When We Were Bright and Beautiful(99)

A bang on my door startles me. It can’t be Lawrence, so it has to be Haggerty. Who else could slip past the doorman? I send him a text: go away

His reply is immediate: let’s talk

He keeps banging until I give in. But when I open the door, I see Eleanor.

“Oh my God,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh my God is right.” She hands me a brightly colored bag. “Double espresso. And biscotti.” But she’s flustered. “I’m not sure where . . . I should’ve called . . . I didn’t know . . .” She clears her throat. “After Lawrence’s testimony, I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. I stayed at the hotel, in Princeton . . . I was up all night . . . thinking . . .” She exhales. “I just had to see you. But I shouldn’t have shown up, unannounced. I apologize.”

Immediately, I’m suspicious. She wants something. “Eleanor, you’re my mother,” I say. “You’re allowed to show up whenever you want.”

“I haven’t been much of a mother, I’m afraid.” Eleanor’s bangs hang over her eyes, which are bloodshot and filmy. Seeing her this way makes me feel superior, which is ironic since I’m the one with nothing.

Taking her coat, I guide her inside, and gesture to the table. “I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d never speak to me again.”

She sits down, sips her coffee. “Like you said, I’m your mother. Mothers forgive their children in ways they never forgive themselves.”

“Seems premature to talk about forgiveness when we haven’t even spoken of the sin.”

“What’s there to say? You were a child. He was my husband. He betrayed us both. You, worse, of course—far, far worse.” She stops. “How are you, Cassandra?”

It’s a strange question, coming from her. Has she ever asked me this before? So directly?

How am I? How am I? “I have no idea,” I tell her. “I feel sad—and sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Not as far as you and I are concerned.”

“But to find out in court? Had I known . . . had I thought . . . I’m flailing here, Eleanor. I have no idea what to say except I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, or said no, or . . . I don’t know . . . not done what I did. But the way Lawrence described me, that I was a . . .” I choke on the word predator. “That’s not true. It wasn’t like that; it’s not how it happened.” I think of Columbia, my apartment, all the hours we spent together. Lawrence and I had a relationship; it happened every day.

“I know, Cassie. It was . . .” She takes another sip. Her hands are trembling. “When you were a teenager, Burt had suspicions, but I didn’t listen. I should have, of course. Of course, I should have. But the idea that Lawrence was capable of something so . . . so heinous . . . that he could . . . It was inconceivable. And even if I could believe it, what would I say and to whom?”

Digging into the bag, Eleanor takes out the biscotti, breaks it in half and hands me a piece, then keeps going.

“When I was growing up, parents and children occupied separate orbits. We never spoke of our difficulties. We prided ourselves on our self-sufficiency. I realize this was cowardice. Similarly, I used to consider myself a strong person, but I’m not. I was weak. I turned away . . . I didn’t ask . . . I didn’t . . .” She shakes her head, bewildered. “When you left for Yale, and I saw Lawrence’s grief, I wondered. Then, when Lawrence pushed Billy to take a plea, I think that’s when I knew. A plea! To save himself.”

“But you still went to trial knowing it might come out.”

“It was a risk, but a calculated one. I believe Billy is innocent, and when it came down to saving Lawrence or saving Billy, there was no choice. This meant exposing my family, subjecting you to pain and humiliation, and I’m sorry for that. But it was a price well worth paying to keep my son out of jail.”

I gasp. “It was your idea to have DeFiore go after Diana.” I remember the way she shouted “no” in the courtroom. The Sphinx, performing for the audience.

Eleanor’s face breaks open, and for a second, I think she’s going to admit it. Then she pulls herself together. “It’s not impossible to repair our name, though it will require money and pandering. But to let my son go to prison? Not in my lifetime.” She pauses. “Cassandra, I came here to talk about you. I got it wrong, from the start. As a parent my job was to learn when to step in and when to back off. It’s a delicate dance, and I vacillated, every day, between too much and not enough. I smothered Billy and neglected you.”

“I wasn’t your daughter. I was a burden. You did what you could.”

“You were a child, Cassie. Not a burden. Though it’s true I was skittish with you. You were so small and defiant—and heartbroken. Rachel was your mother. You worshipped her like a religion. I didn’t want to come between you and her memory, nor did I want you to feel pressured to love me.”

“But she was barely a mother to me. You know that. She was a mess.” She was, yes, but she was also mine, my one and only. Sitting here with Eleanor, I ache for Rachel, a real mother, my real mother, someone I don’t have to prove myself to or beg affection from.

“Children don’t look at their mothers and see a mess. They see perfection. Now you have the luxury of hindsight. But back when you were five, six, seven, you were obsessed with her, and you hated me. Rather, you hated that I wasn’t her. So I took a backseat, and I allowed Lawrence to parent you in ways you wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tolerate from me. I made a choice. But like with any choice, there were consequences. I will never forgive myself, Cassie. I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, which at this point I realize isn’t much. My failure as a parent is a shame I will carry the rest of my life.” She holds out her hand. “I am so sorry, Cassandra. I am so very sorry.”