She sounded happy, glad to be dispensing advice. She was, I realized, talking about killing us, Marianne and me, her inconveniences.
In a strange way, it helped. I took a breath, although I didn’t really need to.
“Good-bye, Mummy,” I said. The last word. My voice was firm, measured, certain. I wasn’t sad. I was sure.
And, underneath it all, like an embryo forming—tiny, so tiny, barely a cluster of cells,
the heartbeat as small as the head of a pin, there I was. Eleanor Oliphant. And, just like that, Mummy was gone.
Better Days
Although I felt completely fine and, indeed, ready to get back into the thick of it all,
HR had insisted on a “phased return,” whereby I only worked during the mornings for the next few weeks.
More fool them—if they wished to pay me a full-time salary for part-time hours, it was their lookout.
At lunchtime on Friday, the end of my brief working day and my first week back, I met Raymond for the second time that week.
Since then, we’d been communicating solely by electronic means. I had spent the previous evening searching online.
It was so easy to find things. Too easy, perhaps. I’d printed two newspaper articles without reading beyond the headlines,
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