Patricia Caldwell had been doing this version of cruelty to me for six months.
Not always. Not every day. She was too careful for that. She spaced it out with warmth and helpfulness and the occasional genuine kindness, so that when she landed one of her small precise strikes, I was always slightly off-balance — surprised, again, that the pleasant woman who had helped me address wedding invitations was also the woman who could hand me a glass of wine with innocent eyes and say oh, I keep forgetting.
She didn’t keep forgetting.
Patricia never forgot anything.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me tell you about the ten years first. Because the ten years are the point. The ten years are what this whole story is actually about.
My name is Ellie. Ellie Marsh, soon to be Ellie Caldwell, on a Saturday morning in June that I had been planning for eight months and dreaming about for considerably longer.
