Page 91 of The Only One Left

We both know I can’t. Lenora’s murdered parents gave it to her more than fifty years ago. And I’m the suspicious bitch who broke it. No wonder she’s furious at me. I’m mad at myself.

For thinking she could possibly be faking her condition. And for being so paranoid that I thought a mostly paralyzed woman could havekilled Mary. And for letting that paranoia destroy what’s likely the last treasured possession she had. Now all I can do is continue to beg for her forgiveness. I even get down on my knees, kneeling in the flecks of gold glitter that remain on the floor. I can’t rid my brain of the heartbroken way Lenora looked as I tried to salvage what was left of the snow globe. It was impossible. The globe itself was nothing but shards, and very little of the Parisian scene inside survived. Even the Eiffel Tower was ruined, having been snapped in two. All that remained was the base. A stump of gold. I had no choice but to sweep up the shattered pieces and drop them into the trash as a single tear leaked from Lenora’s eyes.

“Please, please forgive me,” I said then and say again now.

Finally, Lenora responds.

A single tap against the mattress.

No.

“What can I do to make it up to you? Anything you want, I’ll do it.”

Lenora shifts her gaze to the typewriter on the other side of the room. Now she wants to type. Quickly, I get up and wind a fresh page into the carriage. I bring the typewriter to the bed and place Lenora’s left hand atop the keys.

She presses seven of them.

outside

I stare at the word, surprised. “You want to go outside?”

Lenora raps twice against the typewriter.

“But that’s against the rules.”

Lenora bangs out another word.

so

Even without punctuation, I can tell she means it as a question.

“But you don’t want to go outside.”

i do, Lenora types. Adding,i miss it.

“So you never told Mrs. Baker not to take you outside?”

Lenora balls her hand into a fist before smashing her knuckles against the typewriter, sending up a spray of keys that clatter together,none of them striking the page. Not that they need to. I understand her perfectly.

No.

But there must be a good reason why Mrs. Baker doesn’t want her to go outside. I can think of three off the top of my head: The weather. Lenora’s fragile condition. The sheer hassle of getting a wheelchair-bound woman down the steps.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I say.

Lenora taps yes. No surprise there.

“Mrs. Baker won’t be happy when she sees me trying to do it.”

she cant know

It’s official—this is definitely a bad idea. I’ll get in trouble if Mrs. Baker catches us. Which she will. There’s no way I can bring Lenora down to the first floor and outside without someone noticing. I’m not sure I can even do it at all. Not by myself. And when I get caught, I’ll surely be sent packing, which will lead to being fired by Mr. Gurlain. I pace the room, my stomach clenching at the thought of being forced to return to my father’s house, trapped in that endless cycle of loneliness and silence.

“I can’t,” I tell Lenora. “I’m sorry. It’s too risky.”

She types as I continue to pace. A full sentence banged out as quickly as her one good hand will allow.

ill tell you what happened to the baby

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