Page 20 of The Only One Left
I try to summon that same illusion of fearlessness now as I approach Lenora, leaning slightly to counterbalance the tilted floor. I check the Walkman in her lap. The cassette inside no longer turns, having come to the end an unknown number of minutes ago. I gingerly remove the headphones from her ears and set them on the sideboard with the Walkman. It prompts an annoyed look from Lenora.
“Sorry,” I say. “Now that it’s just us, I thought we should—Ishould—talk. Let you get to know me better.”
I take a seat on the divan and face Lenora, whose gaze drifts a bit before those green eyes zero in on me once again. In addition to being unnervingly bright, her eyes are subtly expressive. A byproduct of not being able to speak. Lenora’s eyes must do all the work. Right now, they flicker with wariness and a wee bit of indecision. As if she doesn’t quite know what to make of me.
Likewise, Lenora. Likewise.
“So, Miss Hope—”
I stop, hating the way it sounds. It’s too formal, no matter what Mrs. Baker says. Besides, I’ve always found that addressing a person by their first name makes them seem less intimidating. Which is likely why Mrs. Baker never shared hers. It was a power move. Since Miss Hope is intimidating enough without the formality, I make the split-second decision to use her first name when Mrs. Baker isn’t around.
“So, Lenora,” I begin again. “As I said earlier, my name is Kit. And I’m here to help you with anything you need.”
Which is everything.
Another daunting realization.
All my previous patients could feed themselves or walk with assistance. And all of them could speak, letting me know what they needed and when. All Lenora can do is use her left arm, and I have no idea if that goes beyond her being able to press a red button.
“Let’s start by testing that communication system Mrs. Baker told me about,” I say. “You can do it, right?”
Lenora curls the fingers of her left hand inward, forming a loose fist. She then drops her knuckles against the armrest of her wheelchair once, twice. That’s a yes.
“Awesome,” I say. “Now let’s see what kind of shape you’re in.”
I fetch my medical bag and do a routine check of Lenora’s vitals. Her blood pressure is a little high, but not worrisomely so, and her pulse is normal for a woman her age and in her condition. When I testher reflexes, all of Lenora’s limbs react in some capacity. Normal for both her right arm—paralysis doesn’t mean the body can’t react—and her legs, which are too weakened by polio to use. As for her left arm, it responds exactly the way the working arm of someone in their seventies should.
The only cause for minor concern is a faded bruise on the inside of Lenora’s forearm. It’s small—just a smudge of purple surrounded by yellow—and seems to be healing correctly.
“What happened here?” I say. “Did you bump into something?”
Lenora taps twice. Another yes.
“Does it hurt?”
A single tap this time. No.
“Let me know if it does. Now, let’s see what else this arm can do.” I clasp Lenora’s left hand. It’s cold and pale. Practically translucent. A road map of veins runs just beneath the papery skin. “Move it for me, please.”
Lenora’s fingers wiggle in my hands.
“Good. Now make a fist. As tight as you can.”
Her nails scritch against my palm as her hand curls into a fist tighter than the one she made to tap on the armrest.
“Not bad,” I say. “Let’s see how much that hand can hold.”
I grab a pill bottle from the tray on the nightstand and place it in Lenora’s open palm. She wraps her fingers around the bottle, keeping her grasp steady.
“Very good,” I say as I return the pill bottle to the tray.
Searching the room for another object to use, I spot a snow globe atop the sideboard. Roughly the size of a tennis ball, it’s clearly old. The globe is glass, not plastic, and inside is a hand-painted scene of Paris, including a tiny Eiffel Tower rising to the top of the dome. I give the snow globe a shake. Any liquid that had once been there is long gone, leaving the gold flakes inside to dryly tumble like reused confetti.
I put the snow globe in Lenora’s left hand. Though small, it’s heavy, and her hand trembles under its weight. A noise leaves her throat. Atiny, tortured croak that makes me immediately take the snow globe as Lenora’s hand drops back onto the armrest. She frowns, looking disappointed that she failed.
“It’s okay. You tried your best.” I put the snow globe back on the sideboard, the motion setting off another glittery plume. Back at Lenora’s side, I take her hand. Under her skin, the veins pulse slightly. “Have you ever been to Paris?”
Lenora curls her hand into a loose fist and gives my palm a single, sad tap.
