Dear Eleanor

Dear Eleanor,

For a moment I was scared. For a moment, there, when I realized that I had been taking sugar pills for two days and there was no sign at all of  the usual monthly pain, I was terrified that I’d managed to get pregnant again, after I’d proved myself the worst of mothers the first time around. I stood in the shower and cried – I sat on the floor and let the water hit me, it was too hot, too real, but I sat there, and sobbed, and I didn’t even hear him come home, until he was in the bathroom, saying, “Darling, I’m coming in. Are you okay? Talk to me.” But I couldn’t and I didn’t care if he found me wet with water and tears and naked, he’s seen me worse, and his hand was on my knee and he was talking but I don’t know what he said, I was too lost in my despair. It didn’t take him long to just leave, to go to his room and his first love, the computer, and after a while I composed myself and vowed not to tell him, not after last time.

It didn’t work, of course, my mood was lousy and we started to fight over something so inconsequential. He asked what was wrong with me and I told him, angrily, no tears now, what I’d discovered. He, of course, didn’t seem concerned, why would he? He has this peculiar way of loving me, that sometimes I know is genuine, like in the mornings after we’ve had the rare lovemaking – but sometimes he’s quiet and resentful and that’s the part I deserve. It’s the part I always deserved – ever since that time a year ago when I let you die, when I closed my eyes and reached for you but it wasn’t enough. It’s only been a year but it lasted a lifetime, and my heart aches every day for you. I think – I always think – that if I die I can hope to find you, to always find you, over and over again, until nothing means anything anymore except the two of us, the two of us living out what we never had before, because of my mistakes, my problems, my innate ability to lose everyone who means anything, even my own beautiful daughter.

I remember, vividly, what you said to me, what you sent me from wherever you are outside that little church in dark London: And I am here, in a place beyond desire or fear. That at least told me that you were all right, that even after all I’d done you forgave me and I didn’t need to worry about you being happy. It meant so much to me, that you cared enough about me to do that, and only a few days after the anniversary of your death. It’s for you I believe in God, because if there’s no God there’s no hope, and I so want there to be hope. But even that couldn’t erase my hatred of me, of the person who’d done so many horrible things, the person who deserves this, this pain that comes with living. But I want to find you. I need to find you.

I will find you.

I’m not pregnant, just late. Even that made me want to cry. Everything does. Yet here I am. Maybe someday soon the courage will come.

I love you, more than the world,

Your Mother