Chapter 4

My alarm went off at six the next morning, but I'd already been awake before sunrise.

This was my last morning here.

I got up and went to Margaret's room. I pulled back her blanket to check on her and found that she'd made it through the night without any accidents.

So I helped her sit up and got her dressed. I always put her right sleeve on first and started with her right leg when I pulled up her pants. I had followed the same routine for four years.

Then I washed her face, helped her rinse her mouth, and slowly combed her hair, which had grown thin and white and felt as dry as straw, with a wooden comb.

"Be gentle." She still complained as usual.

Once her hair was done, I wheeled her into the living room and started making breakfast.

I cooked the oatmeal until it was soft enough for her to swallow, made soft scrambled eggs with a little cheese for flavor, and chopped some pickles into tiny pieces, since everything had to be soft enough for Margaret to eat.

At twenty past seven, Michael came out of the study wearing the white shirt I'd ironed for him the night before.

I glanced at it. The collar was perfectly smooth, and the cuffs were neatly pressed.

He'd dressed himself for four years, and this was the last shirt I'd iron for him.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

He glanced at the food on the table but didn't sit down. "We'll leave at eight forty."

I was feeding Margaret at the time, and she had a surprisingly good appetite that morning, finishing most of her bowl of oatmeal and complaining only twice, once because it was too hot and once because it wasn't salty enough.

After I finished feeding her, I wiped the food from her face and bib. "Margaret, I'm going out for a while."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I have something to take care of."

"What? With who?"

I didn't answer. I filled her thermos with milk, left some crackers within reach of her left hand, and clipped the call button beside her pillow. "Your milk and crackers are here. If you need to use the bathroom, press the button."

She stared at me, her cloudy eyes shifting slightly. "Are you trying to sneak off?"

"I'm not running away." I carried my handbag and suitcase to the front door.

Michael was already putting on his shoes, and when he glanced at the suitcase, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't.

We went downstairs and got into the car.

He drove a gray Jetta that he'd bought three years earlier.

I'd gone with him to pick it out, back when he'd been in a good mood and promised that someday he'd trade it in for a better car and take me on road trips.

Instead, that car had taken him to meetings, business dinners, and work trips.

The only times it had taken me anywhere were the handful of trips to the hospital when I accompanied Margaret to her follow-up appointments.

I opened the back door and got into the car.

Michael kept his hands on the steering wheel, glanced at me in the rearview mirror, and said nothing.

We drove out of the neighborhood.

He turned on the radio, and the local morning news was already on, talking about housing prices and traffic.

The city rushed past the windows, with office buildings, shopping centers, and coffee shops filling the streets.

I hadn't really looked at any of it in a long time.

For four years, I'd barely gone more than two miles from home.

My world had reduced to the house, the grocery store, the neighborhood clinic, and the pharmacy, while the occasional trip to the main hospital for Margaret's checkups was about as far as I ever went.

"Let's get this done as soon as we get there," he said suddenly.

"Okay."

"I have a meeting this afternoon."

"Okay."

Maybe he thought the silence was getting too heavy, because he added, "Evelyn, I know these past four years haven't been easy. Thank you for everything you've done."

I looked out the window at a street tree covered in tiny new buds. "It's no big deal."