Chapter 5: The Woman in the Chair by the Window
Sandra didn't come on Saturday.
Ethan called Friday evening to say she'd had a difficult night.
Her breathing.
He was sorry.
He could come alone if I still wanted.
I told him to come.
He arrived at eleven with a container of homemade shortbread that he held out at the door with both hands, slightly awkward, like he wasn't sure if it was the right thing to bring.
It was exactly the right thing to bring.
I put the kettle on.
Dean came downstairs and shook Ethan's hand, and the two of them stood in the kitchen with the particular stiffness of people who want to say something and don't yet know what.
"Sit," I said.
"Both of you."
We spent the morning at the kitchen table.
Ethan talked about his work — he was an engineer, civil infrastructure, bridges and drainage systems, things that held other things up.
Dean asked questions.
Careful ones at first, then less careful.
By noon they were arguing mildly about a bypass project near the city that Dean had read about in the paper, and I sat across from them watching it happen.
The jaw.
The hands.
The way they both leaned forward when they were making a point.
I excused myself to check on the lunch and stood at the counter for a moment with my eyes closed.
Not from grief.
From something harder to name.
After we ate, Ethan showed us photographs on his phone.
Sandra at a school play, standing at the edge of the stage, laughing at something off-camera.
Sandra at the coast, younger, squinting into the sun.
Sandra last Christmas, thinner, but smiling, with Ethan's arm around her.
"She looks kind," I said.
"She is," Ethan said.
"She's — she worries about everyone except herself.
It drives me mad."
"Can I ask what the doctors are saying now?"
He set his phone face-down on the table.
"They've moved her to palliative care.
She's comfortable.
She's not in pain." He paused.
"She keeps asking if I've sorted things out here.
She won't rest until she knows."
Dean was very still.
"Tell her it's being sorted," I said.
Ethan looked at me.
"Is it?"
"It's being sorted," I said again.
Firmly.
Not as a comfort.
As a fact.
He nodded.
Dean cleared his throat.
"I'd like to see her.
If she's willing."
Ethan was quiet for a moment.
"I'll ask her."
"I don't need long.
I just—" Dean stopped.
"I owe her an apology.
I know I didn't know.
But I still feel like I owe her one."
"For what?" Ethan asked.
"For not being there.
Even if it wasn't my fault.
He grew up without a father and that—" His voice caught.
"That matters."
Ethan looked at his hands.
"She never blamed you."
"I know.
That almost makes it worse."
The afternoon light shifted through the kitchen window.
A car went past outside.
Somewhere down the street, a child was calling out to someone.
"I want to ask you something," Ethan said to Dean.
"And you don't have to answer."
"Ask."
"When you found out — when she first told you — what did you feel?"
Dean thought about it for a long time.
"Afraid," he said.
"And then something else.
Something I didn't expect."
"What?"
"Proud." He said it quietly.
"She showed me those photographs and I felt proud.
Which made no sense.
I hadn't done anything.
But there you were — this person who existed, who had a career and a life and—" He shook his head.
"I felt proud.
And then I felt ashamed of feeling proud when I hadn't earned it."
Ethan was quiet.
Then he said, "She told me once that she hoped, if I ever found you, that you'd be someone worth finding."
Dean looked up.
"I think you might be," Ethan said.
"I'm not sure yet.
But I think you might be."
It was the most careful, honest thing I had heard anyone say in weeks.
I reached across the table and put my hand briefly over Dean's.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But something.
He looked at me.
His eyes were wet.
I took my hand back.
"More tea?" I asked.
"Please," said Ethan.
I got up and put the kettle on again, and the two of them started talking about the bypass project, and I stood at the counter listening to the sound of it.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
A message from our daughter, Lynn.
*Dad called me this morning.
He told me everything.
Can I come over tomorrow?*
I stared at the message.
Dean had called Lynn.
Without telling me first.
May you like
I set the phone face-down and finished making the tea.
Tomorrow was going to be a harder day.
