37. Pretoria, 1997 — Recalibration

In which Eleanor reconsiders family dynamics.

Feb 06, 2025

An unexpected revelation from Helen Beckham challenges Eleanor’s idealized memories.

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Eleanor

“You idolized Aunty Trudy,” Helen Beckham tells me. It’s two days after Aunty Trudy’s funeral. I’ve flown in from Cairo for it, I couldn’t not be there. “You only saw her best side. She was always cheerful with you. But when you were gone, it was a different story.” She sighs, looking down at her hands. “And the work was back breaking—lifting her on and off the wheelchair, in and out of the chair. There were times we hated each other.” Helen doesn’t look at me.

I’m stunned into silence. For years I have compared Aunty Trudy’s uncomplaining stoicism with Mum’s endless litany of complaints. I’ve often been irritated with Mum’s illness and always wished she could be more like Aunty Trudy. Now can you see? A little voice sternly lectures me, it’s finger scolding. How unfair you’ve been to Mum? Why she resented all the time you spent with the Beckhams and not with her?” I shift in my seat with discomfort.

“I never knew—” my voice trails off. There’s nothing I can really say to Helen. Of course I never knew. I was the little girl breezing in, guileless and full of bounce. Then I was the teenager, moody at home, but cheering myself, and Aunty Trudy, with my visits. I didn’t want to see, didn’t pause to think, What happens when I’m not there.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I really was rather clueless, wasn’t I?”

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, truly. Really, you helped us all. You kept her company and I could paint and have my own time while you were there.

“Do you remember the day you first met us?” Helen asks, leaning back and taking another sip of her tea.

“Clearly!” I laugh. “I just invited myself in!”

“You did rather,” Helen laughs with me. “Did you ever wonder why I didn’t just send you on home?”

“You know, I have. But I always assumed it was because Aunty Trudy wanted me to stay.”

“No, it wasn’t Aunty Trudy, it was your mother.” She eyes me appraisingly.

“My mother!” I exclaim. I couldn’t be more surprised.

“Yes. Your mother. I walked over to your house while you and Trudy were chatting. I wanted your mother to know where her daughter was. She said that so long as you weren’t being a bother, or tiring Trudy, she was happy to let you stay. But to send you on home as soon as we got tired of you. ‘Her chatting is enough to wear a saint out’ is what I remember her saying.”

“And when I kept on coming, did you ask her about that?” I run my finger around the top of my tea mug.

“I did, you know. She was very aware of how her tiredness, and need to rest every afternoon, chaffed on you. She was grateful you had a place to come.” Helen looks at me directly, her blue eyes, so like Aunty Trudy’s, resting on me. “Your visits helped Trudy, and your Mum. But it did hurt her that you seemed to prefer us to your own family,” she says gently.

“I did, you know. Prefer you to my family.” I keep twirling my finger around my mug. I’m embarrassed to look at Helen.

“Be kind to your Mum,” Helen says. “She’s dealing with more than you know.”

“I know her illness wears her down. I’m just so tired of being the daughter who’s supposed to understand and sympathize and be there for her. I do resent her neediness. And the needier she is, the more I want to push back.” I look up at Helen now, looking for reassurance.

“I get it,” Helen says. “I was Aunty Trudy’s daughter. And there were times I wished she would just hurry up and die so that we could all be free of the cage that was her multiple sclerosis. But now she’s gone, and I do miss her. She’s free now. And I take comfort in that. But I do miss her too.”

As do I. So very much.