You ask once whether she has children nearby.
She gives a little laugh with no joy in it. “Nearby is a generous word.”
There are, apparently, two children. A daughter in Arizona who sends Christmas cards that look professionally staged and a son somewhere on the East Coast who hasn’t visited in years. She never says they are cruel. She says, instead, “Life got busy for them.” Some sentences are so polished by repetition you can see the pain in the shine.
One Thursday, while you are changing the sheets on her bed because her wrists hurt too much to manage corners, you notice a locked metal box in the closet behind stacks of folded blankets. It is old, army green, dented on one side. Your eyes linger on it only a second.
Mrs. Mercer, from the doorway, says, “Don’t worry. It only contains ghosts.”
You glance back. She is watching you with an unreadable expression.
