Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  Inside, she kicked off her shoes, a pair of loafers, and dropped her coat on the chair without bothering to hang it up as she would usually do. Her bag, she dropped on the sofa, without caring that it needed unpacked.

  Her column needed writing. Her mail needed answering. A message from a friend who hadn't heard about Marianne and wanted Eleanor to go out for a cocktail tomorrow night needed a reply. Brandon ought to be called at some point and assured that she did not need a ride home from the hospital. But none of that mattered, since Marianne was going to be fine.

  "You should be more careful," Eleanor scolded her. "It could have been anything, Marianne. A paper cut – bacteria from work, even." It could have been your terrible apartment. Something in all that rusty trash in your sculptures or in those toxic art supplies or even in the unsavory apartment of one of your questionable friends...

  "The doctor said I'm fine, Elly," Marianne answered. "They don't even know whether it was bacterial or viral. What does it matter, since there were no complications for the baby? So long as I finish the medication, it should be clear from my system."

  "Still," Eleanor argued.

  Such arguments would continue for weeks. Months. Years. For once, Eleanor was grateful for such a future. It would be a pleasure to argue Marianne's sleeping and eating habits, her choice of friends and apartment. To listen to snarky little comments about her own social life, for instance.

  She didn't feel like eating in her apartment. Instead, she went to a coffee shop down the street, where she sat with a sandwich and a cup of coffee, watching the final light of day disappear through the glass of the restaurant's windows.

  The first sunset she had seen since the one on the rooftop. The world had changed for her in some subtle manner since those hours. She looked at it with a since of sorrow and gratitude; of satisfaction for her release from the darkest possible future.

  There had been no message on her machine from Edward, much to her disappointment. She had hoped that perhaps he had phoned her – and that he wasn't waiting for her to call him, unaware that his number was a mystery to her. They were still at the stage of undefined connection, she supposed, in which the rush to love is followed by the realization of how much is still lacking in a relationship.

  As if stirred to life psychically by her mind, her phone rang. Not with Edward's number, but one unfamiliar to her.

  "Hello?" she asked

  On the other end, she heard a man's voice. A dry tone, laced with something rich and electrical, as if the voice was capable of shifting emotions quickly and subtly. "Eleanor. I hope you're not hanging up on me."

  She recognized Will Allen's voice. She had no idea he knew her cell number.

  "No," she answered, cautiously. "I won't."

  "Good." There was relief in his answer. "Is she all right?"

  "She's fine," Eleanor answered, indifferently.

  "Don't pretend, Eleanor." Will sounded sarcastic. "I know everything except the outcome. I begged, but information is not given to anyone who isn't on the family list."

  "Did she tell you?" Eleanor asked.

  "No," Will's voice trembled. "No. I wish she had. But I heard it from a mutual friend. Someone who thought I – I might need to know it. And I did, of course. They were right to tell me, not that it did any good."

  "You phoned the hospital?" Eleanor asked. She was beginning to feel a touch of sympathy for him again, although she ignored it.

  "I went to the hospital." A bitter laugh on the other end. "I brought flowers. Lilies. Which I didn't leave. Better judgment took me at the last, that they might not be welcome. And since I didn't know how sick she and – and the baby – were, I wasn't thinking clearly when I left."

  She pictured him at the nurse's station, those intense green eyes fixed on the woman in desperation. Will could be charming, persuasive, but all to no avail in the face of strict, disciplined policy. For some reason, this gave Eleanor a feeling of satisfaction.

  "Tell me, Eleanor." He was pleading with her now. "Please. I can't bear not to know." Something in his voice made her think he had been crying. Or was crying at this moment.

  "It was an infection," Eleanor answered, melting slightly. "But she's fine now. They have it under control. In a matter of weeks, they think she'll be perfectly healthy again."

  There was a long silence on the other end. "Thank God." She heard relief in his voice, like a long breath released. "And – the baby?"

  "Fine also," Eleanor answered, shortly. "Now, you should go, I suppose. And thank you for not leaving the flowers." She hated to imagine Marianne's feelings torn open again at the sight of a bouquet, possibly even a card, which would suggest Will's presence.

  "No problem." More sarcasm in his voice. "Happy to oblige. That's my only purpose in life now. Obliging other people, I mean."

  The misery she had seen in his face the last time she encountered Will came to Eleanor's mind. The same misery in his voice when he begged to see her and explain himself. It was like an animal in pain – a prisoner suffering a torturer's first cruelties.

  He was still in love with Marianne, she knew. It was the reason why it was killing him not to know her condition. All the happiness he had lost by losing her and the child was becoming an unbearable weight.

  "Will," she said. Her voice was gentle.

  "I know, I know. I'm going now."

  "Will, you love her," Eleanor said. "Come back to her. She would forgive you. She would forgive everything that you've done. And you would be happier than you are now."

  She couldn't believe she was saying this, as if an impulse carried these words to freedom. Perhaps it was an impulse born out of thoughts of Edward, a sudden sympathy for lovesick souls. Such sympathy held out to Will, who had made his reasons for leaving Marianne painfully clear beforehand.

  "Do you think I would deserve her?" he asked, mockingly. "Or that she deserves me – penniless, unemployed, a sneaking coward who placates my father's whims for an allowance? I know that's what you're really thinking, Eleanor. I know it even better than you do."

  "I didn't think she deserved you before, when all of that was first true," she answered, quietly. "But I didn't tell her to leave you, then."

  "You wanted to," he answered. "You were just afraid of her answer. 'Him or me' – who wants to know the answer to that choice? And what if –" his voice hesitated, "– what if there was another reason to be faithless later on? How would you forgive yourself if I failed a second time?"

  There was still mockery in his tone, but it was less assured than before, Eleanor noticed.

  "I'm sorry," said Eleanor. "You're right. I shouldn't have suggested it." There was another pause on Will's end in response to this answer.

  "She'll end up with someone else," he continued. "Someone better. The patient, responsible, self-sacrificing type who thinks of me as a weasel – whom I'll have to watch rescue her from a distance. My only consolation is that he won't be a poet or an art lover." He laughed again, but with the same bitterness as before.

  Eleanor didn't reply. She couldn't imagine Marianne loving anyone else. Or even liking anyone else well enough to try another relationship of any sort. Not at this point, with Will's love still a fresh wound, a barb embedded deep in her sister's heart.

  After a moment, Will's voice was audible again. "Don't you think that's what will happen?" he asked. She did not hear the same mockery in it. But there was something both pleading and dreading in his words, as if both feelings held his words tightly in their grasp.

  It surprised her what she imagined. He wants me to say no. Even against his better judgment, this is what he hopes.

  "I do," she answered, calmly.

  Silence.

  "It would be better if you didn't call again," she said, softly. "For everyone I mean."

  "Of course." He attempted to sound indifferent, but there were cracks in his tone which betrayed it as false. "I won't be a bother again. I'll lose your number to be certain."

  "Goodbye, Will."<
br />
  "Goodbye." There was no hesitation before he hung up.

  For good measure, she pressed the menu button on her phone and scrolled through the list of calls. When she saw the most recent number listed, she deleted it from her phone. Just to be certain that she would not feel the urge to plead on behalf of his cause.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Marianne had a doctor’s appointment on Saturday morning. Eleanor drove her there, only because Marianne’s morning sickness made driving somewhat difficult for the moment. A sudden wave of nausea in a crowded traffic lane made Eleanor worry about the possible consequences.

  After the health scare which had occurred a few days ago, she saw no reason to take chances. Marianne had seemed so frail and helpless, so vulnerable beneath the infection's tide of symptoms. The picture of a recurrence haunted Eleanor occasionally, a prick of fear with each phone call or unfamiliar number in her message bank.

  Not that Marianne showed any signs of such fear. As soon as she was free from the hospital, she went home. No bed rest, an insistence that returning to normal was the best medicine. Under Eleanor's pressure, she reluctantly agreed to take off from work at the secondhand music shop.

  The first signs of Marianne’s pregnancy were noticeable now. A slight swell beneath her striped sweater, the dark circles which Marianne did not bother to conceal with makeup. Her skin was not as pale or waxen as before, however; and there was an improvement in her energy which boded well in Eleanor's estimation.

  Still, worry was worry. Eleanor watched for her to appear from inside the clinic’s exam room as she waited outside, flipping through an outdated issue of Mother and Me.

  “Everything’s fine,” said Marianne, afterwards. “All normal and right on schedule.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Eleanor. They were at lunch, a healthful bistro which Eleanor selected with the baby’s nutritional needs in mind, after having read two articles on vegetables and child development while waiting.

  "They said no further time off was necessary," Marianne continued, casting an I-told-you-so glance at Eleanor. "I'm perfectly healthy and being active is good for me, the doctor said. So it's fine for me to go back to work now – thank heavens for the sake of my rent, I mean."

  "Good," said Eleanor. "Very good." She tried not to let her relief seem too evident to Marianne's watchful gaze.

  Eleanor waited a few minutes, allowing a pause to fall between them before changing the subject. “So,” she said. “I’m seeing someone.”

  Across from her, Marianne’s plastic fork froze in the midst of spearing a cherry tomato.

  “You are?” said Marianne. “Who?” She looked both confused and intrigued – Eleanor was uncertain which one was the dominant emotion.

  “It’s the one I mentioned before,” she answered. “His name is Edward. We’ve been out once now. Twice, really, but only once officially.”

  “And it’s serious?” said Marianne. “You and this – Edward?” It was concern in her voice, Eleanor realized.

  “You sound surprised,” said Eleanor. “I thought you of all people would be pleased. Excited for me.”

  “I am,” Marianne answered. “I just pictured something different for you. Not something quite so sudden.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Sudden?” she repeated. “You are the queen of sudden relationships, Marianne. You fell in love with someone on the first day – at least I’ve known Edward for weeks. Months, even.”

  “I know,” Marianne answered, defensively. “I just didn’t think it was for you.”

  “At my column’s anniversary party, you told me that you saw me ending up with a spontaneous love match,” Eleanor said, in an incredulous tone.

  “Things change,” Marianne answered, vaguely. “People change. I changed a great deal in the last few weeks.” There was something sad in her voice, as if for the old Marianne swept away by the recent events.

  She reached across and squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “Forget I said anything, really. You’re happy and that’s what matters, Elly.” Eleanor smiled, although not with the same open happiness as before.

  “So, what’s he like?” Marianne asked. “What does he think of me? Does he know about the baby?”

  “He does,” said Eleanor. “At least, he has a general idea, since he was with me at the hospital. I haven’t told him everything, though.”

  “Why not?” asked Marianne.

  “Because I haven’t, that’s all,” said Eleanor. “I don’t tell people everything about myself as a general rule.”

  “But there are people who know everything about you,” argued Marianne. Which was true, of course – Marianne, Brandon, Eleanor’s mother, when she was still alive. “I just think he should be one of them.”

  “In time, yes,” said Eleanor. She pushed an oversized crouton aside with her fork. She did not wish to discuss the hesitation between herself and Edward – the omission of “Ask Eleanor” and of Lucy’s existence, for starters – during their first few weeks of knowing each other.

  Marianne leaned forwards. “In my first date with Will, I told him the name of the first boy I loved and the last one I kissed. I told him everything about you, how you dot your ‘i’s so perfectly and like the smell of fresh linen –”

  “And I see no need to rush out and tell Edward that you think white chocolate is fake and painted sunflowers in the third grade,” said Eleanor. “It can wait, Marianne, for at least a few more dates.”

  They would be starting over, she presumed. Meeting as two different people from now on, who no longer needed to brush over the more uncomfortable aspects of their lives in order to be happy.

  Marianne sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. She hesitated. “Isn’t it an irony – me scolding you for your relationship and you falling in love with someone overnight?”

  Eleanor laughed. “Yes, I suppose,” she answered.

  “And it used to be me in your seat,” mused Marianne. “And here we are now, like this.” She spread her hands out, one gesturing towards the noticeable bulge beneath her shirt.

  “True,” said Eleanor.

  Marianne told her about the latest canvas she was working on, in preparation for showing it to Eleanor later that day. A large tarp affixed to the ceiling of the studio, its surface splattered in paint, making it almost identical to the ones below, covering the sofa and the boxes and the surface of Marianne’s work table.

  She was painting it upside-down. Using long-handled brushes and pools of watered-down oil paint poured into bowls and containers. It splashed below on her kerchief and t-shirts, a dribble of jade-green rain down the front of her denim overalls.

  “Henri was so impressed with the first one, he wanted another like it,” Marianne explained. “I can’t do it the same way twice, of course, so I came up with this.”

  She demonstrated it by changing into her painting clothes and swiping streaks on the surface of the painting. A series of lines intercrossing in different colors, with splash marks from the first contact between brush and tarp.

  “I am proud of you, Elly,” she said, puffing slightly for breath. “You did take a risk. Bucking the caution and calm of your ordinary life.” She dipped her brush into a puddle of green paint on one of the floor tarps.

  “It’s not quite as dramatic as you make it sound,” said Eleanor. She had consented to help, donning one of Marianne’s oversized painting shirts and covering her head with a kerchief equally as paint-covered.

  “Don’t make your lines even, Elly. And please, don’t try to fix mistakes!”

  “I’m just giving that line an actual ending –”

  “It’s supposed to be that way. Leave it and paint a new one. It’s an expression, not a six-lane intersection.”

  Eleanor lowered her brush and dipped into a can of powder blue paint open conveniently nearby.

  “Anyway, it – the feeling for Edward – was more like a high-school crush. And, in the end, I didn’t have to do anything. I had already given him up and it j
ust happened.”

  “You make it sound unromantic.” Marianne grunted as she reached up to plaster a swathe of yellow on the corner of the tarp.

  “No, it was romantic,” said Eleanor. “Passionate.” Here, she had Marianne’s attention again. “It’s more passion than any intellectual connection, if that satisfies you.”

  Marianne lowered her brush. “I don’t know if it does,” she answered, thoughtfully. She didn’t say why, although Eleanor waited for it.

  “Are you sure this is good for the baby’s health?” Eleanor asked. Another pool of paint, yellow, this time, had dribbled across Marianne’s kerchief and hair as she lowered her brush.

  “Well, this is its life, so it had better get used to it,” said Marianne. At the sight of Eleanor’s look, she rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think my baby is already used to these things, Eleanor? Since the start, this has been its world. I’m not hearing any complaints thus far.”

  “I just worry,” said Eleanor. “About chemicals and rusty nails and the crime rate of this neighborhood.”

  Marianne’s smile was slightly wan. “There’s no getting around this, Elly,” she said. “Not all of it is a choice, of course. But it was time to grow up a little, and this is how I have to do it.”

  So there was still no willingness to move into Eleanor’s apartment. No reason to paint the spare room in nursery colors, or clean out a corner of her basement storage allotment for Marianne’s boxes.

  There was no place to cook in Marianne’s studio, barring the existence of a hot pot plugged into one corner, so Eleanor drove Marianne to her apartment for the evening. Where Marianne dutifully helped dice three mushrooms for the pasta sauce before wandering out of the kitchen again.

  Eleanor’s blade sliced through two onions, dicing them meticulously before adding them to a pot of tomato sauce. She could not help but picture Will at this moment, his deft maneuvers in making lunch in the kitchen he and Marianne had shared. Was Marianne imagining that too, she wondered?