Chapter 8 - Elowen’s purse
Elowen hated that adults wanted her memories.
Police child-services? Because a child was shoved at a public event, a child-welfare report and police inquiry occurred.
No one treated me as automatically dangerous because of my surname.
They did treat the gala carefully because video showed my retaliation.
A child specialist interviewed Elowen once.
Not over and over.
She described:
Marcella taking photographs.
Breaking frames.
Tearing pictures.
Making comments about Celine.
One detail mattered.
“Does Marcella ever say why?”
Elowen said:
“She says Daddy gets stupid when Mommy is there.”
I stared at the observation room glass.
That sentence landed differently.
Not:
You should forget Mom.
Not:
I hate your mother.
Daddy gets stupid when Mommy is there.
Elowen continued:
“She says if I bring Mommy, Daddy does what she wants.”
“Who is she?”
“Marcella.”
“What does Marcella want Daddy to do?”
Elowen shrugged.
“Get mad.”
There.
The interviewer did not push.
Good.
Afterward, I asked Elowen nothing about it.
At home she brought me her purse.
“I don’t want pictures anymore.”
My chest hurt.
“You don’t have to carry them.”
“Can Mommy stay home?”
“Yes.”
“Will she be mad?”
“No.”
Children give dead parents feelings because permanence is impossible to understand otherwise.
“Do you want one in your room?”
“Yes.”
We framed a new photograph.
Cheap wooden frame.
No silver.
No symbolism.
I put it beside her lamp.
She looked at it.
Then:
“Marcella can’t come in here.”
May you like
“No.”
That was one boundary I could guarantee.
