An Empty Chair

"I'm not dismissing you."

Clara's shoulders lowered, but only slightly.

Bennett pointed to the chair opposite him. "Sit down."

"I'd rather stand."

He was unaccustomed to hearing that in his study.

"Fine. Tell me what happened."

She glanced at the clock above the shelves.

"Do you have somewhere else to be?"

"Your mother is expecting me back."

There was no accusation in her tone. That made it worse.

"She woke up with hair all over her pillow," Clara said. "She didn't want the mirror. She wouldn't let anyone change the pillowcase until I'd closed the door. Today she said she was tired of waiting for it to happen a little at a time."

Bennett looked down at his desk.

"No one told me."

"She asked me not to."

"I'm her son."

"I know who you are."

Something in the way she said it made him look up.

Clara continued before he could question her.

"When you visit, she asks whether you've eaten. Then you ask whether the doctor has called, and she says she's fine. You both work very hard at it."

"You listen to our conversations?"

"I change the water in the flowers. Sometimes people forget I'm in the room."

He felt the rebuke, though she had spoken quietly.

The door opened behind her.

"And sometimes," Eleanor said, "people forget I can still operate a wheelchair."

Bennett rose. His mother wore a soft gray cardigan and no head covering. The sight caught him unprepared.

"You could have called someone."

"I did. Clara was busy being interrogated."

Clara hurried to her side. "I was coming back."

"I know you were."

Eleanor turned toward her son.

"Why is she standing in here looking as if you've caught her stealing the silver?"

"I wanted to understand what happened."

"You could have asked me."

He opened his mouth and closed it again.

Eleanor wheeled farther into the room. Clara moved a chair out of her path, anticipating the turn without discussion.

Bennett had not known the chair was in the way.

"I've arranged everything you need," he said.

His mother's expression softened, which was harder to bear than anger.

"You've arranged excellent care. I'm grateful. But I wanted you to have lunch with me yesterday."

"I had a meeting."

"You had one the day before, too."

He looked away.

"Every time I come upstairs, you're tired."

"Yes, Bennett. I'm ill. I may be tired while you're here. You can stay anyway."

Clara reached for the wheelchair handles, giving them the privacy he should have offered his mother himself.

"I'll take you back."

"He can take me," Eleanor said.

Bennett came around the desk.

At the threshold, his phone vibrated. Marcus's name appeared on the screen.

His mother saw it.

"You can answer."

He switched the phone off.

"Which way?"

"The room I've occupied for thirty years. Do try to remember."

Clara covered a smile with her hand.

Upstairs, Bennett discovered that the wheelchair caught against a loose edge of rug. He stopped, adjusted it, and felt absurdly relieved when his mother did not comment.

There was a chair beside her bed. He had assumed it was for the nurses.

Eleanor pointed at it.

"Sit."

So he did.

For several minutes, none of them spoke. Clara brought fresh water and straightened the towel beneath Eleanor's cheek. Then she asked whether they wanted the curtains open.

"Halfway," Eleanor said. "My son looks suspicious enough without being backlit."

Bennett laughed before he could stop himself.

His mother looked pleased, and he realized she had been trying to make him do that for months.

Clara went to the door.

"I'll leave you together."

"Clara," Bennett said.

She turned.

"Thank you for staying with her."

For a moment she looked almost angry. Then her face settled.

"She asked me to," she said.

After she left, Eleanor watched the closed door.

"Be careful with that girl."

"I wasn't going to fire her."

"That isn't what I meant."