Her parents lived in Evanston, where her father was a professor of physics at Northwestern University. Her mother commuted downtown to her job in the psychology department at Loyola University. This meant that Caddy and Eleanor had long been subject to her unannounced drop-ins.
“Are you going out?” Catherine Briggs asked bluntly when Eleanor opened the door a minute later. Eleanor was putting on her gloves, making it abundantly clear to her mother she definitely was going out. She felt her mother’s sharp gaze drop down over her. The outfit was toned down with the coat closed and belted, but Eleanor immediately knew her mother wasn’t fooled. She still looked dressed to kill in Caddy’s sleek, expensive clothing.
“I have an event at the museum,” Eleanor said, reaching to take the glass-lidded casserole dish her mother held clutched against her practical, wool winter coat.
“You’re going to the museum dressed like that?” her mother asked disapprovingly as she stepped over the threshold and Eleanor shut the door behind her. Eleanor turned to hide her eye roll.
“That’s the idea, yes,” she said with forced breeziness as she walked toward the kitchen, casserole dish in hand. “I was just on my way out the door. What’d you bring me? Beef pirog? Yum. I’ll never become a ballerina if you keep feeding me like this.”
“You and your sister were marvelous dancers. I always said it was a pity to waste such talent.”
It was a long-standing, scripted exchange between Eleanor, Caddy and their mom upon being presented with one of her delicious, rich dishes. Eleanor and Caddy were kidding saying it, of course. But somehow, their mom always had seemed to genuinely believe her daughters had come this close to becoming prima ballerinas, while she fed them diets suitable for a professional Russian weight lifter.
“Why are you in the city so late?” Eleanor asked as she popped the casserole dish inside the refrigerator.
“Late faculty meeting.” Eleanor turned to see her mom shrewdly peering at her over her professorial glasses. “I was hoping we’d have time to talk this evening.”
Eleanor checked her watch. “I’m sorry. I’m already running late. We can talk tomorrow when I come to the house? We’re still planning on cooking for Thanksgiving tomorrow night, right?”
“Of course. But your father will be there. I think we should talk about this now, woman to woman,” her mother said while waving her hand, indicating Eleanor’s outfit.
“This?” Eleanor asked, feigning confusion. She refused to willingly go down this path with her mother. No, she’d kick and scream the whole way.
“Yes, this.” Her mom made a stabbing motion in the direction of Eleanor’s person. “The way you’ve been wearing Cad’s clothes recently, the way you’re doing your hair and wearing your makeup. It’s not you, Eleanor.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for this right now—”
“I’m concerned about you, honey. So is your dad.”
“Then how come you don’t want Dad to hear you talking to me about it?”
Her mom ignored her, which was typical if a comment strayed from the point she was determined to make.
“We never thought it was a good idea for you to move right into the condo so soon after Caddy . . .” Her mother’s still-pretty face creased with anguish as she faded off. Despite her annoyance, Eleanor’s heart squeezed in her chest. Her mother could be bossy and overbearing, but Caddy had been the apple of her eye, the princess who was destined to become queen. It pained Eleanor to see such a strong woman still unable to speak of her daughter’s death in concrete terms.
“It’s okay, Mom. It’s not what you’re thinking,” Eleanor said. As always, she felt cornered by her mother’s overbearing nature coupled with the fact that she loved her like crazy and despised seeing her vulnerable.
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“You’re worried about me, obviously. But I’m fine,” Eleanor said pointedly before she headed out of the kitchen.
“Eleanor, have you even cried? I mean, really cried. You didn’t at the funeral. Your father and I have never seen it since then. What I’m thinking—and what your father is thinking too—is that you’re grieving in a . . . well, an unnatural way.”
Eleanor spun around in the hallway, infuriated by her mother’s intrusiveness. “I’m so sorry I haven’t wailed and rended my garments sufficiently to please you. Besides, I’m not grieving at the moment, Mom. I’m trying to live.”
The worry lines on her mother’s face grew deeper as she stepped toward her. God, Eleanor did not feel up to dealing with this. Not now.
“I think you’re dealing with Caddy being gone by trying to embody her . . . the way you’re wearing her clothes and coming off so . . .”
“Bold? Pretty? Confident? Did Caddy hold the patent on those things?”
“No, of course not. But it’s not you, Eleanor.”
“Thanks a lot, Mom.”
“Don’t go histrionic on me. You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Do you mean I’m not acting like the boring, wallflower librarian who conveniently blends into the background? Is that what you mean, Mom?”