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The Gate House :: Demille Nelson
Страница: 45 из 490Knight looked at me and delivered what I guessed was a well-rehearsed piece of wisdom, saying, “It’s natural for us to want to hold on to our loved ones as long as possible. But that’s selfish. Ethel has made peace with her condition, and she’s ready to let go.”
That sounded like one week, and I might need two more weeks in the gatehouse. I’d been encouraged by Mrs. Knight’s assertion that Ethel was a fighter, which seemed now to contradict this report that Ethel was ready to let go. Rather than ask for a clarification, I tried a new tack and said, “I’m also her attorney – in addition to being her friend – and there is some paperwork to be drawn up and signed, so perhaps I should speak to her doctor about her… remaining time.”
She nodded and said, “Her attending physician here is Dr. Jake Watral.”
“Thank you.” Maybe the key to my continued stay in the gatehouse was less in the hands of God or Dr. Watral and more in the hands of Amir Nasim, whom I should have called when I got here. Which prompted me to ask Mrs. Knight, “Has a Mr. Amir Nasim called on Mrs. Allard? Or phoned?”
She shook her head and replied, “I’m not familiar with that name.” Mrs. Knight seemed anxious to move on, so she said, “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
She disappeared inside room six long enough for me to have a little guilt pang about my motives in wanting Ethel to keep fighting. I mean, putting aside my housing problem, Ethel’s pain was under control, she was lucid, she had visitors, and she did have some paperwork to sign – so why shouldn’t she hang in there? That’s what her daughter, Elizabeth, would want her to do.
Mrs. Knight reappeared and said to me, “She’s waiting for you.”
I moved toward the door, then turned back to Diane Knight and said to her, “You are a saint to work here.”
A sweet, embarrassed smile passed quickly over her stern lips, and she turned and walked away.
I entered Ethel’s room and gently pulled the door closed behind me.
God, how I hate deathbeds.
CHAPTER NINE
I t was a west-facing room, and the sun came in through the single window, casting a shaft of light across the white sheets of Ethel’s bed.
The room was small, probably once a guest room or a servant’s room, and it was furnished with two institutional nightstands, on one of which sat a monitor, and on the other a Bible. There were two faux-leather armchairs and a rolling tray near the bed. From an I.V. stand hung three plastic bags connected by tubes to Ethel.
That sounded like one week, and I might need two more weeks in the gatehouse. I’d been encouraged by Mrs. Knight’s assertion that Ethel was a fighter, which seemed now to contradict this report that Ethel was ready to let go. Rather than ask for a clarification, I tried a new tack and said, “I’m also her attorney – in addition to being her friend – and there is some paperwork to be drawn up and signed, so perhaps I should speak to her doctor about her… remaining time.”
She nodded and said, “Her attending physician here is Dr. Jake Watral.”
“Thank you.” Maybe the key to my continued stay in the gatehouse was less in the hands of God or Dr. Watral and more in the hands of Amir Nasim, whom I should have called when I got here. Which prompted me to ask Mrs. Knight, “Has a Mr. Amir Nasim called on Mrs. Allard? Or phoned?”
She shook her head and replied, “I’m not familiar with that name.” Mrs. Knight seemed anxious to move on, so she said, “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you.”
She disappeared inside room six long enough for me to have a little guilt pang about my motives in wanting Ethel to keep fighting. I mean, putting aside my housing problem, Ethel’s pain was under control, she was lucid, she had visitors, and she did have some paperwork to sign – so why shouldn’t she hang in there? That’s what her daughter, Elizabeth, would want her to do.
Mrs. Knight reappeared and said to me, “She’s waiting for you.”
I moved toward the door, then turned back to Diane Knight and said to her, “You are a saint to work here.”
A sweet, embarrassed smile passed quickly over her stern lips, and she turned and walked away.
I entered Ethel’s room and gently pulled the door closed behind me.
God, how I hate deathbeds.
CHAPTER NINE
I t was a west-facing room, and the sun came in through the single window, casting a shaft of light across the white sheets of Ethel’s bed.
The room was small, probably once a guest room or a servant’s room, and it was furnished with two institutional nightstands, on one of which sat a monitor, and on the other a Bible. There were two faux-leather armchairs and a rolling tray near the bed. From an I.V. stand hung three plastic bags connected by tubes to Ethel.