Chapter 26 - THE OLD HOUSE
When Elsie was twenty-one, the old Keats house went on the market again.
The family who bought it from me had lived there happily for more than a decade.
Elsie sent me the listing.
Want to see?
I almost replied no.
Then:
Sure.
Open house.
Saturday.
We went together.
The library looked completely different.
The new owners had removed dark paneling and painted the walls pale cream. The former hidden compartment was now an open reading alcove with built-in shelves and a bench. No door. No painting.
A child had left a stack of comic books there.
Elsie stood at the entrance.
“This is it?”
“Yes.”
“Smaller than I remember.”
“Everything is.”
She stepped inside.
Sat on the bench.
I waited.
“Comfortable?”
“Actually.”
Then she laughed.
“What?”
“They put an outlet in here.”
“Civilization.”
She took out her phone and plugged it in.
The absurdity hit me.
A phone charging in the exact space where she had once been locked because she saw a stolen security key.
No one planned that.
Good.
Not every healing moment should be engineered.
Then the realtor approached.
“Beautiful little reading nook, isn’t it?”
Elsie looked at me.
I let her answer.
“Yeah.”
That was all.
Outside, we walked through the garden.
She asked:
“Do you wish you never married Ramona?”
I had heard versions before.
“No.”
“Because me?”
“You’re Caroline’s daughter, so you existed before Ramona.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I smiled.
“I wish I had noticed sooner. I wish I had protected you better. I wish I had not confused delegation with trust.”
“But do you wish she never happened?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Elsie nodded.
That answer was allowed.
No need to find gratitude inside abuse.
Then:
“Do you hate her?”
“No.”
“Still?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t occupy enough of my life anymore.”
Elsie smiled.
“That’s brutal.”
“Efficient.”
Then she told me she had been seeing Ramona once or twice a year.
I knew generally.
Not details.
“Good?”
“Fine.”
“What does fine mean?”
“Fine.”
Adult boundary.
I stopped.
Good.
Then she told me something else.
Ramona had recently apologized to Tilda directly.
Not because Elsie asked.
Tilda had accepted the apology but declined any relationship.
Also fine.
Then:
“Tilda says she still hates that painting.”
“The museum loves it.”
“Tragic.”
We laughed.
Before leaving, Elsie took one photograph of the reading alcove.
Not herself.
Just the room.
“What for?”
“I don’t know.”
Fair.
She kept it.
Then the old house sold.
We never returned.
No need.
A place can stop being a battlefield without becoming sacred.
The next year, Elsie moved across the country for graduate school.
I helped carry boxes.
One was labeled:
BOOKS.
Another:
KITCHEN.
Another:
TRUST STUFF — BORING.
I laughed.
“Good label.”
She smiled.
Then held up her black authentication key.
“Still have it.”
“Good.”
“Still want to check my purse?”
“No.”
Progress.
May you like
She put it in a locked document case.
Exactly where it belonged.
