Chapter 13 - Vanessa Asked For A Door I Didn’t Open
Vanessa wrote me a letter.
I almost threw it away because our family had recently developed an unhealthy relationship with meaningful objects.
Then I noticed it was one page.
Good.
I read it.
She did not ask forgiveness.
She listed what she had done.
Borrowed money without telling me.
Taken the brooch.
Let Ben take suspicion.
Allowed Eleanor's version to stand.
Repeated that version after Noah was born.
Swung the pan at Noah's chair.
Called him trash.
At the bottom:
I don't know how to be around you without competing with whatever I think you have. I don't want Noah learning that feeling from me.
I read that sentence twice.
Then put the letter away.
I did not call.
Three weeks later Vanessa asked Eleanor whether she could speak to me.
Eleanor told her:
“Ask Olivia.”
Progress sometimes arrives through an irritatingly obvious route.
Vanessa texted.
Can we meet somewhere public?
I answered the next day.
Twenty minutes. No Noah.
We met outside a coffee shop.
Vanessa had lost weight.
I did not comment.
She sat across from me.
“I’m seeing someone.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Therapist.”
“Okay.”
“I realized that sounded like a boyfriend.”
“It did.”
A tiny smile.
Then gone.
“How is Noah?”
“Good.”
She nodded.
“I’m not going to ask to see him.”
“Good.”
“Can I apologize to him someday?”
I took time.
“He's two.”
“I know.”
“If you're asking whether one day I might let you tell him you scared him and it was wrong, maybe.”
Her eyes filled.
“Okay.”
“Not now.”
“Okay.”
No push.
I appreciated that more than tears.
“Why did you call him trash?”
Vanessa looked ashamed.
“Because that's what I used to think about Ben.”
“Class.”
“Partly.”
Ben grew up in a two-bedroom apartment above his father's tire shop.
Vanessa and I grew up with a pool nobody used and a dining room reserved for pretending we weren't fighting.
“What else?”
“He embarrassed me.”
“How?”
“He could see when I was bluffing.”
That sounded like Ben.
“He told me my company was failing two months before I admitted it.”
“So you borrowed money from him.”
“Yes.”
“You hated him and needed him.”
“Yes.”
Ugly combination.
“And Noah?”
Vanessa looked toward traffic.
“He has Ben's face.”
“Some.”
“I would see him and remember Ben knew what I did.”
“He didn't tell anyone.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“He still knew.”
There.
Shame doesn't need an audience.
“You treated Noah like he was carrying Ben's judgment.”
“Yes.”
“He isn't.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Vanessa's voice lowered.
“I’m trying to.”
We sat.
Then she said:
“Mom told me you're letting her see Noah.”
“With me there.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not discussing her access with you.”
“Okay.”
That answer came quickly.
Maybe rehearsed.
Still welcome.
“What happens with us?” she asked.
“I don't know.”
Vanessa nodded.
No complaint.
She looked at her hands.
“I miss you.”
That hurt more than I expected.
“I miss parts.”
She laughed softly through tears.
“That's brutal.”
“It's true.”
“I know.”
She stood when twenty minutes ended.
No delay.
At the door she stopped.
“One thing.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry I gave Mom the sentence she wanted.”
I frowned.
“What sentence?”
“If you want him gone, now you have a reason.”
Right.
Vanessa continued:
“I was trying to make my fear your problem.”
She swallowed.
“And three years later, I did the same thing to Noah.”
I did not tell her she had changed.
I did not know yet.
I said:
“Thank you for saying it.”
Then she left.
That night Eleanor called.
“What did Vanessa say?”
I smiled despite myself.
“Ask her.”
A pause.
Then:
May you like
“Right.”
We were all learning very slowly.
