Chapter 12 - I Had To Stop Helping
Camilla found an apartment twelve days later.
Not one I would have chosen.
That was probably part of its appeal.
Third floor.
Too little closet space.
Kitchen counters pretending to be marble.
A view of another building.
I offered to buy her something.
She said no.
I offered to pay a year of rent.
No.
I offered to negotiate the lease.
“Dad.”
I stopped.
“Right.”
She signed it herself.
Then called me because she needed help carrying a sofa.
Apparently boundaries still permitted furniture.
I brought two men from my staff.
She sent them home.
“You.”
I stared.
“You expect me to move that thing?”
“You're the one who's always talking about being strong at sixty-one.”
“I'm sixty-one, not stupid.”
She smiled.
We got the sofa upstairs.
Barely.
I complained the entire time.
Normal felt unexpectedly good.
The envelope stayed in my study.
Elena's pages were in a fireproof folder.
Not hidden.
Not displayed.
Camilla had made a copy.
Then stopped reading it.
One evening she came by for dinner and found me holding it again.
“You're doing it.”
“What?”
“Turning one letter into Mom.”
I looked at the pages.
“She wrote it.”
“On one angry night.”
“Nineteen angry days.”
“Still.”
She sat across from me.
“You had seventeen more years.”
“Yes.”
“Was she happy?”
I smiled sadly.
“Sometimes.”
“Were you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did you keep controlling her?”
“Sometimes.”
That got a look.
“Smaller ways.”
“Still.”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever almost leave again?”
I thought.
“Once that I know of.”
Camilla leaned forward.
“When?”
“About four years later.”
“What happened?”
“Elena packed a suitcase.”
Camilla stared.
“Why did nobody tell me any of this?”
“You were ten.”
“And?”
“We didn't go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
I looked toward the fireplace.
“She packed. We argued. Then she unpacked.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“You never asked?”
“I asked.”
“What did she say?”
I smiled despite myself.
“She said she needed pajamas whether she left me or not.”
Camilla laughed.
Then:
“Did you think she was going?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
She looked surprised.
“I sat on the bed.”
“That must have nearly killed you.”
“It was a difficult evening.”
She smiled.
“Why nothing?”
“Because I'd learned something.”
“What?”
I almost gave her a theme.
A clean sentence.
Instead I remembered what actually happened.
“Elena had put her blue suitcase on the bed.”
Camilla waited.
“I reached for the zipper.”
“To help?”
“To unpack it.”
“Of course.”
“She slapped my hand.”
Camilla laughed.
I smiled.
“So I sat down.”
“And?”
“She packed.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Then?”
“She sat beside me.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing for a while.”
I looked at my daughter.
“Eventually she asked if I wanted Chinese food.”
Camilla laughed harder.
“And that was it?”
“No. We fought for another two years about the thing we'd been fighting about.”
“What thing?”
“My mother.”
“Of course.”
She shook her head.
“That letter makes your marriage sound like one giant lesson.”
“It wasn't.”
“What was it?”
“Mostly errands.”
That made her smile.
I put Elena's letter away.
Camilla watched.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Not turning her into a prophet.”
I nodded.
Then asked:
“How is Marco?”
She gave me a look.
“What?”
“That sounded casual.”
“I practiced.”
“He's living in a rental.”
“Anthony?”
“They aren't speaking.”
“That may change.”
“Maybe.”
I resisted the next question.
Camilla saw.
“Ask.”
“Are you seeing him?”
“Twice.”
My face probably did something.
“Dad.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your eyebrows did.”
“Unregulated.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“We had dinner.”
“How was it?”
“Hard.”
I waited.
“He apologized for the lock.”
“Good.”
“He apologized for the hotel.”
“Good.”
“He didn't ask me to come home.”
I nodded.
Then she said:
“That scared me more.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized part of me expected him to fight harder.”
I understood.
Being controlled long enough can make restraint feel like indifference.
Camilla looked down.
“I don't know what I want.”
I reached for the wine.
Poured mine.
Did not pour hers.
May you like
She noticed.
Small things.
