Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,120

thought that I would ever actually want to cause someone pain. To take advantage of weaker, smaller people. To leave them to fend for themselves, to . . . to . . .”

I broke off. It had been very, very hard to say that. It hurt, a real, physical pain, as well as a more fundamental, existential ache. For goodness’ sake—existential ache, Eleanor! I said to myself. Get a grip.

Maria spoke gently.

“But you’re not your mother, are you, Eleanor? You’re a completely separate person, an independent person, making your own choices.”

She gave an encouraging smile.

“You’re still a young woman—if you wanted to, you could have a family of your own one day, and be a totally different kind of mother. What do you think about that?”

That was an easy one.

“Oh, I’ll never have children,” I said, calm, matter-of-fact. She indicated that I should keep talking. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, what if I passed it on, the Mummy thing? Even if I don’t have it, it could skip a generation, couldn’t it? Or . . . or what if it’s the act of giving birth that brings it out in a person? It could be lying dormant all this time, waiting . . .”

She looked very serious.

“Eleanor, I’ve worked with several clients over the years who’ve had similar worries to yours. It’s normal to feel that way. Remember, though—we’ve just been discussing how different you are from your mother, the different choices you’ve made . . .”

“But Mummy’s still in my life, even after all this time. That worries me. She’s a bad influence, a very bad influence.”

Maria looked up from the book where she was taking notes.

“You’re still talking to her, then?” she said, her pen poised.

“Yes,” I said. I clasped my hands and took a deep breath. “But I’ve been thinking that it needs to come to an end. I’m going to stop. It has to stop.”

She looked as serious as I’d ever seen her.

“It’s not my role to tell you what to do, Eleanor. I will say this, though—I think that’s a very good idea. But, ultimately, it’s your decision. It’s always been your decision,” she said, excessively calm and ever so slightly aloof. It was as though she was trying just a bit too hard to be neutral, I thought. I wondered why.

“The thing is, even after everything that she’s done, after all of it, she’s still my mummy. She’s the only one I’ve got. And good girls love their mothers. After the fire, I was always so lonely. Any mummy was better than no mummy . . .”

As I paused, in tears, I saw that Dr. Temple was completely sympathetic, that she understood what I was saying and was listening without judgment.

“Lately,” I said, starting to feel a bit stronger, a bit braver, buoyed by her kind eyes and supportive silence, “lately, though, I’ve come to realize that she’s . . . she’s just bad. She’s the bad one. I’m not bad and it’s not my fault. I didn’t make her bad, and I’m not bad for wanting nothing to do with her, for feeling sad and angry—no, furious—about what she did.”

The next bit was hard, and I looked at my clasped hands as I spoke, scared to see any change in Dr. Temple’s demeanor in response to the words coming out of my mouth.

“I knew that something about her was very, very wrong. I’ve always known, as long as I can remember. But I didn’t tell anyone. And people died . . .”

I dared to look up, and felt my body slump with relief when I saw the expression on Maria’s face, unchanged.

“Who died, Eleanor?” she said quietly. I took a deep breath.

“Marianne,” I said. “Marianne died.” I looked at my hands, then back at Maria. “Mummy set a fire. She wanted to kill us both, except, somehow, Marianne died and I didn’t.”

Maria nodded. She didn’t look surprised. Had she already worked it out? She seemed to be waiting for me to say something else, but I didn’t. We sat in silence for a moment.

“It’s the guilt, though,” I said, whispering. It was very hard to speak, physically hard, trying to force out sound. “I was her big sister; I should have been looking out for her. She was so small. I did try, I really did, but it just . . . it wasn’t enough. I failed her, Maria; I’m still here and that’s all wrong. It should be her who survived.