Chương 10
Margaret had retired from the county clerk’s office eleven years earlier.
A nurse stood beside the bed.
Margaret saw their faces.
“What?”
Evan sat down.
“Mom.”
“I know I’m retired.”
“Okay.”
“I do.”
“Okay.”
“I just forgot this morning.”
The nurse looked toward the door.
“I’ll give you a minute.”
Margaret watched her leave.
Then she whispered, “I was halfway there before I remembered.”
Laura sat beside the bed.
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“I couldn’t remember where home was.”
Evan looked down.
Margaret’s voice shook.
“I knew the street name.”
No one spoke.
“I knew your phone number,” she said to Evan. “But I didn’t have my phone.”
Laura took her hand.
This time Margaret did not pull away.
“I sat at the bus stop because I knew somebody would come.”
“You did the right thing,” Laura said.
Margaret laughed bitterly.
“I walked seven miles toward a job I left eleven years ago.”
“You sat somewhere safe when you got confused.”
“That is a very low bar.”
“Today it mattered.”
Margaret looked at Evan.
“I can’t live alone.”
Evan’s face tightened.
Laura felt his hand searching for hers beside the bed.
She took it.
“No,” he said. “Not safely.”
Margaret nodded.
The admission cost her something visible.
It seemed to age her by years and relieve her by the same amount.
“I hate this,” she said.
“I know.”
“I hate both of you a little.”
Evan gave a broken laugh.
“Fair.”
“And Denise.”
“Obviously.”
“Her shoes are ridiculous.”
Laura wiped her eyes.
“They are.”
Margaret looked from one to the other.
“I don’t want to move in with you.”
Evan blinked.
“We didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking it.”
Laura said, “He does think loudly.”
Margaret almost smiled.
Then she said, “I mean it. I do not want Laura taking care of me every day.”
Laura’s throat tightened.
Margaret looked at her.
“You already did too much.”
“I chose to.”
“You chose badly.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you doing it again because everybody calls it love.”
Laura could not answer.
Evan could.
“Okay.”
Margaret turned toward him.
“Okay?”
“We’ll find something else.”
“You’re not going to argue?”
“I am growing.”
“Suspicious.”
The move took five weeks.
They found a small assisted-living community twenty minutes away with staff overnight, medication support, meals, transportation, and a memory-care unit in the same building if Margaret later needed more help.
Margaret rejected it twice.
The first time because the lobby smelled like air freshener.
The second because one resident called her “honey.”
On the third visit, she discovered the library.
Not the old county library.
A small room with crooked shelves, donated mysteries, romance novels, histories, and a table where three residents were doing a jigsaw puzzle of a lighthouse.
Margaret stood in the doorway.
“That puzzle will take them until Easter.”
One of the women looked up.
“It took us three days to find the corners.”
Margaret walked in.
Laura and Evan waited in the hall.
After ten minutes she came out holding a paperback.
“When would I move?”
Laura looked at Evan.
He said, “Whenever you want.”
Margaret nodded.
“Monday.”
The following Monday, Margaret changed her mind.
Tuesday she changed it back.
Wednesday she accused Evan of trying to sell her house.
He reminded her they had agreed to wait.
Thursday she packed six boxes of kitchen utensils and no underwear.
Friday Laura helped her unpack.
Margaret insisted on bringing the Niagara Falls mug even though it was broken.
Laura had glued the handle and two large pieces together, but a section near the rim was missing.
“It can hold pencils,” Laura said.
“It can hold nothing.”
“Pencils are nothing?”
“In a mug, yes.”
They placed it on the windowsill anyway.
The first month was ugly.
Margaret called every evening asking to go home.
Then she called every other evening.
Then twice a week.
She hated dinner.
She hated the mattress.
She hated the television channels.
She hated the woman in apartment 214 who whistled.
She loved the library but refused to say so.
She became friends with the puzzle woman, whose name was June.
When Laura pointed this out, Margaret said, “We are not friends. We have overlapping complaints.”
One afternoon in March, Laura arrived carrying groceries.
Not many.
Coffee.
Bananas.
A box of crackers.
And six bread rolls from Weller’s.
Margaret was sitting beside the window in a blue sweater, reading a murder mystery.
She looked up.
“You’re late.”
“By four minutes.”
“I could have died.”
“That would be inconsiderate.”
“Very.”
Laura put the groceries on the small kitchenette counter.
Margaret watched her.
“How are your legs?”
Laura looked down.
She was wearing jeans.
“Fine.”
“Can I see?”
Laura hesitated.
Then she pulled one pant leg up.
The bruises were gone.
Only a faint yellow shadow remained near her left ankle, so pale she had stopped noticing it.
Margaret stared at the spot.
“I did that.”
“Some of it.”
“You always soften things.”
“Not as much as I used to.”
Margaret nodded.
“No.”
Laura put the pant leg down.
She unpacked the bread.
Margaret picked up one roll.
“They overbaked these.”
“They’re exactly how they always are.”
“Standards are collapsing.”
Laura sat across from her.
For a while they ate bread without butter because Margaret had forgotten to ask for butter and refused to call the dining room.
A cart rattled in the hallway.
Someone laughed loudly two doors down.
The building’s heating system clicked.
Margaret brushed crumbs into her palm.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Laura looked up.
“You’ve said that.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“I forget things.”
Laura almost smiled.
Margaret did too.
Then the smile disappeared.
“I remember that night.”
“Which one?”
“The night Evan saw your legs.”
Laura rested her hands around her coffee cup.
Margaret stared at the crumbs in her palm.
“I remember the bread falling.”
“I do too.”
“I remember thinking if I didn’t say anything, maybe you would keep lying.”
May you like
Laura said nothing.
“I was angry at you for stopping.”
