The Kitchen at Two

Clara took Friday off.

Bennett noticed her absence in places where he had never noticed her presence: the empty chair beside his mother's bed, the kitchen doorway, the stretch of hall outside the linen cupboard.

He disliked himself a little for noticing now.

Eleanor noticed him noticing.

"She's allowed a life outside this house."

"I know."

"Do you? You've passed this door four times."

He sat down and picked up the book on her blanket.

"Where are you?"

"The page with the bookmark. An ingenious invention."

He read until she fell asleep.

Over the next ten days, the outside review proceeded through calls and requests for records. Clara sent copies of the letters through the attorney she had chosen. Bennett answered questions he would once have delegated.

He also learned to knock before entering his mother's room. He learned that she preferred company without conversation after difficult afternoons, and that she would eat half a bowl of soup if no one watched her do it.

On Monday, she demanded cards.

On Tuesday, she cheated.

On Wednesday, Clara caught her, and Eleanor accused them both of conspiring against a sick woman.

Bennett found himself laughing in the middle of a day he had expected to endure.

The following Saturday, Eleanor had a rough night.

By two in the morning, the nurse had helped her settle, but Bennett was still in the hall. Clara came out carrying an untouched cup of tea.

"She's resting," she told him.

"You should go to bed."

"So should you."

Neither moved.

From behind the door came his mother's small, uneven cough. Bennett's fingers closed into a fist.

Clara looked at his hand.

"Come downstairs for five minutes. The nurse will call if she needs us."

In the kitchen, she found bread, butter, and a frying pan.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Making toast. You haven't eaten since lunch."

"There are people here who could do that."

"And they're asleep. Can you get two plates?"

He found the wrong cupboard first. Clara pointed with the butter knife, and he accepted the correction without comment.

They ate at the small table near the staff entrance.

The toast was slightly burned.

"Don't say anything," Clara warned.

"I wasn't going to."

"You looked at it."

"Am I allowed to look at my food?"

"Suspiciously, apparently."

Her smile came reluctantly. He wanted another one with an intensity he had no business feeling.

"Did your mother teach you to cook?" he asked.

"She tried. I was better at washing up."

"What did she make?"

Clara traced a crumb across her plate.

"Chicken potpie. The cheap kind, with biscuit dough on top. She said real pastry was for people who didn't have to catch a bus at six."

Bennett smiled.

"She sounds practical."

"She was funny. People forget that when I tell them she worked herself sick. They start looking at me as if she was only ever miserable."

"What was her name?"

"Rose."

He repeated it once, committing it to memory.

Clara looked at his untouched toast.

"You can tell me it's terrible. I won't take it personally."

"It's fine."

"That was unconvincing."

He took a bite. "It's warm. I like the company."

She lowered her eyes, and the quiet changed.

Bennett could see the faint mark the sleeve elastic had left on her wrist. When she reached for his plate, their hands touched.

She did not pull away immediately.

Then the monitor on the counter stirred with the nurse's voice, and both of them stood.

Upstairs, Eleanor was awake and frightened after a dream. She reached past Bennett for Clara.

For one ugly second, jealousy caught him.

Then his mother caught his sleeve with her other hand.

"Don't stand there like a hotel porter. Sit down."

He sat on the bed beside her. Clara took the chair.

Eleanor's grip gradually loosened. Bennett kept his hand where she could find it.

Across the bed, Clara rested her cheek against her knuckles. Her eyes closed.

Bennett watched the two women sleep until dawn began to soften the window.

When Clara woke, his mother still held his hand.

She looked at him, and this time she smiled without trying to hide it.