“Don’t say anything. Promise, Mom?”
I fixed her a mug of hot chocolate. She was already in her room and dressed for bed when I brought it to her. I set it on the nightstand. She was subdued, which I understood, but it worried me. I turned to leave.
“Mom?”
I stopped in her doorway. “Yes, sweetie?”
“I don’t want to go to graduation. It’s too fresh. People will still be gossiping. There won’t be time for it to blow over and be replaced by other gossip.”
Ellen was valedictorian. She’d been practicing her speech for weeks. Ellen had perfect attendance. Everything she’d worked for since we moved to Mineral after the fire, the dedication she’d put into her school pursuits, her life out of school—it was all wrapped up into this culmination at graduation that was happening in two days—and she wanted to stay away.
“I understand, Ellen. But I don’t agree. People will always gossip about one thing or the other. Most won’t have any idea about any of this, and the ones who do . . . well, they know you and care about you.” I sat beside her. “If you don’t go to graduation and give the speech, you’ll always regret it.”
Her expression was sad yet stubborn. She ignored the hot chocolate and rolled over, turning away from me.
“Graduation is in two days, Ellen. Your speech is ready, and you’ll be brilliant as always, and all this nonsense will be in the past.”
She looked over her shoulder at me, doubtful.
“My sweet girl, we’ll talk about it in the morning. After a night’s sleep, we’ll both feel more objective about it. Sleep in and I’ll get you up for breakfast. We’ll have all our favorites.”
“OK, Mom.”
OK. Such an inadequate word. Tonight, it was probably the best I could hope for from my hurting child.
“Good night,” I said softly and closed her door, but not all the way.
How could I go to bed and sleep as if nothing had changed? I wandered back to the kitchen. It was neat. Not a speck of dust. No item was out of place. The soft light over the sink lit the granite counter and the pewter fixtures. All was well. But it wasn’t. I stood there at the counter, and I’d never felt so alone in my life. If I’d wanted to go to Roger for advice, perhaps for comfort, that was now out of the question. It would be like confirming I wanted him only when I needed him. I knew that wasn’t true, but he didn’t.
During the night, I peeked into Ellen’s room, and she appeared to be sleeping. The baby book was lying open on her desk. I didn’t know what that meant, but it made me inexpressibly sad.
In the morning, I arose early, checked again on Ellen who was still asleep, and grabbed my shower. As the water streamed over me, I practiced what I might say to her. First was the graduation problem. I wanted her to attend, but I could accept her decision not to, if that was truly her choice. Beyond that, I had tougher decisions to make.
I lured her out of bed with eggs, bacon, and cinnamon toast. She came to the kitchen and picked at the food. She left quietly, and I heard the shower running. When she returned to the kitchen, she seemed more like herself.
I took a chance and asked, “Did you hear from Bonnie?”
“She texted and apologized. Same with Braden.”
Braden. Who knew what impact he’d have on our lives? Certainly, when Eva Pullen had mentioned Melissa’s baby all those years ago, I hadn’t.
But Ellen seemed to be working things out with her friends. Whether I liked them or not, I saw that as encouraging.
“That’s good, right?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.” She leaned against the island as I rinsed the breakfast dishes. “Mom?”
Here it comes, I thought. The graduation conversation. “What, Ellen?”
“I’m going to stay home.”
“From graduation? You don’t want to miss that. You’ll regret it.”
“No. I’m not going to graduation and not to college, either.”
I spun around. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to start college under these circumstances. Bonnie and Braden and all our friends will be there.” She pushed her damp hair out of her face. “I’ll delay a year. I’ll go somewhere else. Maybe to a school in California or somewhere.”
My throat and mouth had suddenly gone dry. I only croaked a noise and then coughed.
Ellen tried to smile, but her puffy red-rimmed eyes betrayed reality. “The good thing, the good news is, I’ll be here to help you move out to the new house. I’ll go home to Cooper’s Hollow with you, and I’ll figure it all out later.”
“No!” The word erupted from me. “No, Ellen. I don’t need your help. I can manage on my own.”
She turned pale. She looked stricken.
“No, sweetheart.” I moved forward to touch her arms, but she shrank away. “You’ll see this is no big deal. It will pass quickly. You’ll stick with your plans. You’ll graduate and you’ll go to Tech. Nothing else is acceptable. Trust me. Everything will be fine.”
She crossed her arms and turned her face away. “No, Mom, I don’t think anything will ever be fine again.”
She walked down the hall. I heard the soft noise of her door closing.
Without the kitchen counter to hold me, I would’ve fallen. The world spiraled around me in a series of errors repeating and sins recurring. I closed my eyes and focused. This would not be. Ellen would go to college. She would face this down. A tempest in a teapot of a small town . . . She was too young and vulnerable to understand how swiftly this would blow over if she could manage to ignore it. Her world, our world, would right itself, and I intended to proceed on that basis. It had worked thus far. We would soon be back on the right trajectory. My personal universe had had a number of resettings. It had worked for me.
The butterfly—one of the butterflies Ellen was always collecting and sticking here and there—was held by a magnet on the side of the refrigerator. I pulled the colorful paper butterfly from beneath the magnet and held it to my cheek. I closed my eyes and saw George Bridger’s stained glass window with the butterflies and lilies entwined.
Lilies for death and butterflies for rebirth. It stunned me. Where had I heard that? I had no recollection, but I knew what I had to do, no matter how painful.
My daughter’s hurt had far more power to destroy me than any hurt or fear of my own. Except for once, long ago. Only then had I experienced pain that could never be exceeded. At least, not be exceeded and survived.