Page 41 of The Only One Left

Finding Mary’s belongings.

The wind and the waves and the creaking floorboards.

The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I left that page in the typewriter.

“Lenora, was someone in here last night?”

She responds with a single-tap no against the wheelchair armrest.

“Are you sure?”

Two taps.

I stare at Lenora. She stares back, looking utterly guileless. If she’s lying—and I see no reason why she would be—she hides it well. And even though I’m close to certain I didn’t move that page, I’m also aware someone else could have done it while Lenora was asleep. Mrs. Baker slipping in to do some snooping, for instance. Or Jessie coming in bright and early to tidy up.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, because it truly doesn’t. What matters is that Lenora is about to reveal all. And my job is to help her do it.

In a desk drawer, I find a partial ream of paper and insert a new page into the carriage. I then place Lenora’s left hand on the typewriter, wondering if this is the start of something wonderful or something I’ll regret.

Or if it will end up being anything at all.

Lenora’s fingers twitch atop the keys, almost as if she’s unable to keep them still any longer.

I inhale, exhale, nod.

Then we begin.

THIRTEEN

The thing I remember most--the thing I still have nightmares about--is when it was all but over.

That’s what Lenora typed first, hours ago, when the sun was still rising over the Atlantic. The full sentence took me by surprise. Until then, she’d only typed fragments, ignoring rules of capitalization and punctuation. It took a few confused seconds from me and a few exasperated taps from her before I realized she wanted me to press the shift key while she typed that first capital T. It took even longer for us to settle into some semblance of a rhythm. We got there eventually, though.

And that’s where we remain, even though the sun has left the sky and the murky light of dusk now settles over the ocean outside. Lenora uses her good hand to brush against mine, a signal she needs me to press the shift key. When the typewriter dings, I hit the return bar, bringing the carriage back to a new line. She types some more and nods, the sign I’m to nudge it again and start a new paragraph.

We keep the door closed so no one will bother us. Lenora insisted, although I don’t know why. Other than Archie, who delivered lunch with a terse rap on the door, I haven’t heard anyone moving about the second floor. And while it feels as if Lenora is an afterthought in herown estate, it might be because I’m now here. Her caregiver. A role I try to continue while doubling as a secretary.

After each page, I massage Lenora’s left hand, make her take a sip of water through a straw, and ask if she wants to continue. The answer is always two eager taps against the typewriter. There’s an unmistakable zeal to her typing. She rarely pauses to think about what she’s going to write. The story simply crashes onto the page, as if Lenora had written it all in her head years ago and is just now setting it free.

What that story is, I still don’t know. Between responding to Lenora’s signals, constantly tapping the return bar, and removing and inserting pages into the typewriter, I haven’t had much opportunity to see what she’s writing.

Lenora brushes my hand, and I press the shift key. Two more presses and two nods later, she finally lays her hand flat against the keys—her signal that another chapter is finished.

I pluck the page from the typewriter and place it facedown atop the sixteen others we’ve typed today. A staggering amount. Yet if Lenora’s tired, she shows no sign of it. She gives me an expectant look, as if waiting for me to insert a fresh page into the carriage.

“We’ve done enough for today,” I say. At least I have. Unlike Lenora, I’m exhausted. Being hunched next to her all day has left me stiff and aching. When I stand up straight, half my joints let out a relieved crackle. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

The rest of the evening proceeds on schedule. Dinner and pills. Dessert. Circulation exercises, then bath, then bed. Lenora spends all of it lost in thought. Presumably composing what she plans to type tomorrow.

I know the feeling well. When that article about me ran in the newspaper, I called the reporter and demanded he hear my side of the story. The reporter listened with disinterest while I told him my mother’s death was suicide, that leaving those pills within her reach was simply an accident, that I would never do anything to hurt her.

“Detective Vick says otherwise,” the reporter said, as if the police’s word was gospel and I was merely a liar trying to cover my tracks.

That was six months ago, and I still sometimes get the pent-up urge to shout my innocence from every rooftop in town. I can only imagine how Lenora feels. It’s been fifty-four years for her. No wonder she doesn’t want to stop typing.

After putting her to bed and placing the call button next to her hand, I say, “Do you want me to stay until you fall asleep?”

Lenora taps twice on the bedspread.

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