Chapter 10: What Elaine Said
Elaine made tea the way she always did — strong, in the big brown pot, with a plate of shortbread that nobody ever asked for and everyone always ate.
Julian was on the sitting room floor with the girls.
I could hear him through the doorway — his voice low and soft, the particular gentleness people find when they are holding something small and precious and know they almost didn't deserve to.
Elaine set a mug in front of me and sat down across the kitchen table.
"He called me last night," she said.
"After you both went to bed."
I looked up.
"He didn't tell me everything.
But he told me enough." She wrapped both hands around her own mug.
"He told me about Dana.
About what you found out."
"He told you that."
"He did." She looked at me steadily.
"I think he needed to say it out loud to someone who already knew the shape of it."
"You told Dana she deserved better than someone who runs," I said.
Elaine didn't flinch.
"I did."
"Do you believe he's changed?"
She was quiet for a moment.
Not evasive — genuinely considering it.
"I believe he wants to," she said.
"I believe that last night frightened him in a way that other things haven't.
Seeing you calm.
Seeing the house quiet.
Seeing that you had already taken steps." She paused.
"Julian has always responded to comfort.
When things are comfortable, he doesn't look too closely at what he's doing.
It takes disruption to make him see."
"That's not a sustainable way to live," I said.
"No," she agreed.
"It isn't."
I looked at my tea.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
"And I need you to answer me honestly, not as his mother."
"I'll try," she said.
"Do you think he was faithful to me?
Not emotionally — I know the answer to that.
Physically.
Do you think anything happened with Kristen or anyone else?"
Elaine was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," she said.
"And I want to be honest with you — I don't know because I don't think Julian would tell me if it had.
He would protect me from it." She met my eyes.
"What I can tell you is this: I have watched my son for forty-one years.
I know when he is hiding something large and when he is hiding something small.
Last night on the phone, I heard guilt.
I heard shame.
I did not hear the particular kind of silence that comes with something he cannot say out loud." She paused.
"That is not proof.
But it is what I have."
"Thank you," I said.
"Nora." She leaned forward slightly.
"Whatever you decide — whether you stay and rebuild or whether you decide this is too much — I want you to know that you and those girls will always have a place here.
That is not conditional on what happens between you and my son.
Do you understand me?"
My throat tightened.
"I understand," I said.
"Good." She sat back.
Picked up a piece of shortbread.
"Now.
The therapist on Thursday.
Is it someone you found yourself?"
"Yes.
A woman.
She specializes in couples and new parents."
Elaine nodded.
"Good choice.
Julian does better with women.
He can't perform as easily." A dry, knowing look.
"He knows I know that."
I almost smiled.
It was the first time in days that something had felt almost normal.
From the sitting room, Julian's voice floated through: "There you are.
There she is.
Hello."
One of the girls made a sound — a high, bright, delighted sound — and then the other one joined in.
Elaine looked toward the doorway.
Her expression was complicated and tender and tired all at once.
"He loves them," she said quietly.
"Whatever else is true, that part is real."
"I know," I said.
"Love isn't enough on its own," she said.
"But it's something to work with."
I picked up my tea.
May you like
Held it with both hands.
"It's something," I said.
