Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely - Gail Honeyman Page 0,121
I don’t deserve to be happy, I don’t deserve to have a nice life when Marianne . . .”
“Eleanor,” she said gently, once I’d calmed myself, “feeling guilty about surviving when Marianne didn’t is a perfectly normal reaction. Don’t forget, you were only a child yourself when your mother committed her crime. It’s very important that you understand that it’s not your fault, that none of it was your fault.”
I was sobbing again.
“You were the child and she was the adult. It was her responsibility to look after you and your sister. Instead, there was neglect and violence and emotional abuse, and there were terrible, terrible consequences for everyone involved. And none of that is your fault, Eleanor, absolutely none of it. I don’t know if you need to forgive your mother, Eleanor,” she said. “But I’m certain of one thing: you need to forgive yourself.”
I nodded through the tears. It made sense. I wasn’t sure that I quite believed it—yet—but it certainly made logical sense. And you can’t ask for more than that.
Blowing my nose, unembarrassed by the trumpeting, which was as nothing compared to the horrors I’d already laid before Dr. Temple in this room, I made my decision. It was time to say a final good-bye to Mummy.
38
Raymond had insisted on meeting outside the counseling rooms that day to take me for coffee. I watched him amble toward me. His peculiar loping walk was almost endearing now—I wouldn’t recognize him if he started to walk as normal men did. He had his hands in the pockets of his low-slung denim trousers, and was wearing a strange, oversized woolen hat that I hadn’t seen before. It looked like the kind of hat that a German goblin might wear in an illustration from a nineteenth-century fairy tale, possibly one about a baker who was unkind to children and got his comeuppance via an elfin horde. I rather liked it.
“All right?” he said. “I nearly froze my bollocks off on the way over here.” He blew into his cupped hands.
“It is rather inclement today,” I agreed, “although it’s wonderful to see the sun.”
He smiled at me. “It is, Eleanor.”
I thanked him for taking time off to come and meet me. It was kind of him, and I told him so.
“Away you go, Eleanor,” he said, putting out his cigarette. “Any excuse for a half day. Anyway, it’s nice to talk to someone about something that isn’t software licenses and Windows 10.”
“But you love talking about software, Raymond,” I said, sniffing, and then I nudged him in the ribs, very gently, very bravely. He laughed, and nudged me back.
“Guilty as charged, Miss O,” he said.
We went into a branch of a café chain—I’d seen lots of them around town. We queued, and I asked for a grande mochaccino with extra cream and hazelnut syrup. The young man asked my name.
“Why do you need to know my name?” I said, puzzled.
“We write it on your cup,” he said, “so the drinks don’t get mixed up.”
Ridiculous.
“I haven’t heard anyone else order an identical drink to mine, so far,” I said firmly. “I’m sure I’m more than capable of identifying my chosen beverage when the time comes.”
He stared at me, the pen still poised in his hand. “I have to write your name on the cup,” he repeated, sounding firm but bored, as people in uniform are often wont to do.
“And I have to maintain a modicum of privacy by not sharing my given name with all and sundry in the middle of a cafeteria,” I said, equally firmly.
Someone further back in the queue tutted, and I heard someone else mutter something that sounded like for fuck’s sake. It appeared that we had reached something of an impasse.
“Fine, all right then,” I said. “My name is Miss Eleanor Oliphant.”
He boggled at me.
“I’ll just put, eh, Ellie,” he said, scribbling. Raymond was silent, but I could feel his large shoulders and misshapen body quivering with laughter. It was his turn next.
“Raoul,” he said, and then spelled it out.
When we’d collected our drinks—with no problem whatsoever—we sat at a table in the window and watched people pass by. Raymond stirred three sachets of sugar into his Americano, and I resisted the urge to suggest that he make healthier choices.
“So,” he said, after what I recognized was a comfortable silence. “How did it go today?”
I nodded. “It was OK, actually,” I said. He looked closely at me.