presenting the facts of the case—to the patient above all—and meanwhile making the most tender gestures in her direction, but a laying-on of hands that stop just short of touch. Sister Bond as steadily enunciates their theory and practice in a voice like a dove’s—all the while extending the patient the most intimate physical care.
There was no hush-hush anteroom stuff. Gemma and I were led straight in. To the wheelchair. The patient is the thing, at all times. And it is the patient whose task it is to orient us. Our task—the ‘family’s’—is to assist and attend—and learn—in preparation for our turn. Even though the Sisters bloom with a health pink with optimism, there’s a distinct sense of ‘you next, we next’ in all they do. The ‘family’ need not be blood-related. Some patients specify not.
‘It boosts them,’ Sister McClellan said later, while the patient smiled. Sister Bond: ‘All available medical treatment is explained to them. They, they decree.’ Often sending away the crew dispatched from Intensive Care.
The woman in the wheelchair might have had a blanket over those wasted legs but must have preferred not. That’s the way I see her as we approach. A woman in a wheelchair. The theory is—they told us later—not to conceal.
‘Is it you?’ she said, and then I knew her. There’s not much else left to guide.
Then she got up and walked. She’s dying of half a dozen things, we learn, among these too many white cells, a lack of red. This is why they can more or less predict where she will be when. The chair is for her bones, which break. But for the heart she must walk some each day. She has saved that for us.
She told us what she wanted of us over tea, ordered up. ‘In the hospice there would be other pretties about—like me.’
Acker had been willing to sponsor a few other patients over here, but it hadn’t worked out, with the immigration authorities for one. And yes, he was the man I’d thought he was. ‘He’s backing a play about our group, in London. In the West End.’ Though she was no longer married to him. ‘He was quite willing to send over a few—companions—to see me through.’ But the management here had also balked.
She’s asked me to come ‘because you were the most honest. And knew me best.’
She hasn’t yet greeted Gemma, only glancing at her without other acknowledgment, as if the state of dying—or dying in such state as she was doing—was introduction enough.
As often these days when I tense, I feel the wordplay coming over me in adrenaline profusion. What dreadful bit will I emit?
‘And I asked Gemma because from what I heard of her she would come.’
Gemma ignores her. She’s seen my trouble. She puts her hand on my shaky wrist, saying one word to me. ‘Triolet.’
To my surprise, Gertrude laughs, ‘never heard that one. But I get what you’re saying, sweetie. He’s yours.’
The Sisters were openmouthed. Their voices blend in a whisper: She laughed.
Nudging together, they inch a step nearer Gemma and me. We might be statues being scrutinized.
Just then a waiter brings in the tea.
I feel for the first time that I am in a room with four women. And that Gemma will handle it. The waiter has brought two tables which he sets up at a distance from one another, one in the center of the room, at which Gertrude immediately sits. The Sisters watch her get to it and into her chair, drawn up by the waiter, who clearly knows this routine. I recall that Gertrude could always impose one. The Sisters watch her until she is safe in the chair, their eyes discreetly averted. They are very good at this covert surveillance. But still I recognize the stance—the way we all look at the sick when we think we are well. I resolve to stare at Gertrude straight on.
Her table has three other chairs. She motions me to sit on her right, Gemma on her left, but I ignore this. I remember that empress motion—and how when Gertrude and I were breaking up I
There was no hush-hush anteroom stuff. Gemma and I were led straight in. To the wheelchair. The patient is the thing, at all times. And it is the patient whose task it is to orient us. Our task—the ‘family’s’—is to assist and attend—and learn—in preparation for our turn. Even though the Sisters bloom with a health pink with optimism, there’s a distinct sense of ‘you next, we next’ in all they do. The ‘family’ need not be blood-related. Some patients specify not.
‘It boosts them,’ Sister McClellan said later, while the patient smiled. Sister Bond: ‘All available medical treatment is explained to them. They, they decree.’ Often sending away the crew dispatched from Intensive Care.
The woman in the wheelchair might have had a blanket over those wasted legs but must have preferred not. That’s the way I see her as we approach. A woman in a wheelchair. The theory is—they told us later—not to conceal.
‘Is it you?’ she said, and then I knew her. There’s not much else left to guide.
Then she got up and walked. She’s dying of half a dozen things, we learn, among these too many white cells, a lack of red. This is why they can more or less predict where she will be when. The chair is for her bones, which break. But for the heart she must walk some each day. She has saved that for us.
She told us what she wanted of us over tea, ordered up. ‘In the hospice there would be other pretties about—like me.’
Acker had been willing to sponsor a few other patients over here, but it hadn’t worked out, with the immigration authorities for one. And yes, he was the man I’d thought he was. ‘He’s backing a play about our group, in London. In the West End.’ Though she was no longer married to him. ‘He was quite willing to send over a few—companions—to see me through.’ But the management here had also balked.
She’s asked me to come ‘because you were the most honest. And knew me best.’
She hasn’t yet greeted Gemma, only glancing at her without other acknowledgment, as if the state of dying—or dying in such state as she was doing—was introduction enough.
As often these days when I tense, I feel the wordplay coming over me in adrenaline profusion. What dreadful bit will I emit?
‘And I asked Gemma because from what I heard of her she would come.’
Gemma ignores her. She’s seen my trouble. She puts her hand on my shaky wrist, saying one word to me. ‘Triolet.’
To my surprise, Gertrude laughs, ‘never heard that one. But I get what you’re saying, sweetie. He’s yours.’
The Sisters were openmouthed. Their voices blend in a whisper: She laughed.
Nudging together, they inch a step nearer Gemma and me. We might be statues being scrutinized.
Just then a waiter brings in the tea.
I feel for the first time that I am in a room with four women. And that Gemma will handle it. The waiter has brought two tables which he sets up at a distance from one another, one in the center of the room, at which Gertrude immediately sits. The Sisters watch her get to it and into her chair, drawn up by the waiter, who clearly knows this routine. I recall that Gertrude could always impose one. The Sisters watch her until she is safe in the chair, their eyes discreetly averted. They are very good at this covert surveillance. But still I recognize the stance—the way we all look at the sick when we think we are well. I resolve to stare at Gertrude straight on.
Her table has three other chairs. She motions me to sit on her right, Gemma on her left, but I ignore this. I remember that empress motion—and how when Gertrude and I were breaking up I
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