“I know, Cassie. It was . . .” She takes another sip. Her hands are trembling. “When you were a teenager, Burt had suspicions, but I didn’t listen. I should have, of course. Of course, I should have. But the idea that Lawrence was capable of something so . . . so heinous . . . that he could . . . It was inconceivable. And even if I could believe it, what would I say and to whom?”
Digging into the bag, Eleanor takes out the biscotti, breaks it in half and hands me a piece, then keeps going.
“When I was growing up, parents and children occupied separate orbits. We never spoke of our difficulties. We prided ourselves on our self-sufficiency. I realize this was cowardice. Similarly, I used to consider myself a strong person, but I’m not. I was weak. I turned away . . . I didn’t ask . . . I didn’t . . .” She shakes her head, bewildered. “When you left for Yale, and I saw Lawrence’s grief, I wondered. Then, when Lawrence pushed Billy to take a plea, I think that’s when I knew. A plea! To save himself.”
“But you still went to trial knowing it might come out.”
“It was a risk, but a calculated one. I believe Billy is innocent, and when it came down to saving Lawrence or saving Billy, there was no choice. This meant exposing my family, subjecting you to pain and humiliation, and I’m sorry for that. But it was a price well worth paying to keep my son out of jail.”
I gasp. “It was your idea to have DeFiore go after Diana.” I remember the way she shouted “no” in the courtroom. The Sphinx, performing for the audience.
Eleanor’s face breaks open, and for a second, I think she’s going to admit it. Then she pulls herself together. “It’s not impossible to repair our name, though it will require money and pandering. But to let my son go to prison? Not in my lifetime.” She pauses. “Cassandra, I came here to talk about you. I got it wrong, from the start. As a parent my job was to learn when to step in and when to back off. It’s a delicate dance, and I vacillated, every day, between too much and not enough. I smothered Billy and neglected you.”
“I wasn’t your daughter. I was a burden. You did what you could.”
“You were a child, Cassie. Not a burden. Though it’s true I was skittish with you. You were so small and defiant—and heartbroken. Rachel was your mother. You worshipped her like a religion. I didn’t want to come between you and her memory, nor did I want you to feel pressured to love me.”
“But she was barely a mother to me. You know that. She was a mess.” She was, yes, but she was also mine, my one and only. Sitting here with Eleanor, I ache for Rachel, a real mother, my real mother, someone I don’t have to prove myself to or beg affection from.
“Children don’t look at their mothers and see a mess. They see perfection. Now you have the luxury of hindsight. But back when you were five, six, seven, you were obsessed with her, and you hated me. Rather, you hated that I wasn’t her. So I took a backseat, and I allowed Lawrence to parent you in ways you wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tolerate from me. I made a choice. But like with any choice, there were consequences. I will never forgive myself, Cassie. I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, which at this point I realize isn’t much. My failure as a parent is a shame I will carry the rest of my life.” She holds out her hand. “I am so sorry, Cassandra. I am so very sorry.”
I take her hand. Can I trust her? I want to believe I can, to allow myself to feel her remorse, but I’m not sure. My relationship with Lawrence has crippled me in so many ways, some irrevocably. I doubt my own instincts. I don’t trust myself to know what’s right or wrong, true or false. Don’t women like Eleanor always forgive themselves? There’s always a reason, context, extenuating circumstances. In this manner, she and Lawrence are not dissimilar. In fact, if we’re weighing the scales, aren’t her crimes worse? After all, Eleanor is the mother. She’s the mother. We look to our mothers to protect us from the world, from outsiders, sometimes from our own fathers.
“I’m tired,” I tell her. “I need to lie down.”
“Cassie, we’re not done yet. We need to see this through to the end.”
I was right, I realize. She wants something from me. “Which means what?”
“Come to court.”
“I won’t testify.”
“No, of course not. I’m only asking that you show up and sit with your family.”
Eleanor’s face is gentle. I see softness, a warmth that used to be missing. I don’t know if I can trust this. I want to, though.
“You really believe my being there will help Billy?”
“I do, Cassie.” She smiles. “A united front,” she adds.
Your son is a criminal, Eleanor. Even if I could help him, I don’t know if I should.
“Maybe,” I tell her. “I’ll think about it.”
58
THE TRIAL RESUMES MONDAY AT TEN. OVER THE WEEKEND, the media exploded with the latest twist. Lawrence and I are being compared to Woody and Soon-Yi, with headlines like: “Dirty Dad and Darling Daughter; Princeton Rapist’s Family Secret; Runner Rapist Can’t Flee the Shocking Truth.” This morning, we drive from the hotel in separate cars. Having agreed to Eleanor’s request, I travel with her, Nate, Billy, and the Bowtie in his Bentley. Lawrence rides alone in his Mercedes. Eleanor is concerned about appearances, but even she has her limits.
As we make our way up the courthouse steps, reporters call out to me and Lawrence: Are you together? When did your affair start? Is Billy a rapist?
It’s hell trying to focus. My only salvation is anger—burning-hot, acid, laced with venom—so I glide demurely into the building, wearing a hand-tailored Calvin Klein suit, silky blouse, and kitten heels, pretending I can’t hear. Lawrence is ahead of me, weaving through the crowds, the same way he wove through traffic. Watching him I force myself to remember and remember. Unfortunately, it’s the memories I want to forget that have the most staying power.
Haggerty was right. There are no happy endings for girls like me. Instead, there are agreements, compromises. Eleanor asked me to appear. In return, she kept her promise to stick by me, going so far as to spend the weekend in New Haven. I ached for her to lie in my bed and rub my back while I cried. But I also understood this was a little girl’s fantasy. The Eleanor I want and the Eleanor I have are not the same; to pretend otherwise is how I created Marcus. Still, I want what I want, which, unfortunately, includes Lawrence. All weekend, I waited for him to show up and make things right, but Eleanor was there so he couldn’t.
How do I explain this? My brain knew Lawrence would not come. I saw that gear turn, the thought he was bad for you expressed. But other gears were turning at the same time, different thoughts were also expressed: I love you. I need you. I’ll wait. Despite everything Lawrence said on the stand, I have to believe our relationship was real, that he felt as deeply for me as I felt for him. How else would I stay sane?
Over the weekend, he continued to call me until Eleanor stepped in. “You. Must. Stop.” Her voice was ball-shriveling tight. “Gather your belongings. Leave my home. If you don’t, I’ll freeze your accounts and secure a restraining order.” She hung up. “Whew. What now?”