Chapter 4 - The photographs
Elowen owned more photographs of Celine than I realized.
Physical ones.
Celine believed children should be able to hold photographs without unlocking anything.
After her death, Elowen began carrying one to events.
At first I thought it would pass.
It did not.
Birthday dinner.
Foundation luncheon.
Christmas party.
Gallery opening.
She placed the frame beside her plate.
“Mommy comes.”
No therapist told us to stop.
Dr. Ellen Brooks, Elowen’s grief counselor, said:
“If it is comforting and not preventing participation, let it be a transitional ritual.”
So I did.
Apparently Marcella noticed too.
The first destroyed photograph happened at a charity brunch eight months before the ballroom.
Elowen told me afterward:
“I lost Mommy.”
I assumed she misplaced it.
We printed another.
The second:
A private dinner at the Halston Club.
Elowen said the frame broke.
I asked:
“How?”
“She fell.”
Photographs do not usually fall by themselves.
I had not asked enough.
Third:
A summer benefit.
Elowen came home with a photograph folded in half.
“What happened?”
“Accident.”
Why had I accepted that?
Because I was glad she was speaking about Celine at all.
Because I did not want grief to become investigation.
Because Marcella was the sort of woman who made cruel comments to adults but I had never imagined she would terrorize a child.
The fourth:
Red wine stain.
The fifth:
Torn corner.
The sixth:
The one under Marcella’s heel.
When we returned home after the gala, Elowen brought every damaged photograph from her bedroom.
Seven.
Not several.
Seven.
She spread them across my desk.
I stared.
“How long?”
“Since Mommy’s birthday.”
Celine’s birthday had been nine months earlier.
“Every party?”
“Not every.”
“What happens?”
Elowen picked at her cardigan.
“If Marcella sees Mommy at the table, she says grown-up parties aren’t cemeteries.”
My hands tightened.
“Did she ever touch you before tonight?”
“She takes the picture.”
“Did she shove you?”
“Tonight.”
“Other times?”
“No.”
“Did anyone see?”
She shrugged.
“People see.”
That hurt.
Not because every guest understood.
Because enough adults had watched a wealthy woman bully a child and classified it as:
awkward family business.
Then Elowen said:
“Sometimes she asks if you still sleep with Mommy’s clothes.”
I went still.
“How would she know about that?”
I had kept one of Celine’s scarves in my bedside drawer.
No secret.
No public topic.
Elowen answered:
“Grandma Vane told her.”
Victor’s wife?
Maybe.
The social network around us had been talking.
My grief.
Elowen’s grief.
Who was:
moving on.
May you like
Who wasn’t.
We had become entertainment to people who never buried anyone they loved.
