Chapter 20 #2
Eleanor says nothing. She tries to put together a smile, but it comes out closer to a grimace of horror.
"It's always been the two of you," Carol continues. "Against everything that got in your way. From the very beginning."
Abigail glances sideways at Eleanor and notices the politician starting to bounce her left leg nervously.
Eleanor looks at her mother and clenches her jaw as if she's bracing against some sharp, intense pain. And then she does something she hadn't planned to do this afternoon—or maybe she's been waiting her whole life to take this step.
"We're together," Eleanor says, with a firmness she hadn't expected from herself.
It doesn't carry the tone of her speeches or the cool detachment of her public statements.
Instead, it has the quality of a strength she's been building without meaning to—ever since she stepped out of the back of the old Honda—so that when the moment came, because Eleanor always knew deep down that it would, her voice wouldn't shake.
Abigail swallows, but immediately shifts and takes her hand, lacing their fingers together—that gesture that already exists between them, the confirmation that one will never let the other fall. Never.
Carol looks at their joined hands. She looks at her daughter's eyes, shining just as Abigail's are, and nods slowly.
"I know," she says, as if she were remarking that the Taylors' new backyard came out especially nice.
A heavy silence falls over the room—one that at the same time screams a great many things.
"I knew from the first time I saw the two of you together," Carol says.
"At that restaurant, when Richard brought Abigail to introduce you properly.
You looked at each other and I saw it." Carol pauses, lost in the memory.
"A spark. That's what it was—even if you both dressed it up as something else. "
Eleanor nearly chokes on her own saliva, and Abigail is grateful they ate light at lunch because she feels dizzy.
"You were just girls," Carol says softly. "You didn't understand what you were feeling, so you did the only thing you knew how to do: fight, hate each other, and drive each other absolutely crazy." She smiles faintly. "Which was exactly the same as doing the opposite."
"Carol, I—"
The woman shakes her head when Abigail starts to stammer and keeps going.
"When the boyfriends and the marriages came along, I thought maybe what you had between you had stayed back there," Carol says, looking at their joined hands.
"But I was never entirely sure. And then came the disappearing acts at every family gathering, the looks you thought no one saw, and that Christmas when Eleanor didn't come and you"—she looks at Abigail—"seemed completely devastated. "
"Mom," Eleanor says.
"Let me finish." Carol raises a hand. "Didn't you ever wonder why no one caught you?"
They both look at her, and Carol lifts her shoulders with an extraordinary calm.
"Because every time you disappeared into some corner of the house, I made sure to keep the men busy. And to keep everyone else distracted."
"Jesus," Eleanor murmurs, realizing it hadn't just been luck.
"You don't share the same blood," Carol says. "That's the first thing. You lived under the same roof for a few years when you were teenagers; you didn't grow up together." She looks at them both. "There's nothing there that can't be explained."
"Does my dad know?" Abigail asks—because if Carol waited until Richard went upstairs to rest before bringing this up, the man has no idea what's been going on.
"No," Carol says slowly. "Don't worry—he won't take it badly when he finds out, but he needs time to get there. You know how men are." Carol sighs and shakes her head. "I'll ease him into it myself, and when I see the moment is right, the two of you can tell him. Together."
Eleanor and Abigail exchange a look that needs no words.
"All right," Eleanor says, and stands up to hug her mother. "Thank you, Mom."
Carol holds her tight and waves Abigail over. She hugs her too, smiling.
"Keep taking care of each other," Carol says, looking at them both.
They order takeout, because as far as Carol is concerned, there is nothing in Eleanor's refrigerator that could reasonably pass for a proper dinner for four people.
Dinner is a little strange, but it flows the way it usually does.
The four of them find an easy topic of conversation—no hidden love affairs, no divorces, no political drama.
They talk about the neighbors back in Pittsburgh, the new lawn mower Richard picked up at Lowe's at an incredible discount, and the dance classes Carol has signed up for.
Under the table, somewhere between the second course and dessert, Abigail's hand finds Eleanor's. She takes it without a word, and Eleanor lets her—while Richard is talking about baseball and Carol stares at her plate with a small, private smile that Eleanor catches out of the corner of her eye.
"That was a nice dinner," Carol says at the foot of the stairs, when tiredness catches up with them and they're ready to head up.
"I'm very proud of you," Richard tells Eleanor again, squeezing her shoulder warmly, and then looks at his daughter. "Both of you."
The two of them stand there, watching their parents climb the stairs—the house quiet around them, and the feeling that for the first time in many days—maybe in many years—the silence has nothing left to hide.