Page 19 of The Only One Left

We talk as if Lenora isn’t in the room with us, silent and still in her wheelchair. Occasionally, I glance her way, trying to get a read on how much she’s aware of what’s going on around her. Half the time, she seems oblivious to our presence, content to stare out the window and listen to her book on tape. The other half, though, I sense acute concentration. As if she’s keeping track of my every move. At one point, Lenora’s gaze leaves the window and drifts my way. A sidelong glanceshe doesn’t want me to notice. When I do, her eyes snap back toward the window.

“What does Miss Hope do for fun?”

“Fun?” Mrs. Baker says, as if she’s never heard the word. “Miss Hope doesn’t have fun. She rests.”

“All day?”

I scan the room, which is larger than mine but also stuffy, in both air flow and furnishings. The windows are firmly shut, making me question when they were last opened. A crisp ocean breeze would do wonders. But it doesn’t smell like a sickroom, either. A relief. I’ve spent far too much time moving around sticky rooms that smell of sweat, body odor, and decay.

As for the furniture, well, not much can be done about that. In addition to the sideboard and faded divan, there’s an armoire against the opposite wall, a desk in the corner, an armchair that matches the divan, and several side tables with Tiffany lamps. It’s frilly and slightly girlish and makes me conclude that this was Lenora’s childhood bedroom and has remained unchanged for decades. The idea of a woman sleeping in the same room she had as a child would be weird if not for the fact that I have just been doing the same thing.

The only nod to modernity is a Hoyer lift next to the bed, which allows for easier transfer to and from a wheelchair. I’ve used them plenty of times, although this looks to be an early model. Its U-shaped base, angled support pole, and hydraulic pump aren’t as sleek as other versions. At the top, dangling from what looks like an oversize coat hanger, is a nylon sling.

The bed itself is crowded with pillows, which bear a human-shaped indentation. I shudder at the thought of being forced to lie there all day with nothing to do.

“Surely there’s something she likes to do,” I say, searching for a television somewhere in the room. Most of my other patients loved having the TV on, even if they didn’t really watch. Just the sound of it kept them company.

Instead of a television, I spot a typewriter atop the desk. It’s old—mint green, off-white keys, clearly a relic of the sixties—but in working condition, as evidenced by a sheet of paper slid into the carriage.

“Is that for Miss Hope?”

Mrs. Baker gives the typewriter a passing glance. “In her youth, she wanted to be a writer. When Mary discovered this fact, she bought a typewriter with the intent of teaching Miss Hope how to use it.”

“Did she?”

“No,” Mrs. Baker says. “But over the years, we’ve devised a way for her to communicate her needs. She can answer yes or no questions by tapping her left hand. Once for no, twice for yes. It’s not perfect, but it’s worked well so far.”

I again flex my left hand, unnerved by the idea of having only that with which to communicate.

I shoot another quick glance at Lenora, who’s resumed watching me. This time, she doesn’t try to hide it. Lenora simply stares.

“As for Miss Hope’scare,” Mrs. Baker says, stressing the word to make it clear she thinks all other topics are frivolous, “dinner is served at seven. While you’re certainly welcome to join us in the kitchen after feeding Miss Hope, most of the nurses have found it easier to eat here with her. After dinner, it’s time for a second hour of circulatory therapy, followed by Miss Hope’s bath.”

She opens a door on one side of the armoire. Inside is a bathroom with gleaming white tile, a radiator hissing beneath the towel rack, another Hoyer lift beside the clawfoot bathtub, and a sink high enough to accommodate Lenora’s wheelchair.

“Miss Hope is put to bed promptly at nine. If she requires assistance during the night, Miss Hope will use this call button to summon you.”

Mrs. Baker goes to the nightstand on the left side of Lenora’s bed and picks up a thick plastic square that resembles an Atari controller missing its joystick. The button is the same, though. A fat red circle Mrs. Baker presses with her thumb. A loud buzz erupts from my room.Accompanying it is a red light I can see through the open adjoining door, flaring from a plastic stand on my night table.

“Are there any questions?” she says.

“If I think of any, I’ll be sure to ask.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least,” Mrs. Baker says, her voice dry as tumbleweed. “I now officially entrust Miss Hope to your care. May you serve her well.”

The words are uttered with zero enthusiasm, as if Mrs. Baker doubts this will come to pass. Then she turns and leaves the room, her black skirt swishing. I remain by the door a moment, swaying slightly. While I’d like to think it’s the fault of the mansion’s tilt, I know the real cause.

I’m now alone with Lenora Hope.

My pulse quickens unexpectedly. After seeing that bit of myself in Lenora’s eyes, I didn’t think I’d be so nervous. But the room feels different now that it’s just the two of us. There’s a charge in the air, likely muffled by Mrs. Baker’s presence. With her gone, I can feel the full weight of it, electric and vaguely foreboding.

And scary. Surprisingly so.

Years ago, when I was young and my father still spoke to me, we were in the backyard when a bee landed on my arm. Before I could shriek or run away, my father gripped me by the shoulders and held me in place.

“Never show fear, Kit-Kat,” he whispered. “They can tell if you’re scared—and that’s when they sting.”

I remained still, pretending to be brave as the bee crawled up my arm, across my neck, onto my cheek. Then it flew away, leaving me unscathed.

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