The doorbell sounds, ringing right by my head.
“Hullo, Professor!” A young twiggy blond woman appears on the security screen. She’s wearing a cocktail dress like mine. But she’s fifteen pounds skinnier and has clearly had breast work done.
“Uhhh...” The dimple disappears as his face reddens.
“A student?” I mutter, my voice barely audible.
His mouth hangs open. For once, he has nothing clever to say.
“Right.”
“Elizabeth... wait...” He reaches for me.
“Just leave me alone,” I say, wrenching away from him.
I leave quickly, passing the pretty girl outside without a word.
I walk up the streets, evening settling around me. I walk through busy Covent Garden, the young professional crowd off work, clustering around the pubs with pints. I walk slowly, my arms crossed across my chest—lonely in the happy throng, tears in my eyes. I remember this ache of betrayal, and it hurts now like a phantom limb. I remember how it felt as I walked the narrow, uneven streets of Haworth after catching Wes with Samantha on the antique icebox. I remember wondering how I’d get through the last few days of that excursion, how I’d sit near Wes on the plane. I wondered how I could keep my dignity around him and not break down in tears when I couldn’t wait to get home and cry in my practical mother’s arms.
I meander the streets, not ready to go home. As I pass Victoria Square’s private garden, I pause at the statue of a young Victoria. This might be my favorite monument to her. It’s years before she delivered eight children and then lost Albert. Her back to me, I can’t see her expression in the lamplit darkness. As I wrap my fingers around the cool wrought iron fence, I stare at her form, the folds of her bronze skirt, the swooping braids inher hair, and I feel something slip in me.Wes was a stupid weasel, and you should never cry more than five minutes over such a person.
I’m not only grieving Philip. I’m grievingMom. Although Dad took me out for ice cream and listened as I cried, Mom was the structure behind everything, baking and cleaning and making sure we all took our vitamins and went to bed by nine. She kept Dad, Ian and me going like clockwork. We’re unmoored without her.
I’m terrified of the grief. There are many reasons I’ve adhered to these rituals. But I realize now, I’m clinging to Mom’s order because whenever the world felt like it was falling apart, she was there holding us all together. And then when my world fell apart, she wasn’t there. When Philip died, I needed her more than ever, and everything crumbled for me. There was no remarkable Nora to keep me wound up and running. I needed tangibles and rituals and black clothes and jewelry to keep me rooted. I needed structure because Mom wasn’t there.
22
Previous Summer
The evening I fly back from Mom’s funeral, I feel exhausted. Heavy. Philip, Heathcliff, and I pick up Greek takeout, but I leave mine mostly untouched. Once Heathcliff is in bed, I take a hot bath and suddenly notice streaks of dust along our tiny square cream and tan ceramic bathroom tiles. After putting on my robe and wrapping my hair in a towel, I know what has to be done.
I pull an unused toothbrush out from under the sink and fill a bucket with hot water and cleaner. The grime will have to be taken care of with a toothbrush. Only then can I mop the entire floor. Then it will all be clean.
Just as I’m scrubbing the edges around the tub, Philip comes to the door.
“What are you doing, Lizzie?” he asks gently.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m scrubbing the floor here because it’s gross.”
“Since when have you been concerned about housecleaning?” he asks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Sincenow!”
Then he understands.
I drop the toothbrush and start sobbing, my face in my hands.
Philip sits on the floor beside me as I lean into him.
He holds me for a very long time.
Present
When I get back to the row house, I’m relieved that Heathcliff and Ms. Fernsby are out.
Alone, I sink down on the parlor couch ugly-crying. I’ve lost Mom. I’ve lost Philip. Philip’s loss hurts more because I’ve lost Mom. And I’ve been phenomenally stupid these past few weeks.
I’m furious at myself. What had I expected? I hadn’t known him for more than a hot minute, and he justscreameddashing cad from the instant I laid eyes on him in the British Museum. But he kept saying not to think too far ahead—carpe diemand all that crap, and I went along with it. Underneath, I think I knew this was the kind of thing he’d do.
