“Then find out,” she said. “Form an opinion. In this house we do not take up space without using our minds.”
It terrified me, initially, being looked at that directly and expected to produce something real. I had spent eleven years learning to make myself small and convenient, and Eleanor required the opposite. She required that I be present and specific and willing to be wrong out loud. When I fumbled, she waited. She did not fill the silence for me. She did not check her watch. She simply sat there until I found the thought and learned how to say it.
My parents came to visit every few months on their way somewhere more interesting, usually arriving in an oversized SUV with gifts that had nothing to do with me, a scarf too formal for a teenager, perfume I would never wear. They would arrange themselves by the fireplace and lift their phones. Stand here, Wanda, the light is gorgeous. My father’s arm around my shoulders. Ten minutes of photographs. Then a caption online about family and Vermont air and blessings counted.
Eleanor watched these performances from the doorway with her arms crossed and said nothing until they left, at which point she poured tea and told me the truth.
“Some people look at other human beings the way they look at mirrors,” she said. “If you reflect well on them, they call it love. If you reflect badly, they call it disappointment. But it was never about you.”
