Page 18 of The Only One Left

He built it because he wanted to show everyone just how rich he was.

It worked. For one cannot get a glimpse of Hope’s End without thinking, “This is the home of a very wealthy man.”

Wealthy we were. Happy? Not so much. And the house, though opulent, reflected that. It’s a cold place. An unwelcoming place. I know you can feel it. There’s little comfort to be found here.

And all I wanted to do was meet people, go places, experience the things I’d only read about in books. It was 1929, and the world was alive with fast cars and jazz and dancing all night while drinking bathtub gin. I had experienced none of it. And how was I to become a great writer without having any experiences to write about?

Some days, Hope’s End felt so much like a prison that I thought I’d scream if I had to spend one more minute inside its walls. Whenever I got that way, the only cure was to be outside.I loved the grounds and the sea and the sky. They always managed to soothe me, which is exactly what they did that day.

Standing on the terrace, I inhaled the salty air and felt the cool wind on my face. I leaned against the railing and stared up at the tall windows that ran around the southeastern corner of the house. My mother’s bedroom, which was separate from my father’s. The two of them had long stopped sharing a bed.

The drapes were drawn, which meant she was suffering another one of her “nervous episodes.” By then, she rarely left her bedroom.

I shuddered at the sight of those tightly closed curtains. I couldn’t imagine being trapped in my room all day, every day, never leaving. To me, that seemed like a fate worse than death.

Yet here I am, living that exact scenario.

It turns out I was right.

Because here’s an intriguing fact about Hope’s End: The doors to all the bedrooms can only be locked from the outside, with individual keys required to open them. When my sister and I were young, one of my father’s favorite games was to lock us in our bedrooms. Whoever went the longest without begging to be let out received a prize. Usually a bit of money or a fancy dessert and, once, a gold bracelet. The winner also got to decide how much longer the loser had to stay in her room.

My sister won every single time.

She never minded the game, but, oh, how it drove me crazy. I could never last more than a few hours before the walls felt like they were closing in and would trap me forever if I didn’t get out.

Because I was always the first to beg my father to open the door, I then had to stay in my room for as long as my sister decided. Once, she chose to keep me locked in for an additional twelve hours. I spent that entire night screaming and pounding on the door, demanding to be let out. When that didn’t work, I tried breaking down the door by throwing myself against it. The doornever budged. Even though I had lost, my father and sister never relented. I remained locked inside until midmorning.

That’s how it feels to be in this house, this room, this body. Like I’ve been locked inside during one of my father’s games and there’s no one on the other side of the door holding the key that can set me free.

SIX

Lenora and I have adjoining rooms, a fact I discover after bringing my belongings upstairs. The first thing I unpack is the metal lockbox I use to store medication. The same one that got me suspended and investigated by the police after I failed to use it. Now empty, I slide it under the bed and drop the key in a nightstand drawer.

Next are my clothes. After opening the suitcase, I try the door to what I think is a closet. Instead, I find myself looking straight into Lenora’s room. Mrs. Baker is still there, putting a slim pair of headphones over Lenora’s ears. They’re attached to a brick-like Walkman resting in Lenora’s lap.

“Ah, Kit,” Mrs. Baker says as she presses the Walkman’s play button. “Let’s go over Miss Hope’s routine.”

I drift into Lenora’s room, curious. She’s a strange sight—a woman in her seventies, slumped in a wheelchair that likely hasn’t been made since the forties, enjoying the latest technology of the eighties.

“What is she listening to?”

“A book on cassette tape,” Mrs. Baker says, as if offended by the very concept. “Jessica records herself reading aloud and then gives the tapes to Miss Hope to listen to.”

“That’s very nice of her.”

“If you say so.”

Mrs. Baker goes to a sideboard beneath the window. Inside are dozens of cassette tapes in plastic cases. Scrawled on the labels in red Magic Marker are many titles I recognize.The Thorn Birds. Clan of the Cave Bear.More than a few books by Jackie Collins.

Nearby, Lenora listens to one of the tapes with a look of contentment on her face. Like a child just handed their favorite toy. She remains that way as Mrs. Baker gives me a crash course on how to take care of her. We first go over Lenora’s medications, of which there are many. Aspirin, a water pill, an anticoagulant, a statin, a pill to control muscle spasms, another to prevent osteoporosis. All of them sit on Lenora’s nightstand. Six little orange bottles arranged in a row atop a silver serving tray.

I open each bottle, familiarizing myself with the pills’ shapes, sizes, and colors. Also on the tray are a mortar and pestle. Their presence tells me I’m to crush the pills.

“I mix them in with Miss Hope’s food, right?”

“Three with breakfast, three with dinner,” Mrs. Baker says. “The bottles are marked.”

I note the stickers on the bottles as she continues, telling me how I’m to spend two hours each day—one in the morning, one in the evening—gently moving Lenora’s arms and legs to improve her circulation. Each morning and evening I’m also supposed to brush her teeth, brush her hair, and change her out of her sleeping clothes and into her daytime clothes and back again. I need to feed her. And bathe her. And help her onto the toilet when she can manage to go or change her adult diaper when she can’t.

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