Chapter 409: The Last Letter II

"Was I accurate," he said.

"More serious than I imagined," she said. "Less guarded."

He held his coffee.

"What made you think I’d be guarded," he said.

"Because you’re careful," she said. "The letters are careful. Warm but careful. You choose what to put in them." She held his gaze. "I do too. It’s one of the things we have in common."

He held her gaze.

"What else do we have in common," he said.

She held her tea.

"That’s a question for more than one visit," she said. "Today I’ll give you one thing."

"Tell me," he said.

"Catherine used to ask me things the same way," she said. "Direct. No preamble. She’d look at you and ask the exact question she wanted the answer to without building up to it." She held his gaze. "You just did that."

He held that.

"She was like that," he said. Not a question.

"She was exactly like that," said Margaret. "From about four years old. She decided early that the most efficient path to information was to ask for it directly and she never changed her mind about that."

He held his coffee.

"Tell me something else about her," he said.

Margaret held her tea.

She looked at the window.

"She laughed at things that weren’t supposed to be funny," she said. "Not mean. She just found the unexpected angle on things. Something that everyone else was taking seriously and she’d find the one element that was slightly absurd and she’d laugh at it." She held the tea. "Not loudly. She’d catch it. But I always knew. I could see her catching it and holding it."

He held his coffee.

He said nothing.

"You’re doing it right now," said Margaret.

He looked at her.

"The catching," she said. "Something I said landed as slightly absurd to you and you caught it."

"The word efficient," he said. "Applied to asking questions directly. I use that word the same way."

Margaret held her tea.

She looked at him.

"Yes," she said quietly. "That’s exactly the kind of thing."

They held the moment.

The hospital café around them. The atrium beyond the window. The ordinary machinery of a Tuesday afternoon.

"I have things for you," said Margaret. "Not today. Next visit. I want to bring them properly."

"What things," he said.

"Things of hers," she said. "Small things. I’ve been deciding which ones since the third letter." She held his gaze. "There’s one specifically. I want you to have it but I want to give it in person, not through the post."

"Next visit," he said.

"Yes," she said.

He held his coffee.

"Margaret," he said.

"Yes."

"The letters," he said. "You replied within two days. Every time."

"Yes," she said.

"Why so fast," he said.

She held her tea.

"Because I waited thirty-three years for those letters," she said. "Not literally. I didn’t know you existed until eight months ago. But when they arrived it felt like something I had been waiting for without knowing I was waiting." She held the tea. "Replying quickly was the least I could do."

He held her gaze.

"Yes," he said.

She held his gaze.

"You’re not going to say thank you," she said.

"No," he said.

"Good," she said. "Thank you is the wrong word for this."

"Yes," he said.

"We understand each other," she said.

"Yes," he said.

She drank her tea.

He drank his coffee.

The Tuesday afternoon held them.

Outside the window the hospital atrium moved with its ordinary traffic. People going somewhere. People coming back from somewhere. The ordinary machinery of a place where things happened to people and people kept going.

"Second visit," said Margaret. "When."

"Two weeks," he said. "Same day. I’ll text you."

"I’ll reply within two days," she said.

He almost smiled.

She almost smiled.

They held the table.

At some point she finished her tea and he finished his coffee and they stood and she walked him to the elevator.

She stopped before it.

"Sean," she said.

"Yes."

"The letters were enough," she said. "Whatever came next would have been enough. But this is better." She held his gaze with the dark eyes that were Catherine’s eyes that were now also just hers and his. "This is much better."

"Yes," he said. "It is."

The elevator came.

She squeezed his arm once, brief and specific, and went back toward the clinic.

He rode down.

James was outside.

He got in.

They drove.

He looked at the window.

He thought about the word efficient and a four-year-old who had decided direct questions were the right methodology and had never changed her mind.

He thought about a laugh caught and held.

He thought about two weeks.

He put his phone in his pocket.

He looked at the city.

[$71,745,899]

—-

Nadia found him the next Tuesday.

Not in the corridor outside the clinic. In the hospital café. He had come early — forty minutes before Margaret’s appointment — because he had the Kellerman notes to review and the café had better light than the waiting area.

She came in at one fifteen with a coffee already in hand, looked at the tables, and stopped when she saw him.

She came over.

"You’re early," she said.

"Forty minutes," he said.

"The appointment is at two."

"I know."

She looked at him for a moment. Then she sat down across from him.

He closed the Kellerman notes.

"You don’t have to close that," she said.

"I’m done with it," he said.

She held her coffee.

"How was the first visit," she said.

"Good," he said. "She told me Catherine caught things and held them."

Nadia held her coffee.

"She does that too," she said. "Margaret. Something in a conversation will land as slightly absurd and she’ll catch it. I can always tell."

"Yes," he said. "I know what you mean."

"She was pleased after," said Nadia. "She came to the clinic for a follow-up that Thursday and she was different. Not dramatically. Just lighter."