She tried to take a step forward.
Her left leg dragged against the edge of the Persian rug, catching on the fringe.
She swayed, her shoulders tilting at an unnatural angle.
“David,” she said, or tried to say.
The word came out as a thick, slurred syllable, the consonant dissolving before it could form.
Her left arm fell straight down against her side, completely limp.
The aristocratic posture she had maintained for sixty-two years suddenly vanished as her left cheek dropped, the muscles in her face slackening into a blank, heavy mask.
She went down heavily, her shoulder striking the arm of the sofa before she slid to the floor.
Uncle Robert took a step backward, nearly tripping over the brass coal scuttle.
“Eleanor? Eleanor, get up,” he said.
Nobody moved.
My cousins stared at the floor as if my mother had simply misplaced something.
Maya was already on her knees beside her.
