I let myself relax against her. Like a child who’s suffered a fall, I’m shaken and clingy, desperate for something sure to hold on to. And I’m suddenly so tired.
“We’re different people, you and I.” Her voice is soft, almost maternal. “We may have different roles to play, but we’re family and always will be. Perhaps I’ve neglected you, even pushed you away, but it was because I didn’t know how to take care of you properly. You were so different from me as a child and so much . . . like Helene.”
Her voice falters, as if the mention of our mother’s name causes her pain. “She and I weren’t close the way you two were. You were always her favorite, and I suppose I was jealous. Then she got sick and there was just Father. I was so desperate for his approval. I said and did whatever he wanted me to, but I hurt you in the process. Can you forgive me?”
For as long as I can remember, I have craved my sister’s love. When my mother went away and I was left on my own in this cold, enormous house, I longed for the kind of softness she’s offering now. But after everything I’ve learned today, how can I even consider forgiving her? And yet, the pull is there, the temptation to unclench my fists and take what’s being offered. But I’m too exhausted to think about it now, too raw, too empty.
She pats my hand as if something’s been decided. “You’re confused now and hurting. You think you can’t live without this man, that he’s your night and day, your entire world. But the truth is you barely know him. All you know is what he’s told you, what he wants you to believe. But a man who would try to turn you against your family was never going to make you happy. He doesn’t understand our way of life. You deserve a man who cares about the things you care about, who can give you the kind of life you’re used to. And your children. It’s important to think about your children, about the kind of world they’ll grow up in.”
I nod, barely registering her words. I just want to be alone, to digest all that’s happened—all I’ve been told and all I haven’t. My eyes slide to the scrap of blue notepaper just visible beneath my diary—the half-written letter waiting to be finished—and I remember the look on your face when you walked in and realized I’d found your notes. The guilt and the panic, the scramble to explain yourself. You asked as I was leaving if I would still be there tomorrow. I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. I still don’t.
“Thank you,” I say, pressing Cee-Cee’s handkerchief back into her hands. “I’d like to be alone for a while. I have such a terrible headache.”
“Of course you do. You should lie down and close your eyes. But first, go and wet a cloth for your eyes. You might make yourself a headache powder while you’re at it. Or we can send to the druggist for something stronger, something to help you sleep. You’ll see. Everything will look better after a little rest. Go on now. I’ll turn back your covers while you get the cloth.”
In the bathroom, I prepare a powder and swallow it in two long gulps, retching as the last of it goes down. I stand over the sink, startled by my own reflection. For a moment, my mother looks back at me from the mirror. Raw, red-rimmed eyes. A cloud of messy dark hair. Pale, tearstained cheeks. Exactly how she looked the last time I saw her.
I wash away what’s left of my makeup, then carry the washcloth back to bed. I’m startled to find Cee-Cee still hovering. She’s turning back the bedspread, rounding up crumpled tissues.
“There now,” she says, smiling indulgently. “That’s better. But promise me, no more poetry today. Poor thing. You look positively dreadful. Try to rest if you can. I’ll send some tea up in a little while. We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better.”
I wait until she’s gone and lock the door behind her, then return to my desk and my unfinished letters.
Regretting Belle
（pgs. 87–92）
6 December 1952
London, England
Eleven years on, and it still feels like yesterday, the wound still raw, still festering. The day you vanished from my life. Shall I tell you how it was? How it felt? Yes, I think I will. Because I shouldn’t be the only one to remember that day.
The sun slices through the bedroom blinds right on schedule. I roll off the bed, still in my clothes. I’ve waited all night for the phone to ring, listened for the scrape of your key in the lock. Neither came. But this is a good sign, I tell myself. If you weren’t still planning to be at the station, you would surely have had the decency to at least pick up the phone. You wouldn’t leave me standing alone on a train platform. And so my things are packed by the time the sun is fully up, my rented bureau emptied, the medicine cabinet in the tiny bathroom stripped bare.
I arrive at Penn Station two hours before our appointed meeting time, our tickets tucked in the pocket of my coat, a pair of suitcases in one hand and my father’s old typewriter in the other. I enter from Seventh Avenue, passing through the arcade of posh little shops selling hats and scarves and perfume, and head toward the lunchroom where we’ve agreed to meet.
I’m immediately swallowed up by the noisy pulse of the concourse. It’s a massive space, with an intricate web of wrought-iron arches and gleaming glass panels suspended overhead. The enormous clocks hanging at both ends remind me that I have quite an uncomfortable wait ahead of me.
Eventually, I move to the waiting room, a cavernous chamber with stone columns; a high, vaulted ceiling; and rows of wooden benches that look like church pews. It’s less crowded here, quieter. The space reminds me of a cathedral, perhaps because I’ve been silently praying since I passed through the doors.
I find a place beside a woman with an outlandish feathered hat and enough luggage for an ocean voyage. She eyes me coolly, then nods. I nod back and settle in to pass the next hour. I scan the sea of faces as they blur past. None of them is likely to be yours—it’s much too early—but I look anyway, on the off chance that you might be early too.
Every dark-haired woman in a smart hat and heels sends my pulse careening. Several times I push to my feet, sure I’ve picked you out in the crowd. Then I settle back onto my bench, keenly aware that the woman beside me is growing annoyed. I don’t care. I’m exhausted and edgy, checking my watch at three-minute intervals, willing the hands to speed up and put me out of my misery. Eventually, it’s time. I wander back to the lunchroom with our cases and station myself near the door to wait.
By 2:45, I know you’re not coming.
Still, I head down the stairs to our platform, in case you’re running late and decided to go straight to the train. I set down the cases and walk up and down, neck craned, desperate for a glimpse of you in the swarm of travelers.
At precisely 3:04 p.m., the Limited pulls away from the platform. I stand watching, peering through each window as it moves past, hoping there’s been some kind of mix-up about where we were supposed to meet. Then I remember both tickets are in my jacket pocket and I realize the Limited will pull into Chicago tomorrow morning with an empty sleeper car.
I should have seen it coming, did see it really. Your excuse-making, your foot-dragging. But I convinced myself we’d gotten past all that. I hated myself for my suspicions, for thinking you were looking for an excuse to run back to your family and your ridiculous fiancé—but in the end, I wound up handing you exactly what you were looking for. Still, you could have spared me the station.