Dad and Darling Daughter; Princeton Rapist’s Family Secret; Runner Rapist Can’t Flee the Shocking Truth.” This morning, we drive from the hotel in separate cars. Having agreed to Eleanor’s request, I travel with her, Nate, Billy, and the Bowtie in his Bentley. Lawrence rides alone in his Mercedes. Eleanor is concerned about appearances, but even she has her limits.

As we make our way up the courthouse steps, reporters call out to me and Lawrence: Are you together? When did your affair start? Is Billy a rapist?

It’s hell trying to focus. My only salvation is anger—burning-hot, acid, laced with venom—so I glide demurely into the building, wearing a hand-tailored Calvin Klein suit, silky blouse, and kitten heels, pretending I can’t hear. Lawrence is ahead of me, weaving through the crowds, the same way he wove through traffic. Watching him I force myself to remember and remember. Unfortunately, it’s the memories I want to forget that have the most staying power.

Haggerty was right. There are no happy endings for girls like me. Instead, there are agreements, compromises. Eleanor asked me to appear. In return, she kept her promise to stick by me, going so far as to spend the weekend in New Haven. I ached for her to lie in my bed and rub my back while I cried. But I also understood this was a little girl’s fantasy. The Eleanor I want and the Eleanor I have are not the same; to pretend otherwise is how I created Marcus. Still, I want what I want, which, unfortunately, includes Lawrence. All weekend, I waited for him to show up and make things right, but Eleanor was there so he couldn’t.

How do I explain this? My brain knew Lawrence would not come. I saw that gear turn, the thought he was bad for you expressed. But other gears were turning at the same time, different thoughts were also expressed: I love you. I need you. I’ll wait. Despite everything Lawrence said on the stand, I have to believe our relationship was real, that he felt as deeply for me as I felt for him. How else would I stay sane?

Over the weekend, he continued to call me until Eleanor stepped in. “You. Must. Stop.” Her voice was ball-shriveling tight. “Gather your belongings. Leave my home. If you don’t, I’ll freeze your accounts and secure a restraining order.” She hung up. “Whew. What now?”

Ultimately, my time alone with Eleanor was tense, sad, painful, and hopeful. We didn’t talk about Lawrence. We got manicures and pedicures. She bought me a cashmere sweater. We ate lunch at the Neighborhood Café. I introduced her to Eddie and her first breakfast burrito. “These are good,” I told her. “But McDonald’s are sublime.”

“Well, I’ll definitely have to try one, then.”

This made us both laugh; as if.

Which is more or less how we acted: as if. As if she and I were a real mother and a real daughter. As if her younger son wasn’t a rapist. As if I hadn’t betrayed her. As if she hadn’t betrayed me. As if we could be a family once the trial was over. Eleanor lives her life as if; it’s why she’s so cool, so serene. But I don’t want to, not anymore. I need to call everything by its actual name. I need to hang on to known things, to the realness of words, to a world governed by facts, where truth is paramount. I can’t do it yet, but I’m trying. This may account for my panic attacks over the weekend—full-throttled assaults that wracked my body like seizures. As if the me that had agreed to bury our secrets was finally saying no.

In our own ways, Eleanor and I are beginning the long, hard process of making sense of the past. For her, this means accepting that her instincts were wrong; for me, it’s the opposite. We don’t get a happy ending. But it may be a promising start. I recognize that to let Eleanor off the hook is to forsake myself. But to not forgive her means forsaking myself in other ways; it means accepting a life polluted by bitterness and blame.