Chapter 412: Photograph

“You read her letters very carefully,” she said.

“I read everything carefully,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “She told me.” A pause. “She said your letters were careful and warm and that you chose what to put in them.”

“She said that to me too,” he said.

“She knew she was describing herself,” said Nadia.

He held his coffee.

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

Nadia looked at the atrium window.

“I’ve been her doctor for four years,” she said. “She’s a good patient in the way that difficult patients are good — she asks the right questions, she follows the treatment correctly, she argues when she disagrees with my reasoning but she has good reasons for arguing.” She held her coffee. “When the letter arrived. The first one. She brought it to her next appointment and put it on the desk and said: I need you to know this happened.”

He held his gaze on her.

“She needed to tell someone,” he said.

“She needed to tell the person she trusted with things,” said Nadia. “Which at that point was me.” She held her coffee. “She was very calm about it. She said: I have a grandson. He wrote me a letter. I’m going to write back.” She held the coffee. “And then she asked me to check her blood pressure because the letter had arrived that morning and she hadn’t slept.”

He held that.

“What was it,” he said.

“Fine,” said Nadia. “She was fine. She was just processing something significant while being extremely composed about it.” She almost smiled. “Very Margaret.”

He held his coffee.

Around them the café moved with its Tuesday afternoon traffic.

“Dr. Cross,” he said.

“Nadia,” she said.

“Nadia,” he said. “What’s the condition. The one you manage.”

She looked at him.

“She’s your grandmother,” she said. “You should ask her.”

“I’m asking you because I want the medical read,” he said. “Not the version she’ll give me which will be accurate but compressed.”

Nadia held his gaze.

“It’s manageable,” she said. “She’s been on the same protocol for four years and it’s working. Nothing has changed.” A pause. “She’s seventy-six and in good health for seventy-six. That’s the accurate version.”

“That’s what I needed,” he said.

“You were worried,” she said.

“I wanted the information,” he said.

“You can want information and be worried at the same time,” she said.

He held her gaze.

“Yes,” he said. “You can.”

She held his gaze for a moment.

Then she looked at her watch.

“She’ll be up in twenty minutes,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

She stood.

She picked up her coffee.

She looked at him from standing height with the dark brown eyes and the expression she had that was not the social version and not entirely the medical version.

“You checked the clinic schedule before the first visit,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You’re here forty minutes early today,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You asked me for the medical read before going up,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

She held his gaze.

“You’re very thorough,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

She held the look for a moment longer.

“There’s a place near the hospital,” she said. “On Mercer Cross Street. Two blocks east. It’s actually good. I’ve been meaning to go with someone who would appreciate it properly.”

He held her gaze.

She held his.

“Friday,” he said. “Seven.”

“Friday at seven,” she said.

She walked out.

He picked up his coffee.

He went upstairs.

—–

Margaret was already in the waiting area when he arrived.

She looked up when she heard the elevator.

“You’re early,” she said.

“I was downstairs,” he said.

“Talking to Nadia,” she said. Not a question.

“Yes,” he said.

She held her handbag.

“She’s good,” said Margaret. “I told you that last time.”

“You did,” he said. “She confirmed the medical read.”

Margaret looked at him.

“She told you about the condition,” she said.

“Manageable,” he said. “Same protocol for four years. Nothing has changed. Good health for seventy-six.”

“That’s exactly what I would have told you,” said Margaret.

“I know,” he said. “I wanted it from the doctor.”

She held his gaze for a moment.

“You’re thorough,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Catherine was thorough,” she said. “She drove me absolutely mad with it sometimes. She wanted to understand things completely before she’d accept them.”

“Did she ever accept things without understanding them completely,” he said.

Margaret held her handbag.

“Once,” she said. “That I know of.”

He held her gaze.

She held his.

The clinic door opened. A nurse appeared with her name on a tablet.

“That’s me,” said Margaret.

She stood.

She looked at him.

“Wait here,” she said. “We’ll get coffee after. I have something for you today.”

“The thing from the letter,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I brought it.”

She went into the clinic.

He sat in the waiting area chair.

He looked at the tree in the courtyard through the window.

He thought about once, that I know of.

He thought about Catherine at whatever age she had been. Making one exception to the rule of complete understanding before acceptance. What that exception had been.

He held the tree.

He did not let himself fill in the answer.

He waited.

—

She came out forty minutes later.

The clinic had run long. She looked fine. She sat beside him and opened her handbag and took out something small wrapped in a cloth.

She held it for a moment.

Then she put it in his hands.

It was a photograph. Old. The cloth had been protecting it. A small photograph in a paper frame, the kind that came from a camera shop rather than a printer. Slightly faded at the edges but clear in the center.

Catherine at maybe seven years old. In a garden. On her knees in the soil with her hands in it, looking up at whoever was taking the photograph with the specific expression of someone who had been interrupted and was deciding whether the interruption was worth stopping for.

The nose.

He held the photograph.

He held it for a long time.

Margaret said nothing.

She let him hold it.

“She was planting something,” he said.

“Sweet peas,” said Margaret. “She planted them every spring. She said they were pointless because they died so fast. I said that was the point. She never agreed but she planted them anyway.”

He held the photograph.

“She’s keeping them company while she plants,” he said. “That look. She’s not annoyed at being interrupted. She’s just noting it.”

“Yes,” said Margaret. “That’s exactly right.”

He looked at it.

“Keep it,” said Margaret. “That’s why I brought it.”

He held the photograph.

“Thank you,” he said.

She held her handbag.

“It’s the right word this time,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

They went downstairs.

They sat in the café. Margaret had her usual tea. He had coffee. They talked for an hour about the garden at her house, about the sweet peas she had kept planting after Catherine, about thirty-one years of teaching and the specific students she still thought about, about a book she had read twice and wanted to talk about with someone who would argue with her about the ending.

He argued with her about the ending.

She was right. He told her so.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” she said. “I could see you agreeing.”

“Saying it matters,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

At four she stood and said she had to get her bus.

He offered James.

She looked at him.

“The car outside,” he said. “He’s been there since one thirty.”

“Your driver has been waiting since one thirty,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

She held her handbag.

“That’s excessive,” she said.

“He doesn’t mind,” he said.

She held the handbag for a moment.

“All right,” she said. “One time.”

James drove her home.

She sat in the back beside Sean and looked at the city going past the window and said nothing for the first five minutes.

Then she said: “You have a driver.”

“Yes,” he said.

“At eighteen,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

She held the window.

“Catherine would have had questions about that,” she said.

“I imagine she would,” he said.

“I have questions about that,” she said.

“Next visit,” he said.

She looked at him.

“That’s your version of we’ll talk about it later,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Fair enough,” she said. And went back to the window.

James pulled up outside her house thirty-five minutes later.

She looked at it through the window.

Then she got out.

She stood on the pavement.

Sean got out beside her.

She looked at the house. The garden on the south side. Small. Tended.

She looked at him.

“Next visit,” she said.

“Two weeks,” he said.

“Text me,” she said.

“You’ll reply within two days,” he said.

“I will,” she said.

She held his gaze.

“Sean,” she said.

“Yes.”

“The photograph,” she said. “I’m glad I waited to give it in person.”

“Yes,” he said. “So am I.”

She squeezed his arm. The same brief specific gesture as last time.

Then she went inside.

He stood on the pavement for a moment.

He looked at the garden.

Sweet peas.

He got back in the car.

James drove.

He held the photograph in his hands the whole way home.

He thought about pointless because they died so fast.

He thought about I said that was the point.

He thought about a seven-year-old who disagreed but planted them anyway.

He put the photograph carefully in his inside pocket.