The Things She Still Wanted

By the next week, Clara had arranged to finish her housekeeping work at the end of the month. She would continue visiting Eleanor because she wanted to, and Mrs. Alvarez would adjust the staff schedule.

Bennett hated the thought of not knowing when he would see her. He told her that once, then helped her carry a box of personal things out of the linen room.

On the following Sunday, Eleanor asked him to bring her red lipstick.

He found three tubes in her dresser and held them up for inspection.

"Not that one. It makes me look like your Aunt Lydia."

"You like Aunt Lydia."

"I don't want to look like her."

Clara sat on the bed and uncapped the correct tube.

Eleanor watched Bennett in the mirror while Clara steadied her hand.

"You look tired."

"So do you."

"I've got an excuse."

He smiled because she wanted him to.

Her good hours had become shorter. There were more people quietly conferring in the corridor, though they took their conversations elsewhere when he approached.

This time he asked them to stay.

He listened. He asked what would keep her comfortable. He did not ask them to promise what they could not.

Later, he found his mother studying a photograph of his father.

"Did you know everything?" he asked.

She didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"No. Enough. More than I liked."

He sat beside her.

"Sometimes I think he left me a house with every door locked from the outside."

Eleanor traced the edge of the frame.

"You were so young when he died. Everyone needed you to become him before you'd finished being yourself."

"I wasn't a child."

"You were my child. That didn't stop because you put on his suits."

He looked down at his hands.

"I thought if I kept everything running, I could keep you safe."

"You did keep many things away from me. Some of them were you."

He swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

She reached over and touched his cheek.

"I know, darling. Come closer. My arm is tired."

He bent toward her, and she kissed his forehead as if he were still small enough to fit beneath her chin.

Three days later, she asked for music.

Marcus found the old record player. Clara opened the windows for a few minutes because Eleanor wanted to smell the rain. Bennett closed them when she grew cold without asking whether she had changed her mind.

That evening, Eleanor spoke to Clara while Bennett adjusted the pillows.

"Don't let him order your dinner for you. He gets that from his father."

Clara glanced at him.

"He's been warned."

"Good."

Eleanor's smile faded into weariness.

"You don't owe me anything, sweetheart. I hope you know that."

Clara took her hand.

"I know."

Bennett saw tears gather in her eyes, but Eleanor had already turned toward him.

"Will you read?"

He picked up the book.

"From the bookmark?"

"You're learning."

He read until his voice roughened. Clara brought him water and stayed beside the bed.

His mother died shortly before morning, with her hand in his and Clara sitting close enough that their knees touched beneath the blanket.

The nurse came when he called. She was kind. He remembered that later, though almost nothing she said stayed with him.

He kept waiting for his mother to correct something.

The angle of the curtains. The terrible flowers he would choose. His posture.

Clara touched his shoulder.

"Bennett."

He shook his head.

"I know," she said. "You don't have to move yet."

So he didn't.

When he finally turned toward her, she put both arms around him.

He bowed his head against her shoulder and cried with a violence that frightened him. She held him through it, her own breath shaking against his neck.

Outside, the rain stopped.

Clara stayed until he could stand, then walked beside him out of the room.