Chapter 12
Beatrice wrote Nina a letter.
I did not read it first.
Nina could not read yet.
So I asked whether she wanted Ellen to read it.
“No.”
Simple.
We stored it.
Three weeks later, Nina asked about Beatrice.
“Still floral fall?”
Apparently that was how she remembered the slap aftermath.
“Yes.”
“She mad?”
“Probably sometimes.”
“At me?”
“No.”
Nina thought.
“Why hit?”
I answered carefully.
“She was scared because you found something she wanted hidden.”
“That dumb.”
“Yes.”
Very.
Then:
“She sorry?”
“I think so.”
Nina looked unconvinced.
Good.
Children do not owe adults optimism.
“Want letter?”
I asked.
This time she nodded.
Ellen read it.
Beatrice did not excuse herself.
Good.
She wrote that she was sorry for hitting Nina.
Sorry for teaching her not to call me.
Sorry for helping plan Hawthorne.
Sorry for believing fear would make her stronger.
Then one line:
“I think I wanted you to experience my childhood so mine would hurt less.”
I had to look away.
That was the most honest thing Beatrice had said.
Nina understood almost none of it.
She listened.
Then asked:
“Can she come tomorrow?”
I froze.
“You want that?”
“For cake.”
Specific.
Fine.
Beatrice came for thirty minutes.
No jewelry except her wedding ring.
No Caleb.
Nina stayed near me.
Beatrice did not approach until invited.
Good.
Nina pointed at her.
“No hit.”
Beatrice’s face broke.
“No.”
“No take.”
“No.”
“No bell secret.”
Beatrice cried.
“No.”
Nina looked at me.
Then at cake.
Apparently boundaries complete.
She ate.
Beatrice stayed twenty minutes.
No hug.
No forgiveness scene.
When Nina became tired, she said:
“Go now.”
Beatrice stood.
“Okay.”
That mattered more than apology.
Leaving when asked.
May you like
Respect rarely looks dramatic.
Sometimes it looks like putting down a fork and going home.
