25. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Three
A fter the funeral, there was a luncheon at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright. The house was packed. After the church service, where Laura had seated herself in the last pew, she had retreated to her bedroom and wasn’t seen again for the remainder of the day. Lenore didn’t have the energy to deal with her at that moment. People she knew, and some she didn’t, came up to her to offer their condolences as she sat on a chair in the corner of the parlor. Her parents had taken over and were running things, and for that she was grateful. It was only when Alistair approached her that she stood, and he took her into his arms, offering words of comfort.
After the last guest had left and all the furniture had been put back and the tables cleared of cups and saucers, Hilda retired to her quarters, and Lenore’s parents sat down with her in the parlor .
“Your mother and I want to talk with you,” her father said soberly.
She looked from one to the other. They’d been worried about her. And they had their own grief to deal with as well; they’d been very fond of John. More than once, she’d heard her father say that he couldn’t have asked for a better son-in-law if he’d picked him out himself.
“We’re concerned about you and the baby.” Her mother reached over and took Lenore’s hand in hers. “This has been an awful tragedy.”
“And you’re left in that big house alone,” her father said. “We’re worried about that.”
“John installed locks on all the doors,” Lenore said flatly.
Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright exchanged a glance.
Lenore’s father pulled his chair closer to her. “Pet,” he said, calling her by the childhood endearment he hadn’t used in years, “Mother and I would like you and the baby to come and live here with us.”
“Here?” Lenore repeated.
“It is your home, Lenore, no less than it was before you got married,” her mother said softly.
“We’ll send Laura away to live with your mother’s sister for a bit,” her father said.
“I don’t want to kick Laura out of her home.”
Mrs. Wainwright looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. “She needs to get away for a while. ”
“Why? Because she’s guilt-ridden?” Mr. Wainwright asked, his temper flaring.
“Please,” his wife begged. “I can’t have this conversation again.”
Mr. Wainwright’s mustache twitched. Lenore had no interest in any further conversation about Laura.
“The house you and John bought is too big for only two people,” her father said. “What are you going to do, all by yourself in that house?”
“Come home and live with us,” her mother piped in. “We’d love to have you, and we can help with the baby.”
“We’re looking forward to the arrival of the baby. It will be a happy time.” This from her father. Lenore looked at him. Was this thought supposed to cheer her up? She didn’t want to do anything without John being there. Not even have this baby. If only there were a way for her to stay pregnant and walk around with that little bit of John still inside of her, she would. But whether she liked it or not, this baby was coming.
She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I really do appreciate your offer, but I want to stay in my home. In our home.”
“But it’s too much work,” Mrs. Wainwright protested.
“No,” Lenore said firmly. “I’ll stay put.” Her vulnerability might cause her to make a decision she would later regret. But this one thing she was sure of. She wasn’t moving away from Pearl Street. She couldn’t. It was the last place she’d seen John alive.
Her father reached over and patted her hand, smiling benevolently. “That’s fine, Lenore. We can revisit this subject another time, when you’re feeling up to it.”
She didn’t press the matter, though she knew very well that she would never feel up to it and she would never leave that house. It had been their home, hers and John’s, and although they only lived in it for a short period of time, she’d been outrageously happy there. That was gone now. But she still had the house and all the hopes and dreams they’d shared about it.
Lenore sat, unmoving, for the longest time, seeing but unaware of the changing shadows on the wall in front of her. She knew not the day, the time, or the hour. She couldn’t remember when the last time was that she washed her hair or brushed her teeth. She’d left John frozen in time on that last night he was alive, and she’d gone on ahead of him, without him. A fact she didn’t like and could do nothing to change.
Finally, when she decided it was time to move from the chair, she stood, wobbly, unsure, and made her way to the bed. It was getting darker. Might as well go to bed for the night. Unconsciously, she rubbed her large belly .
She took a shirt of John’s off the chair where he’d left it and pressed it close to her face. It smelled of him. She was afraid if she smelled it too much, it would lose its scent. She mustn’t forget what he smelled like. Already the sound and timbre of his voice was fading, and this was disturbing to her. How could someone who’d been so very alive be suddenly dead? Buried beneath six feet of clay, sand, and dirt. It felt like an abominable sin to her.
Clinging to the shirt, she crawled into bed, hugging it. When the tears came, she turned her head away from it, not wanting to soak the fabric, and drenched the pillow instead.