“She seems pretty clear to me,” you say.
Her eyes sharpen. “Be careful. Old people get attached. Sometimes helpers misunderstand kindness and start expecting things.”
You stare at her for a beat too long. Then you say the truest thing available.
“Some people only show up when they think there’s something left to sort.”
Her face goes still. You walk away before she can answer.
Mrs. Mercer is discharged, against the enthusiastic wishes of nobody in billing, and you bring her home. Gail and Thomas leave the next day. They promise to “be more present.” The phrase hangs in the kitchen after they’re gone like perfume you did not choose.
September arrives with early cold. School starts again. Mrs. Mercer grows weaker.
There is no big announcement of decline, no thunderclap. She just begins receding more visibly each week, as though the room has started pulling her toward another doorway you cannot see. She sleeps longer. Eats less. Talks in shorter bursts. Once, while you are peeling apples at the sink, she says, “You know the strange thing about dying?”
