Looking for Jane (62)

The look on Chester’s face makes Evelyn’s heart swell to twice its normal size before it breaks. “God bless ya, Doc. Jesus H.”

Evelyn sets the glasses down on Chester’s bedside table, twists the caps off the tiny bottles, and pours them out. “I hope you don’t mind neat. If you want rocks, I can go try to hunt down some ice chips.”

“Nah, this is perfect.”

Evelyn hands one of the glasses to her patient. She doesn’t particularly like scotch, but she’s dragged herself here for Chester, so she’s determined to make the most of the sacrifice.

“A man shouldn’t drink his last whiskey alone,” Chester says, as though reading her thoughts. “Cheers, Doc.”

“Cheers, Chester.”

Their glasses clink. Usually it’s the sound of celebration, not grief. But maybe this moment is both. Evelyn blinks several times and scratches her nose. Chester takes a sip.

“Don’t go cryin’, now, Doc.”

“I’m not crying. The scotch is just smoky, that’s all.”

He smiles again, his dentures slipping a little. “Thanks for keepin’ me alive all these years, eh. I know I was a grumpy old bugger.”

Evelyn laughs through a sticky throat. “You’re welcome, Chester. It’s my job, but it was also my pleasure.”

“I know it was. That’s what sets ya apart.”

Evelyn smiles, sips her own drink. Today she finds she’s rather enjoying the taste. “You were my first patient, did you know that?”

“I figured. I was watchin’ from down the road when ya moved in. The medical equipment and such. Didn’t want to have to walk far for appointments, see.”

“Well, I must say, I’ve nursed rather a soft spot for you, Chester. I’ll—I’ve missed your visits.” She can feel her nose starting to swell and takes another sip to disguise it.

“Ah, I’m too old for ya, Doc.” He winks.

Evelyn sighs. They’ve both finished their drinks now, and a sense of finality settles over them like dust in an empty house. Evelyn reaches her hand out to clasp his. His grip is still strong.

“You’re a kind soul, Doc,” he says. “You make other folks’ lives easier just by bein’ you. You’ve got a reservation about ya, though. You were a hard nut for me to crack, kid. You… you risk a lot, doin’ what ya do, and maybe it’s made ya a bit tough.”

Evelyn holds her breath, feels the rough skin of Chester’s hand in hers, trembling slightly. He squeezes it.

“It’s okay. I seen them all comin’ and goin’ over the years, waitin’ out on your porch in the dark. You’re a brave one. Ya did a good thing. Ya help people, that’s what I’m sayin’. Just don’t let it make ya too hard.”

A quivering tear slips from the corner of Evelyn’s eye.

“Oh, come, now,” Chester says. “Give us a hug and be on your way.”

Evelyn leans down and wraps her arms around the old man’s thick frame. “Thank you, Chester,” she whispers.

“You take care, now, Doc. I’ll see ya on the other side.”

She leaves one of the empty whiskey bottles for him. He’ll twist the cap off and breathe in the smoky scent every night until he dies, six days from now on a warm Thursday evening. The window in his room will be opened wide like a gate, welcoming the tender soul that passes through it.

Evelyn doesn’t look back as she closes the door of the room that used to be the Watchdog’s. But it’s Chester’s now. She takes a minute to compose herself, looking around at the second-floor hallway and the many memories it conjures. From now on, she’ll choose to think of Chester when she pictures Room 207, not the Watchdog. She’ll hear his laugh instead of the echoes of so many girls’ cries. She’ll remember how the Goodbye Room was the only room in the home that glowed with natural light, a detail she’d been too distracted to notice at the time. She’ll recall the sweet face of her friend as they sat knitting by a warm fireplace in the dead of winter. Evelyn understands now, for the first time, that she can choose what memories she takes with her from this place, and what to leave behind.





CHAPTER 17 Nancy




SUMMER 1983




Nancy hikes her purse and canvas bag up onto her shoulder and strides across the nursing home lobby toward the big wooden staircase. She climbs the stairs, her steps creaking on the bare floorboards. The sound is magnified in the quiet of the afternoon. The house is nearly silent at this hour; most of the patients will be napping before dinner, sinking into the dense, foggy dreams of loved ones both present and past, the place where time becomes meaningless and they can be young and whole again.

Her assignment for this evening is Sister Mary Agatha. She isn’t old, but was declared palliative the day before yesterday. Bone cancer that spread everywhere.

When she enters the nun’s room, she sees it’s dimly lit by a lace-covered lamp on the small bedside table. A narrow single bed juts out from the wall, where a crucifix hangs above the sleeping woman’s head. Nancy creeps over to the small wooden guest chair. It’s stifling in here. She unlatches the window and pushes the casement outward, locking it in place. A merciful summer breeze wafts in. This room looks out onto the back garden, which is much quieter than the street side. Nancy can smell the roses on the air, still fragrant from the afternoon heat.