She looked very serious.
“Eleanor, I’ve worked with several clients over the years who’ve had similar worries to yours. It’s normal to feel that way. Remember, though—we’ve just been discussing how different you are from your mother, the different choices you’ve made . . .”
“But Mummy’s still in my life, even after all this time. That worries me. She’s a bad influence, a very bad influence.”
Maria looked up from the book where she was taking notes.
“You’re still talking to her, then?” she said, her pen poised.
“Yes,” I said. I clasped my hands and took a deep breath. “But I’ve been thinking that it needs to come to an end. I’m going to stop. It has to stop.”
She looked as serious as I’d ever seen her.
“It’s not my role to tell you what to do, Eleanor. I will say this, though—I think that’s a very good idea. But, ultimately, it’s your decision. It’s always been your decision,” she said, excessively calm and ever so slightly aloof. It was as though she was trying just a bit too hard to be neutral, I thought. I wondered why.
“The thing is, even after everything that she’s done, after all of it, she’s still my mummy. She’s the only one I’ve got. And good girls love their mothers. After the fire, I was always so lonely. Any mummy was better than no mummy . . .”
As I paused, in tears, I saw that Dr. Temple was completely sympathetic, that she understood what I was saying and was listening without judgment.
“Lately,” I said, starting to feel a bit stronger, a bit braver, buoyed by her kind eyes and supportive silence, “lately, though, I’ve come to realize that she’s . . . she’s just bad. She’s the bad one. I’m not bad and it’s not my fault. I didn’t make her bad, and I’m not bad for wanting nothing to do with her, for feeling sad and angry—no, furious—about what she did.”
The next bit was hard, and I looked at my clasped hands as I spoke, scared to see any change in Dr. Temple’s demeanor in response to the words coming out of my mouth.
“I knew that something about her was very, very wrong. I’ve always known, as long as I can remember. But I didn’t tell anyone. And people died . . .”
I dared to look up, and felt my body slump with relief when I saw the expression on Maria’s face, unchanged.
“Who died, Eleanor?” she said quietly. I took a deep breath.
“Marianne,” I said. “Marianne died.” I looked at my hands, then back at Maria. “Mummy set a fire. She wanted to kill us both, except, somehow, Marianne died and I didn’t.”
Maria nodded. She didn’t look surprised. Had she already worked it out? She seemed to be waiting for me to say something else, but I didn’t. We sat in silence for a moment.
“It’s the guilt, though,” I said, whispering. It was very hard to speak, physically hard, trying to force out sound. “I was her big sister; I should have been looking out for her. She was so small. I did try, I really did, but it just . . . it wasn’t enough. I failed her, Maria; I’m still here and that’s all wrong. It should be her who survived. I don’t deserve to be happy, I don’t deserve to have a nice life when Marianne . . .”
“Eleanor,” she said gently, once I’d calmed myself, “feeling guilty about surviving when Marianne didn’t is a perfectly normal reaction. Don’t forget, you were only a child yourself when your mother committed her crime. It’s very important that you understand that it’s not your fault, that none of it was your fault.”
I was sobbing again.
“You were the child and she was the adult. It was her responsibility to look after you and your sister. Instead, there was neglect and violence and emotional abuse, and there were terrible, terrible consequences for everyone involved. And none of that is your fault, Eleanor, absolutely none of it. I don’t know if you need to forgive your mother, Eleanor,” she said. “But I’m certain of one thing: you need to forgive yourself.”
I nodded through the tears. It made sense. I wasn’t sure that I quite believed it—yet—but it certainly made logical sense. And you can’t ask for more than that.
Blowing my nose, unembarrassed by the trumpeting, which was as nothing compared to the horrors I’d already laid before Dr. Temple in this room, I made my decision. It was time to say a final good-bye to Mummy.
38
Raymond had insisted on meeting outside the counseling rooms that day to take me for coffee. I watched him amble toward me. His peculiar loping walk was almost endearing now—I wouldn’t recognize him if he started to walk as normal men did. He had his hands in the pockets of his low-slung denim trousers, and was wearing a strange, oversized woolen hat that I hadn’t seen before. It looked like the kind of hat that a German goblin might wear in an illustration from a nineteenth-century fairy tale, possibly one about a baker who was unkind to children and got his comeuppance via an elfin horde. I rather liked it.
“All right?” he said. “I nearly froze my bollocks off on the way over here.” He blew into his cupped hands.
“It is rather inclement today,” I agreed, “although it’s wonderful to see the sun.”
He smiled at me. “It is, Eleanor.”
I thanked him for taking time off to come and meet me. It was kind of him, and I told him so.
“Away you go, Eleanor,” he said, putting out his cigarette. “Any excuse for a half day. Anyway, it’s nice to talk to someone about something that isn’t software licenses and Windows 10.”
“But you love talking about software, Raymond,” I said, sniffing, and then I nudged him in the ribs, very gently, very bravely. He laughed, and nudged me back.
“Guilty as charged, Miss O,” he said.
We went into a branch of a café chain—I’d seen lots of them around town. We queued, and I asked for a grande mochaccino with extra cream and hazelnut syrup. The young man asked my name.
“Why do you need to know my name?” I said, puzzled.
“We write it on your cup,” he said, “so the drinks don’t get mixed up.”
Ridiculous.
“I haven’t heard anyone else order an identical drink to mine, so far,” I said firmly. “I’m sure I’m more than capable of identifying my chosen beverage when the time comes.”
He stared at me, the pen still poised in his hand. “I have to write your name on the cup,” he repeated, sounding firm but bored, as people in uniform are often wont to do.
“And I have to maintain a modicum of privacy by not sharing my given name with all and sundry in the middle of a cafeteria,” I said, equally firmly.
Someone further back in the queue tutted, and I heard someone else mutter something that sounded like for fuck’s sake. It appeared that we had reached something of an impasse.
“Fine, all right then,” I said. “My name is Miss Eleanor Oliphant.”
He boggled at me.
“I’ll just put, eh, Ellie,” he said, scribbling. Raymond was silent, but I could feel his large shoulders and misshapen body quivering with laughter. It was his turn next.
“Raoul,” he said, and then spelled it out.
When we’d collected our drinks—with no problem whatsoever—we sat at a table in the window and watched people pass by. Raymond stirred three sachets of sugar into his Americano, and I resisted the urge to suggest that he make healthier choices.
“So,” he said, after what I recognized was a comfortable silence. “How did it go today?”
I nodded. “It was OK, actually,” I said. He looked closely at me.
“You look like you’ve been crying,” he said.
“I have,” I told him. “But it’s fine. It’s normal to cry when you’re talking about your dead sister.”
Raymond’s face contorted with shock.