Chapter 12
12
Eleanor
Tucked away from the road, invisible to passing cars, this cottage is its own oasis. Until it comes time to leave. The only way out is down the long driveway, which leads me past the main house. In the front yard, there are folding tables set out under a tent. At least five people I don’t recognize mill about, putting down colorful plastic tablecloths.
I’m used to walking past countless people without acknowledgment. That’s part of the beauty of New York. You can go for miles without speaking a word to anyone. People might call out to you unprompted, but you can ignore them, and no one thinks it’s strange for you to do so. Or you can stop and talk with a stranger for an hour, if the moment is right. The important thing is, it’s a choice .
Here, one stray neighbor sees me booking it down this driveway, and my presence inspires an instant, enthusiastic comment from him.
“Hey there!” It’s an older white man wearing a blue polo tucked into khaki shorts. He stands on his front step, not even pretending to do anything other than watch me.
I offer him a short wave and keep walking.
“Are you one of the Wards?” he asks. “We’re planning on stopping by later today.”
“Nope,” I say. “Have a good one.”
He heads toward the fence that divides the Wards’ house from his own. “You’re not here for the reunion?”
I’m here because of the reunion, but that’s a technicality that doesn’t even make sense to me. I stop and do my best to smile. I don’t need a mirror to know it’s coming off as more of a grimace.
“She’s with me.”
I turn, and there is Carson, walking up to meet me at the fence. There is that feeling again too. The there you are . They’ve put on a black short-sleeved button-down, left open to reveal their white undershirt, with a pair of light jeans belted at the hips.
Their presence sets me at ease, which then makes me nervous in a whole new way. They should not set me at ease . What am I, a fucking mattress commercial?
The neighbor accepts Carson’s answer with a nod, walking back to his front door without further comment.
“How did you do that?” I ask, incredulous. “That guy was two sentences away from hopping the fence and settling in for a tell-all interview.”
“That’s why I rescued you,” Carson says. “I’m very brave like that.”
I fight off a laugh and start moving again.
“Where are you heading?” they ask.
“Rita’s Diner,” I say without breaking stride. “I’ve spent two days without working. There is way too much free space in my brain. I read an entire book last night. Very dangerous behavior. I need to crowd up my mind with tasks. Like applying for a new job.”
“Rita’s is almost a mile from here.”
“Yeah. And there are plenty of sidewalks,” I say.
“You know, this is a town where people live, not a town where strangers take a vacation. We don’t walk places.”
“Trove Hills is anti-walking? Interesting. I’ll be sure to spread the word far and wide when I get back to New York. Heading to Trove Hills? Plan to sit your ass down and stay put.”
“You’re very cute when you do that.”
My face flushes. “What, walk? And here I thought it was illegal. Like dancing in the town in Footloose .”
“Carson, honey, will you help me set out the cheese board? I know you like that kind of stuff.” A woman I assume must be Mrs. Ward walks up to us.
“Hello there,” she says, stretching her hand out in greeting. “I’m Jeannette.”
“Eleanor,” I respond, grabbing her hand. Her shake is as strong as they come. In the silence that follows, a question is implied. Who are you?
“She’s here with me,” Carson announces for the second time in two minutes. Only now it’s to their mother, not a neighbor with a somewhat sinister curiosity in my presence.
Great. My one-night stand, pure spontaneous fun, who even are you anyway? hookup has now introduced me to their mother.
Sigh.
“I didn’t realize you had any new…friends,” their mother says. It’s awkward enough to make me squeeze my lips together, wishing for a way out. It does, however, confirm that Carson has no known partner.
“We’ve all got some fun surprises up our sleeves this week, don’t we?” Carson asks.
“I’m actually about to head out,” I say, wondering if I should acknowledge my presence in the cottage. Is it rude to leave without sharing that I am a guest in their backyard? Should I tell her I’ll be back? Should I sneak around for days on end?
There isn’t time to figure out a response, because if it’s possible, someone whose presence is even more awkward than my own arrives.
The secret brother.
“ He’s here ,” Carson whispers. It’s more for their mother than for me. Or maybe it’s because it needs to be said. There are so few chances in life to lean into the theatricality of a moment, and Carson has correctly identified this as an appropriate opportunity for dramatic flair.
It’s strange how even from thirty feet away, I can tell this man belongs to this family. The curly brown hair. The set of his jaw. Even the way he squints into the sun. He looks right out of one of the pictures along the stairway.
As the secret brother walks over to the front lawn, I wonder what it would be like to be him, having this many people care about me. It’s a thought that strikes me as sad, detached from my own ability to feel it. I’ve never shown up somewhere and recalibrated an entire situation with only my presence. Come to think of it, I could make things awkward for Anthony Teller if I ever went to another one of the shows he produces. But I’ve certainly never filled an entire extended family with breathless anticipation.
I am the only child of two only children. My parents are long gone, and so are my grandparents. There is no family to wait for me at all.
“Hi,” the brother says when he finally reaches us. “I’m Ben.” He walks right up to Carson, maybe recognizing them from a photo, or feeling drawn in by Carson’s easy charm.
Carson doesn’t hesitate to pull Ben into a hug in return, and my eyes well with tears. It’s one of the strangest things about me, the way I get overwhelmed with secondhand pride while watching someone else’s life change. Every year, my coworkers laugh at me during the Tony Awards, because I weep for each winner like they’re a close personal friend. It’s one vulnerability I can’t seem to school out of myself, no matter how much I try.
“Brother Ben,” Carson says, releasing their brother to get a good look at him. Up close, I can see even more of an echo in their mannerisms—the way they both stand tall in their bodies while somehow managing to not look rigid or intimidating either. How they’re both smiling out of the side of their mouth, maybe out of nerves.
“Brother Ben? Are you Catholic?” Ben asks.
“Nah,” Carson responds, laughing. “Just never had a brother before. Felt like you deserved to wear the honor with a title.”
The redheaded woman who arrived with Ben inserts herself into the conversation. “Brother Ben,” she echoes. “BB for short.”
Carson grins, pleased. “Exactly. You get it.”
“I’m Dee,” she tells them, stretching out her hand. “BB’s wife.”
“BB and DD,” Carson responds, shaking it.
“What’s DD stand for?” I ask, somehow involved enough to be curious.
“I don’t know,” Carson says. “I just say shit sometimes.”
Next thing I know, Brother Ben and his wife are introducing themselves to me. Me. I am now meeting the secret brother. We shake hands, and bless Brother Ben for not asking who I am to Carson, or even to him. For all he knows, I am also a member of his new family.
Another one of my long-buried memories surfaces. I’d hidden it so deep I can’t recall the last time I’ve come close to reflecting on it, and now here it is, reemerging as fresh as the day I first lived it. One night, not long after my parents died, I couldn’t sleep. I was alone in the small apartment I used to have before the lawsuit. My brain wouldn’t shut off, no matter what I did. After hours of tossing and turning, I finally found a way to lull myself to sleep—picturing my front door opening and guests pouring in to see me.
At first I imagined my parents returning. It didn’t take long for that to become too morbid, reanimating them for my own little coping mechanism. I shifted to people I don’t know, an imagined depiction of the rest of my family, all of them having recently learned of my existence. They carried in trays of food and presents—all little things they knew I’d need as a fellow Chapman. They wrapped me in their arms and pulled me into the fold. They didn’t need to know my strengths or test my worthiness. They just wanted to shelter me through the worst moment of my life, loving me without reason.
In real life, this kind of moment is far less exciting. In fact, it seems to be an exercise in anxiety management. Ben doesn’t know any of the people who have begun to arrive right behind him, at least four car doors opening at almost the exact same time along the street. People climb out carrying trays of food and drinks, waving at one another. He has no idea if they are his aunts, uncles, cousins. But they all know him. They pause and stare with jaws hanging open.
“He looks just like Andrew,” one of them says, loud enough for us to hear.
“God, he really does,” another confirms.
Ben’s existence has sent a ripple through the whole family. Even Carson loses track of me to watch him.
I have a wide-open path to escape.
Walking the remaining bit of the Wards’ driveway with my head down, it’s easy enough to close myself off to the rest of the world. I am alone here, just as I always have been.
I am not a part of anyone’s family.