I’m Not Here

– Have you bought that rubbish again? George set the carrier bag down on the table with a thud, something glassy chiming. I told you: none of that Velour nonsense. Its expensive and pointless.

Eleanor stood by the window, looking into the garden. Outside, the neighbours little girl, maybe seven years old, was chasing pigeons. The birds rose in a flurry, scattering, then settling back on the cracked paving stones as though nothing had happened. Eleanor watched them, trying to remember the last time she’d bought something for herself, simply because she wanted to.

Its just hand cream, George. Three ninety.

Three ninety is three ninety. Forgotten how to add, have you?

She didnt reply. She turned, took the bag, removed the small pot with a gold lid, and set it down on the windowsill beside the geranium. The geranium hadnt flowered for agesEleanor had been meaning to check why, but never got round to it.

Eleanor. Im talking to you.

I hear you, George.

She went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and started thinking about dinner. Behind her, she could hear his heavy, even footsteps and then the door to his study closing. She let out a breath shed been holding.

She was fifty-eight years old, living in a three-bedroom house in Reading, married to George Larcombe for twenty-nine years. Their grown son, Anthony, lived up in Manchester and rang on Sundays, though not always. They had a small cottage in the Cotswolds, a car only George ever drove, and she had her job at the town library, where shed been senior librarian for eighteen years.

It was, after all, a life. No one could take that away.

She took out a chicken breast and put it on the chopping board, knife in hand. Outside, the little girl had vanished and the pigeons had scattered. The garden looked dreary, with tufts of last years grass poking through the concrete cracks.

Eleanor realised she was just standing there, not cutting, not moving. Just standing.

She set the knife down, went to the window, and opened the hand cream. The scent was gentle, with a soft floral undertone. She rubbed a bit onto the back of her hand. Her skin soaked it up quickly, and for a moment it felt as though someone had gently taken her hand.

Eleanor closed the lid and turned back to dinner.

That night passed quietly. George ate in silence, watched the news, went to bed. Eleanor sat in the kitchen for some time, sipping at a long-cold cup of tea, flicking through an old gardening magazine. Not reading, just sitting.

The next morning, she arrived at work to find Linda Cross sobbing behind the periodicals.

Linda, whats happened?

Linda Cross, three years her senior, had been at the library forever, could find any book with her eyes shut. Eleanor had never once seen her cry.

Oh, nothing, nothing Linda waved her hand, pulling out a hankie. Sorry, it’s personal.

Want to talk about it?

Theres nothing to tell. She blew her nose and tucked away the hankie. My daughter called yesterday She said, Mum, youre past it. Just like that. Past it.

What did she mean?

Just that. I tried giving her advice, said something about how to speak with her husband, the way I used to. And she turns round and says, Your advice is ancient. You dont get how people live now. Linda straightened a stack of magazines. Perhaps shes right.

She isnt, Eleanor said quietly.

How do you know?

Eleanor had no answer. They stood together in the hush, the air thick with the smell of old paper and oak. After a while they drifted off to their usual spots.

At lunch, Eleanor went outside. April was cool but sunny. She walked to the park, sat on a bench and closed her eyes. Orange light pressed through her eyelids. She thought of Linda and her daughter, about that wordpast it.

Then her thoughts turned inward.

Eleanor Margaret Larcombe, née Harper, born in Oxford in 1966. Studied English Literature at university. Married at twenty-nine, which had been considered late. George was an engineer, solid, seemed steady. Anthony was born a year later; Eleanor had maternity leave, then part-time work, then looked after her mother until she passed away, then went back full-time. Life came together. Tidy, unremarkable.

Somewhere in all that assembling, shed lost something she couldnt quite name. She felt sure it had existed once. Now, it didn’t.

She opened her eyes. In front of her, a plum tree bloomed, covered in impossibly delicate white flowers. Eleanor watched it, remembering that she probably hadnt drawn for thirty years. At university, shed done pastels, just sketches for herself. Then life got in the way, then embarrassment, then forgetfulness.

She dug her phone out and rang Anthony. He answered on the third ring, sounding distracted.

Hi Mum! All right?

All right. Just calling, no reason.

Sorry, Im nearly in a meetingcan I ring you back tonight?

Of course. Call when you can.

He didnt call. That, too, was normal.

Eleanor finished at six, bought a loaf from the bakery, and walked home. Eighteen years shed taken that same route, each slab and turn as familiar as her own handwriting.

George was home before her, sat at the computer, reading something online. She took off her coat and went to the kitchen.

Do you want supper?

Later.

She put water on to boil, found the last of last nights soup in the fridge. As she waited, her gaze fell on the pot of hand cream on the sill. It was small, pretty. Eleanor thought, maybe George was rightthree ninety, what for?

But then she remembered the smell.

She left the pot where it was.

Two weeks passed. Nothing remarkable happened, life ticked on. Then, one day, a woman named Susan came into the library.

Eleanor spotted her immediately: around forty-five, short hair, in a cherry-red coat, carrying herself with remarkable poise. She came to the desk and asked to registerinterested in psychology, and, if possible, something on watercolour painting.

Watercolour? Eleanor repeated.

Yes. I dabbled a bit as a girl. Thought Id try again.

Eleanor gave her a library card, pointed out the shelves shed need. Susan browsed confidently, leafed through books, set some back, took others. Eleanor found herself watching, struck by something hard to definea sense of self-possession, a person wholly at ease in her own company.

After half an hour, Susan returned with two books and asked:

Do you read much of this yourself?

She nodded at the psychology shelf.

Sometimes.

You worked here long?

Eighteen years.

Susan gave her a searching lookcurious, not judging.

Thats quite a stretch, she said.

Yes.

Dyou enjoy it?

Eleanor hesitated briefly. The question was simple; the answer, not so.

I do, she said. Then, quietly: I like the books. I like the readers. The place feels safe.

Safe, Susan repeated, weighing the word. I understand.

She headed out.

The following week, she returned, handed back one book and asked if there was anything else on watercolours. Eleanor dug out a slim album of reproductions, offered it. Susan took it and then, suddenly:

Would you like to try it?

Try what?

Painting. I go to a Saturday watercolour class. Small, very relaxed. Come along.

Eleanor nearly declined on the spot; her mouth even opened. But instead of no, she said:

Where is it?

Susan wrote down the address: ArtSpace, White Light, Kings Road, Saturday at eleven.

That evening Eleanor kept the note in her apron pocket, then set it on the windowsill with her cream. George didnt ask about it; he rarely asked, unless it involved money or logistics.

On Friday, at supper, she told him:

Im off out tomorrow morningfor a painting class.

George looked up from his dinner.

Where?

Kings Road. Watercolour. A woman from the library invited me.

Who?

New reader.

He chewed, laid down his fork.

How much is it?

I havent asked yet.

Right. He took a slice of bread. Go, if you have nothing better to do.

Eleanor looked across at him. He was already staring at his plate. She thought: he really did say if you have nothing better to do. Shed heard variations of that for twenty-nine years. Again? Why? How much? Nothing better to do.

All right, she said. Ill go.

She woke at eight, washed, put on a grey jumper and navy trousers. Looking in the mirror, she realised she hadnt properly looked at herself in a long time. Usually, she just flashed past. This time she looked: not a young face, but not bad. Grey eyes, bright. Thick hair, streaked with silver now. She ran a comb through, tried arranging it differently. Then she opened her cream, rubbed it into her hands and a little on her neck.

She left at nine, not wanting to rush.

ArtSpace, White Light was upstairs in an old merchants house, freshly renovated insidewhite walls, wood floors, big windows. Eleanor climbed the stairs and pushed open the door.

Susan was there already, along with four other women and one man in his fifties, solidly built, chequered shirt. They sat at a big table, glasses of water and sheets of paper in front of them.

Eleanor! Susan waved. You came!

Eleanor took a seat by her. The teacher, a young woman called Zoe, explained that today was lilac branches. Eleanor picked up a brush, her hand tremblingnot with nerves, exactly, just unused to it.

Dont worry about making it perfect, said Zoe. Think about the water. The colour. Thats all.

Eleanor made her first stroke: violet bloomed across damp paper, merging with blue. She did another, then a third. She watched the paint flow, sometimes veering somewhere unplanned, and found herself entirely absorbed. Susan frowned in concentration; the man with the chequered shirt painted with a comically tiny brush and glowered at the result.

After an hour, Eleanor looked down. Her picture didnt look like lilac. It looked like something drifting and smudgy, all soft purple-blue patches. Yet there was a life to it, something undeniably her own.

Thats lovely, said an older woman opposite, named Margaret.

I dont think so, said Eleanor.

I do. Its got feeling.

Eleanor looked again. Maybe. Maybe it did.

After the class, Susan suggested a coffee on Kings Road. Eleanor agreed. They sat by the window, and Susan asked outright:

Did you enjoy it?

Yes. More than I expected.

I thought you might. Susan cradled her cup. Theres a look you get; as if youre glimpsing something, but cant quite bring yourself to see it properly.

Eleanor didnt answer immediately. Then:

Have you lived in Reading long?

Three years. Moved here from Birmingham, after my divorce.

I see.

It wasnt easy, Susan replied calmly, almost matter-of-fact. At first, it was hard. Then it got better. Then, it got interesting.

Interesting?

Living for myself. Turns out I didnt know as much about me as I thought. She smiled, honest and warm. Are you married?

Twenty-nine years.

Is it good?

Eleanor stirred her coffee, unnecessarily.

Sometimes. It varies.

Susan nodded, didnt press. That was part of her kindness, Eleanor thought.

Eleanor got home about half past one. George was glued to football, asked nothing about her day. She warmed up her soup and sat alone. She propped up her watery lilac sketch on the wall beside the geranium.

The plant seemed livelier than a week before. Eleanor peered in. One stem had a tiny red bud. She hadnt noticed it earlier.

The next Saturday, she went back. And again. Susan was always there. Gradually, they chatted after classhalf an hour at first, then longer. Eleanor shared stories about the library, the readers, the books she loved; Susan talked about workshe was an accountant at a small builders firmand about her daughter, who lived in Birmingham, studying English.

One day, Eleanor asked:

Dont you get lonely here?

Sometimes. But its a different sort of loneliness now.

How do you mean?

Susan folded her hands together, thoughtful.

Before, Id be with someone, and still alonethats the worst loneliness. Now I am alone, but Im not lonely. See the difference?

Eleanor did. She didnt say it aloud, but something inside shifted. Like ice breaking on a river in spring: slow, resisting, but inexorable.

In May, the library held a meeting. The council wanted local outreach, an event for the community. The manager, Mary Turner, called everyone together.

Any ideas?

Silence. Eleanor stayed quiet, though ideas already simmered.

We could do a reading evening, Linda suggested. Take turns reading aloud, talk after.

We do that every year. Something else?

What about something for women? Eleanor said.

All eyes were on her.

What do you mean? asked Mary.

Their stories. Real stories, not bookish ones. Invite women from around here, all ages, to share their stories of what used to be, what changed, what life is. No fussjust honest talk. And maybe show off their work, if they make thingspaint, knit, pottery

A pause.

Thats unusual, Mary said.

But real.

Wholl organise it?

I will, Eleanor said, surprising herself.

Mary studied her.

All right, Eleanor. Give it a go.

Eleanor left the meeting and immediately called Susan. Susan laughed.

Well, look at you! You?

Me. Not sure why. I just blurted it out.

Thats the truest way there is. Ill be in. Lets ask Margaret toothe older lady from class. She does ceramics.

Margaret, sixty-two, had retired three years ago. Now she sculpted tiny birds from clay, sometimes sold them at markets. When Eleanor called her, Margaret didnt hesitate: As long as I dont have to talk too longI get muddled.

So Eleanor set to work, planning at the kitchen table on evenings when George shut himself away. She scribbled, rewrote, started again. It felt new, this building something from scratch, not just running what already existed.

One night, George came for water and saw her hunched over her notebook.

Whats that?

Work. I’m planning the event.

More library business.

Yes, library business.

He filled his glass, lingering.

Dinner was cold tonight.

Sorry. Ill reheat it better next time.

He left. Eleanor watched his back. Hed commented only on the cold food, not the fact that she seemed more alive. Not that it was interesting. Just cold dinner.

She returned to her planning.

They set the event for the third Saturday in June. Eleanor invited four women, including Susan and Margaret, as well as a retired geography teacher, Helen, who secretly wrote poetry, and Zoe, their watercolour teacher. Eleanor made a flyer, put one up in the corner shop, wrote a notice for the local paper. She worried no one would come, but on the night the room filled up. Over thirty people arrivedmostly women, some in their twenties, one very elderly, led in by her daughter.

Eleanor ran the evening herself, no big speechesjust a simple welcome and a promise to listen to one another.

Margaret spoke of retiring, not knowing what to do with herself. She said: I wandered around the house, feeling Id become surplus. People laughed, kindly.

Susan talked about moving, starting over at forty-six, admitting shed been afraidnot of change, but of what was familiar. Turns out, whats new isnt half as scary as what you know by rote, she said.

Helen read two poems, her hands trembling at first. When she finished, a woman in the third row started applauding, soon everyone joined in.

Afterwards, Eleanor helped Linda tidy up, stacking chairs, gathering teacups.

It went really well, Linda said. Honestly, I didnt expect that.

Nor did I.

Youve always been able to bring people together. You just never let yourself.

Eleanor paused, surprised.

You think so?

I know so, El. Weve worked together eighteen years.

Eleanor picked up a forgotten scarf, hung it on a peg by the door. Linda was right: it was good, and yet a little sad. Why had it taken eighteen years?

At home, George was asleep. Eleanor crept in, drank some water in the kitchen. On the windowsill: her cream, her lilac painting. The geranium had four bright red blooms now.

Eleanor massaged cream into her hands, unhurried. Looking from flower to friends words, she remembered: Its not the new thats frighteningit’s the familiar.

The next morning, George said:

How was your evening?

Good. A lot of people came.

Did you eat anything?

There was tea.

Teas not food. He was already scrolling through his phone.

Eleanor took her coffee out to the balcony. It was early, the garden empty, poplar trees just coming into leaf. Georges commenthad he been caring? Perhaps, in his way. Twenty-nine years, shed mistaken his form for his heart, not noticing the difference, or when the content disappeared.

She didnt know. She was only just learning to look directly.

In July, Anthony callednot Sunday but Wednesday; odd for him.

Hi Mum. How are you?

Fine, Ant. Is anything wrong?

No, no. Its justSusan messaged me.

Eleanor stopped in front of the fridge.

Susan?

Your friend. She found me online, just wanted to say youve been doing great things at the library, that you hosted a brilliant event. I had no idea.

You didnt ask.

A silence.

Im sorry, Mum. I didnt. Will you tell me about it?

So Eleanor didabout the art class, about Margarets birds, Helens poetry, the overflowing room. Anthony listened, not interrupting, and finally said:

You know, Im really proud of you.

Thank you.

Been doing this long?

No. First time.

Shouldve sooner.

Yes, she agreed.

Another pause.

Mum, are you and Dad all right?

Eleanor walked to the window. July sunlight filled the garden, two boys kicking a ball in the grass.

Were comfortable.

Is that good or bad?

I dont know yet.

He didnt press. Promised a visit in August, which they scheduled. Eleanor stood a long while, phone in hand.

Anthony came for four days in August. He brought soft cheese and nuts, sat at the kitchen table, listening to her talktruly listening.

One morning, with George at the cottage, Anthony said:

Mum, youve changed.

In what way?

I cant say exactly. But youre more. He laughed, self-conscious. Sounds odd.

No, it makes sense.

Are you happy?

Eleanor wrapped her hands around her mug. Her coffee was hot.

I am. But its a little frightening.

Why?

When you see yourself clearly, you start seeing everything around you clearly, too. Not always comfortable.

Anthony nodded, thinking.

Does Dad notice?

He notices the cold dinner, Eleanor replied. And immediately felt shed said too much. Sorry, thats not fair.

Noits honest. Anthony looked into her face. Have you talked to him?

About what?

About what you need.

Eleanor stared out at the end-of-summer gold at the lawn edges.

Im not good at that, she said quietly.

Try.

Anthony left. Eleanor changed his sheets and thought about it. About try. Shed spoken all these years, but never about what mattered. It was easier, safer not to. George had a way of looking at things that always shut the subject down.

In September, Mary Turner called her inthe council wanted the womens night repeated, bigger, across the borough. And, she said, they could discuss a pay increase.

Yes, please.

Mary smiled gently.

Youve changed, Ellie. Hope you dont mind me saying.

I dont.

Youre better. More alive.

Eleanor went back to her desk, lent a book to a casual reader who wanted a crime novel, signed it out. She stood and looked across the libraryrows of books, old reading lamps, September sunlight streaming through.

Eighteen years. Only now did she feel as if the place belonged to hernot a spot she filled, but somewhere she made her own.

Things shifted quietly at home. George noticed she was staying late more, out most Saturdays, usually with women he didnt know.

Whos this Susan?

My friend.

Since when do you have a friend?

I met her in Februaryat the library.

And you see her every week?

Almost.

He looked at her with an expression she couldnt remember seeing before. Not irritation, or indifference, but something new. And Eleanor realisedit was uncertainty.

Im not stopping you, he said. Im just not used to it.

To what?

To you having so much going on.

Eleanor sat opposite him. For the first time in ages, she looked at him without a defensive shield, as if meeting someone shed lived beside but barely knew.

George, she said. Are you glad I do things? Outside the house and work?

He paused.

I dont know. Maybe.

Maybe?

Its hard to get used to. You used to be here. Now youre always off somewhere.

Im still here.

Here, but different.

Eleanor watched his broad, slightly rounded backsixty-one now, getting older. Hed aged while she hadnt looked.

George, when did we last talknot about dinner or the car? Just talk.

He turned.

Well we do talk.

About what?

No reply. He looked away.

Exactly, Eleanor said softly.

November brought early dark and the big borough event. Eleanor spent three weeks preparing, now with eight women involved, a local artist displaying paintings on the library walls. Susan helped with everything. Theyd see each other nearly every day now, sometimes in cafés, sometimes just walking along the Thames.

Once, by the river, Eleanor stopped.

I dont know how I used to live.

You just lived, Susan said.

No. Not lived, not really. I was buried deep inside, never surfaced. Why was I like that?

Its not a why, Eleanor. Its just how things are.

But I could have done it differently.

Maybe. Susan looked out at the water, grey and beautiful in the November cold. But “differently” starts when it starts. Not before.

Im fifty-eight.

So?

Thats old.

Eleanor. Susan turned, serious. Youre kidding, surely?

Im not.

Let me say this. Ive met women who decided at thirty-five they were donemuseum pieces under glass. And here you are, beginning at fifty-eight. If you ask me, its the right time.

Eleanor watched a barge slide by.

You know, she said. I go to art every week. Its been nine months.

I know.

And this morning, I wrote the intro for the event. My own words, not a formula.

You read it to me.

And it felt good.

It felt real. Thats better than good.

The event in November was packedover seventy people, standing room only. Eleanor opened with her speech, voice steady, hands barely shaking. She spoke about how every woman carried something inside, waiting to be acknowledged, and how age sometimes opened doors youd never seen. She spoke like someone whod just discovered it themselves.

Afterwards, the oldest attendee, an eighty-three-year-old woman led in by her daughter, came over.

My dear, she said, squeezing Eleanors hand with her own warm, dry ones. Were you talking about me?

All of us, Eleanor answered.

No, no. Me. I felt it. She teared up. I used to embroider as a girl, but gave it up. Foolish, I thought. But today, I fancy picking it up again. Eighty-threeimagine!

Its not silly at all.

Truly?

Truly.

She left, supported by her daughter, walking slowly. They left with something, not empty-handed. Eleanor saw.

December arrived quietly. Eleanor was now running a small reading group at the library every Wednesday. Six or seven regulars, lively arguments, readings, even interrupted Eleanor herself sometimes.

At home, life was tense, not noisy or angry, just tight. George had grown unusually silent, thinking, but not speaking. Eleanor no longer expected him to start.

Midway through December, on a Sunday night, she entered his study.

George, I need to talk.

So talk.

No, properly. She shut the door, pulled up a chair. Really.

He set his book aside, looked at her.

Whats wrong?

Nothings wrong. She put her hands in her lap. I just want to say something I havent before. Maybe ever.

George looked wary.

For a long time, Ive lived as if I almost wasnt here. I made dinner, went to work, kept house, did what was needed. But inside, I was nearly absent. Partly thats on meI allowed it. But its also about us, how we exist together.

He looked down.

Do you want a divorce?

I dont know what I want. I know we need to talktruly talk. I need to be seen. Not just for making dinner, or washing shirts. Me.

Long silence. Outside, the snow had started.

I dont know how, Eleanor, he said at last. Quiet, unguarded. I was never shown.

I know. She looked at his hands. Im not blaming. I just want to try. To do things differently. Will you, too?

He didnt answer immediately. Stared at the falling snow. Then looked at her and, again, she saw that vulnerability shed glimpsed beforeraw, true.

Youve changed so much this year, he managed.

Yes.

I dont always understand.

I know.

But I dont want He sought the word. I dont want you to go. Not from here, not from anything.

She looked at him: sixty-one, round-shouldered, a confused man used to how things were, unprepared for how they might become.

Then lets try, she said. No promises itll be easy. But lets try.

January came, bright and cold. Eleanor went to the library, to her group, to art classes. Shed painted a small collection by now; Susan had some, the rest hung in the kitchen round the flowering geranium. Shed finally learned its needs, repotted it. With Susan, she met less, but they kept in contact.

One day, Susan called:

Eleanor, are you thinking of more events in the spring?

I am. I want to try something biggermore like a little festival. A few days.

Thats a huge effort.

Yes. Eleanor paused, then smiled. And I like a big effort.

Susan laughed.

Whod have thought a year ago?

Quite.

George and Eleanor were still finding their way, haltingly. There were conversations, not always smooth, but conversations nonetheless. Sometimes George withdrew, Eleanor let him, focused on her own pursuits.

In February, over dinner one evening, George spoke up.

I was at the doctors last week. Had some tests.

Something wrong?

Preventative. Bit of high blood pressure. He fiddled with his fork. Nothing serious. Just tablets.

Im glad you went.

Arent you going to ask why I didnt tell you before?

Eleanor put her spoon down.

Why not?

I didnt want you to worry. He looked at her. Old habits.

You have a habit of not worrying me?

Yes. You always seem busy.

Eleanor studied his face. Something important sat within those words, just outside her grasp.

George, I want to know when youre unwell. I want to know about doctors. I want to know. All right?

All right. He nodded. Ill tell you.

And Ill tell you, too.

They sat in silence, February snow drifting outside, warmth and dinner in the kitchen. On the sill: her cream, a new paintinga flowering apple branch, white and gentle.

Thats a nice picture, George said. Yours?

Mine.

He studied it again.

Youre talented.

Im learning.

At the end of February, Linda Cross rang, late in the evening.

Eleanor, sorry its so late. My daughters here.

Thats lovely.

It is. We made up. Eleanor could hear the smile in her voice. She said she was wrong, shouldnt have called me past it.

Are you happy?

Very. Eleanor, would you mind if I joined your art class? Watercolours?

Of course. Saturday at eleven.

Im sure Ill be rubbish at it.

Everyone is at first. Thats the point.

That Saturday, Linda came. She gripped the brush too tight, Zoe adjusted her hand. The first mark was too dark, the second all watery. Linda frowned.

Eleanor, look at this mess!

Im looking. I like it.

It’s a blob, not a branch.

Its your first try.

Are you embarrassed to humour me?

Linda, I mean it. Next time, itll be different.

Linda gazed at her sheet, then suddenly laughed.

All right. Next time.

March brought the first warmth of spring. Eleanor put in a proposal for the spring festival; the library was keen. Anthony wrote to say he was coming in April, would come to her event.

One evening, George already in bed, Eleanor sat at the kitchen table jotting ideas. Outside, the thaw dripped from the roof, spring working out its strength. The geranium stood lush on the sill, three red blooms and a tight bud waiting to open.

Eleanor looked at her little pot of hand cream, long empty now. Shed bought the same kind againVelour, three ninety. George no longer commented.

She opened her notebook to a blank page and wrote at the top: What I know now that I didnt know a year ago. She studied the line. Thought about it. Then closed the book. Some things needed no writing. They were already there.

Her phone ranglate, nearly eleven. It was Susan.

Is everything all right? Eleanor asked at once.

Its good, even better. Susan sounded differentalive, slightly breathless. Eleanor, I have to tell you. I was offered a job in Birmingham. Good job, good money. My daughters there. Im thinking about it.

Eleanor paused.

Do you want to go?

I dont know. Thats why Im calling. Tell me something.

What?

What do you think?

Eleanor watched the rain on the glass. April loomed, dark and full of promise.

I think you know, Eleanor said, choosing her words. In your heart, youve already decided. You just havent said it yet.

Silence on the other end.

I suppose so, Susan said. Yes.

Then what are you afraid of?

What Ill leave behind. The group. You. Margaret and her birds. Helen and her poems.

Were not going anywhere.

Readings a long way from Birmingham, Eleanor.

Susan. Eleanor twirled her pen between her fingers. Do you remember what you once told me? On the riversidein November.

What did I say?

Different comes when it comes.

Susan chuckled, warm and low.

Wise words.

Still are.

Eleanor, can I ask you something? Honestly.

Yes.

Are you happy?

Eleanor looked at her geranium, her hand cream, her paintings. Her notebook, the words unwritten.

Ive become myself, she said. Maybe thats more important.

Is that the answer?

I think so.

Susan paused.

Then Im happy for you.

And I for you.

Eleanor

Yes?

What will you do, if I go?

Eleanor gazed at the blank page in her notebook.

Ill keep going, she said.