Ask Eleanor (Special Edition With Alternate Ending)

by Briggs, Laura

  “Why?” In Marianne’s voice, an incredulous tone. “Because you can understand what it feels like to have this happen to you?”

  “Because you’re hurting,” Eleanor answered. “Because I deserve to know. This is a part of my life, too –”

  “No, it’s not.” Marianne glanced back at her as she turned the corner. “It’s my life, Elly. It’s mine, because you have no clue what’s happening in it.”

  “Yes, I do.” Eleanor’s tone was equally as firm. It was embarrassing to be having this conversation – to be half-shouting at her sister in broad daylight, on a public street, over personal matters that weren’t meant for this sort of exposure – but, for once, she did not care.

  “How?” Marianne’s features melted. “How could you know? To love someone like that – to feel something that strong – to give your whole life to it and find out that it wasn’t real. You, Eleanor. Those things don’t happen to you.”

  Don’t they? In Eleanor’s mind, a glimpse of Edward’s face, the smile which drew her heartstrings tight in the airport. Not her whole life, but her heart, yes. It had been as real to her, as real as Will’s existence. As lost as a coin tumbled from a pocket on a busy street.

  How dare Marianne say that to her. How dare she? The urge to shout it here came over her with the same intensity it consumed Marianne, it seemed, who was still backing away from her as she spoke.

  “Then he told you there was another girl,” said Eleanor. Marianne turned away.

  “He didn’t have to.” Her voice was choked with a sob. “He left me. He took his things and just...left. He didn’t even have to tell me why. Just some stupid phone call about not being the right person for me.” She ceased speaking, her face streaked with crimson and blue where she had wiped away her tears, a purple stain on her skin.

  “Marianne.” There was an ache in Eleanor’s voice. “Why didn’t you call me back? Why didn’t you come to my apartment?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s over. Just let me go home and be alone, Elly. That’s all I want.” Marianne had turned away again and was hurrying, almost sprinting, towards her building. Pulling open the door and hurrying up the stairs, towards the studio apartment above.

  “Wait,” said Eleanor. She was losing her breath, beginning to feel winded from the brisk walk from the gallery to Marianne’s street. Her high heels half-stumbling up the stairs in slower, faltering steps of pursuit. From above, she heard the thud of a door banging closed.

  She sank down on the step. Her calves ached as she leaned against the step above her, trying to regain her breath. Marianne probably wouldn’t let her in if she knocked on the door. All because Eleanor couldn’t ‘understand’ her pain.

  She had never told her about Edward. The moment in which she intended to do it had always passed, usually into a crisis or passion of Marianne’s own, so that its pleasure and pain had been concealed from beginning to end.

  “I do understand,” she said aloud, to no one. “True, it wasn’t quite the ... the passion you and Will shared, but it was real. Real to me. And I wanted him very badly and now he’s gone.”

  Her voice broke with this statement; its fatigue sagging beneath a greater weight within, the ache in her heart. She felt the tears in her eyes, although they didn’t fall.

  “How did it come to this point where I couldn’t tell you that? To where you would go a whole day before you tell me that something like this happened to you?”

  There was no answer, of course. She remained sitting on the steps alone, eyes closed and heart aching in the silence of the stairwell.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The announcement was in the paper the next morning. In the Society section, the column marked “Engagements.” Will Allen. Kate Grayson. To be wed on the twenty-seventh of November in Trinity Cathedral. Ms. Grayson the daughter of publishing CEO Lloyd Grayson, a recent graduate of Sarah Lawrence, and an avid cycling enthusiast, wine taster, and yearly visitor to the shores of her family’s Martha’s Vineyard summer home.

  On the morning train, Eleanor folded her paper so the column was open to it. A black and white photo of the happy couple above: Will in an Armani suit, Ms. Grayson in a black dress and simple pearls, her hair pulled in a sleek knot to one side.

  She was pretty, Eleanor noticed. An elegant contrast to Will’s last choice. The thought of Marianne came with pain: pain for the thought of her alone in the studio apartment, curled on the bed with the first waves of morning sickness.

  How could Will do this? How could he use her and shove her aside without any guilt, any feeling? A handful of weeks in their existence which would forever alter Marianne’s life and from which Will exited unscathed. It did not do to think about it too long, for Eleanor could feel the blood grow heated in her veins over the memory of Will’s gaze when he looked at Marianne, the way he touched her openly, passionately, without thought for how it affected someone as sensitive as Marianne.

  She folded the paper completely in half. Then tossed it into the neighboring seat, where someone else could have it if they wanted it. Destroying one copy was pointless, since there were countless others in the city; and the same announcement would appear in every other paper in town as well. Although Marianne didn’t read anything more than the headlines, she would undoubtedly hear about this through friends with ties to society.

  The train came to a stop, half of its passengers seeming to exit while another crowd swept on from the platform. A man in a brown trench coat entered, walking along the aisle until he caught sight of Eleanor and stopped short.

  It was Edward. From the look on his face, he was surprised to see her there. Embarrassed also, judging by his expression. The seat beside him was empty, so he sat down. Two seats ahead of Eleanor, who was doing her best to look out the window.

  She had been looking into his face beforehand, of course. She wondered if he had read her shock as easily as she had read his own. She had felt the color leave her face when he boarded. A rush of attraction had engulfed her, giving way almost immediately to resentment and humiliation. A cold and bitter second wave of emotion at the sight of him, drowning all longings from before.

  The doors closed. The train jolted, then moved forwards again. Eleanor continued gazing out the window, avoiding looking towards the back of Edward’s head. He seemed absorbed in staring forwards, towards the commuters seated in various states of reading, boredom, or self-entertainment.

  Several minutes passed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Edward’s head move. He was glancing towards her, even as she kept her gaze fixed away from him. He turned in his seat, one arm resting on the back of it as he glanced towards the opposite aisle. She had a full view of his profile now, past the empty seats between them.

  His lips moved. “When I met you ...” he began, his voice emerging faintly, stiffly. “I was intending ... I didn’t mean for anything to happen.”

  She said nothing. Her lips pressed themselves together as she watched the scenery fly by outside.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be with you in any sense,” he said. “But it seemed so harmless at first that I said it was friendship. And things between Lucy and I – were so very far from permanent.”

  Eleanor didn’t answer.

  “Lucy had spoken about you, who knows how many times. But I had pictured someone ... older, somehow. I didn’t realize – I didn’t put it together until much later. Too late.”

  She was determined not to say anything. She felt fearful that it would somehow show in her face what she was feeling.

  “I met Lucy when I was ... when I first entered law school. She was twenty. There was something about her confidence which drew me. Seeing someone so determined and open about their path while I was fumbling around. I seemed old for her, even at twenty-six. But we began dating and ... we didn’t stop. Not when she transferred to another school, not when I went home to Washington.”

  The sound of someone coughing, the tinny sound of someone’s cell phone
tune. Eleanor heard these things, even as she heard the sound of Edward’s breathing. Sensed them the way she sensed the movement of his head resting on his hands.

  He sighed. “When she said she was settling here, it was with the suggestion that I come, too. So I thought I would do it. It seemed like the inevitable. She and I.”

  Through the window, the view of two cars crossing the intersection seemed like a still life: the pedestrians seemed melancholic figures stranded with their own thoughts, like figures in an Edward Hopper portrait. Eleanor’s hands were folded on her lap, ironing the creases from her business skirt.

  She knew Edward was looking at her now. She could feel his gaze without moving her head.

  “I’m truly sorry,” he said. An ache of apology in his voice. Of regret. Whether for hurting her or losing her, Eleanor couldn’t know.

  For a moment, she was still silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said. “About Lucy. About your impending engagement.” She looked at him. The meaning of the expression on his face was one she couldn’t interpret.

  He did not look away. “I suppose because ... if I didn’t mention it, then there was no excuse to stop,” he answered, carefully. His voice was trembling. “Seeing you – speaking to you. Something I assumed would happen when I mentioned Lucy.”

  “Did you ...” She didn’t finish this thought. She looked away, blinded by a sudden wave of tears that clouded her vision. Silence lapsed, in which she was aware that Edward glanced at her for a moment. Only a moment, she knew, before he gazed forwards again, into the opposite aisle.

  “Would you have ... still spoken to me?” he asked. “If you had known?”

  It was a long moment before she answered. “No.” Her voice was quiet, an element of pain in it. “No, I wouldn’t have. Not the same way.”

  She wouldn’t have followed him to the movie and sat waiting to run into him at its close. She wouldn’t have gone to the restaurant and sat at a table in hopes that he would see her and join her. She wouldn’t have lingered in the coffee shop in hopes that he would speak to her and that she would see that beautifully warm smile that made her blush with longing. None of that would have happened, not if she had known that he was in Pittsburgh to spend time with Lucy Deane.

  Even if he had been attracted to her – cared about her – it didn’t matter. In the back of his mind, Lucy was there. The reason for his presence in Pittsburgh, his new life, his new job, his new friends who introduced him to film retrospect screenings and dinner parties.

  Edward was still, but the emotion in the air was palpable. A taste of pain, a cloud of misery. He wanted to look at her again, she knew. And then he did.

  “I am truly sorry,” he repeated, gently. “That I hurt you.”

  There was nothing else to say for either of them. He didn’t turn around to sit in his seat, but remained in thought as he was, sideways, so that Eleanor was forced to notice his profile. The signs of pain and deep disappointment etched in the lines of his face, the corners of his eye and mouth, and wonder what he was thinking. This, until she dropped her gaze from the window to the floor below.

  When the train halted at the next stop, Edward rose. He exited the train with the moving sea of passengers disembarking to the platform and the bustle of the outside world. Through the window, Eleanor caught a glimpse of his brown coat, briefly, before he was lost in the crowd.

  Although it was her stop, she remained seated. The new crowd boarded, the doors closed, and the train rolled on with Eleanor still in the same place. She rode on, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular, her mind turning away the thoughts which came to it with persistence in this silence of rumbling tracks and restless human forms.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “There’s no reason why you can’t still see him. Not if you’re both responsible about how you think and speak on those occasions. Then there’s no harm in still spending time together after what happened between you. Especially for the sake of your children.”

  “Thanks, Eleanor. I’ll try that.” There was silence after this statement. The caller was gone, disconnected with that swift conclusion administered in radio by the call screener, leaving Eleanor and the host alone on the air again.

  “For those of you who have just joined us, columnist Eleanor Darbish is in the house this morning, author of the daily newspaper advice column “Ask Eleanor” and her all-new self help book Tell Me the Truth, due out in a few weeks,” purred Julia Fisher into the microphone. “Today she’s here to talk about her latest volume of advice and to tackle your problems head-on with this morning’s call-in segment.”

  She motioned toward the person in the producer’s booth; at the same time, Eleanor caught sight of Lucy on the other side of the radio station’s recording booth glass. Her intern was beaming, offering a discreet double “thumbs up” of approval, apparently, for the promotional mention of the book.

  Eleanor’s gaze slid away from the view of Lucy with a sense of discomfort, seeking refuge in the “on air” sign flashing above. All too aware that her intern’s gaze was still fixed on her with intense analysis.

  Seeing Edward again had rattled her. The constant chafing of Lucy’s comments about him in the office was too much now – a floodgate of personal stories and anecdotes regarding their relationship had been opened, apparently, by their meeting at the gala.

  “So, Eleanor, you’ve just celebrated ten years as America’s third-most popular advice columnist and helped celebrate twenty years of success as one of the leading personalities for media and journalism legend TriCom Media. What’s next?”

  What’s next? Eleanor’s smile froze slightly in response to this question, although she was not sure why. Through the window, Lucy was making some sort of unintelligible, eager gesture which brought to mind a deli rotisserie in motion.

  “Well, there’s ... my column, of course,” said Eleanor, “which appears daily nationwide in newspapers and online. And there’s a book tour scheduled for my third book...”

  “What about big plans, Eleanor?” asked Julie. “Where do you see “Ask Eleanor” in, let’s say, fifteen years of publication?”

  Fifteen years from now. The existence of “Ask Eleanor” in a half a decade more – such a possibility had not occurred to her in terms of anything other than what it was now. It was necessary, planned for, essential for her career survival, of course. Beyond that, she never pictured anything more.

  “There will be changes over the years, of course,” said Eleanor. “Experience always changes the way an advice columnist approaches their work...”

  Lucy had given it thought, as Eleanor well knew. The motions from the other side of the glass were growing frantic. Miming something electronic – a cell phone, a tablet, maybe; a handheld calculator, for all Eleanor could divine, although she understood Lucy better than that.

  “... and, of course, there will be a modern angle to the column’s future. The influence of technology and modern media has an impact on any writer’s work...”

  She was waffling, she suspected; Julie Fisher seemed to suspect it, too, for she offered another gesture to the person in the producer’s booth.

  “Of course. Absolutely,” said Julie. “I think we have another caller on the line. John from Duluth, you’re on live with Mind and Body.”

  On the other side of the glass, Lucy Deane looked decidedly disappointed, judging by her scowl.

  “You should have given specifics,” she said to Eleanor. They were outside the studio, waiting for their cab ride to Norlend Towers. “Something that would have impressed Julie with the future of your work.”

  She was hugging herself against the chill breeze, choosing not to wear a coat over her tailored blouse, apparently, for the studio appearance. Eleanor tucked her hands in the pockets of her overcoat and attempted to think of an appropriate answer.

  “The specifics don’t exist yet,” answered Eleanor. “I haven’t thought about them yet. Or about anything other than my immediate work.” Ahead, she c
ould see a cab weaving its way through the thread of street traffic.

  “Didn’t you see me say to make them up?” Lucy answered. “That’s what I was trying to tell you through the glass.”

  “I don’t want to make them up, Lucy,” answered Eleanor. “I don’t want to give an answer to a question that I haven’t thought about.”

  “What’s to think about?” Lucy sounded irritated. “You’re going to reach out to your audience through online resources – they’re going to shape the column’s future on paper. It’s as simple as a Twitter account and a Facebook page, Eleanor. Please tell me you know this by now.”

  Was it that simple? Eleanor considered this question as the cab slid into place beside the curb. A few random comments fired into the online universe every day, a few polls on the sidebar of a social media page. The beginning of a brave new world for Eleanor of pen and paper and practical answer, as Brandon might say.

  But there was the problem. It was Eleanor doing all of this – not someone adept and ambitious like Lucy Deane. Unless, of course, that was where she had it all wrong, one way or the other.

  “I preferred that the conversation on the air consist mostly of either talking about the book or talking to the callers,” said Eleanor. “There’s no point in talking about a future that doesn’t exist yet, not when the present is the main focus of the appearance.”

  “Fine,” sighed Lucy. “Whatever you say.” Her tone was still slightly irritable as she climbed into the cab beside Eleanor and closed the door.

  They were silent for several minutes. Lucy’s fingers tapped the arm rest, nails clicking against the vinyl. Eleanor watched the cabbie’s fuzzy dice swing from the rear view mirror.

  Lucy cleared her throat. “The proofs arrived,” she said. Eleanor glanced at her.