She paused at Room 401. Then she opened the door and stepped inside.
Her mother-in-law lay on the bed, asleep. Her color was better, a bit more pink in the cheeks. And someone had combed her hair and pulled it into a long low braid.
“Birdy?” Claire said softly. “It’s Claire again.”
But she didn’t seem to hear her. A monitor sent lines across a screen, a steady row of ups and downs that reminded Claire of the way she drew waves as a child.
She hesitated. “Something bad happened today, Birdy, and I’ve been thinking about how no one talks about things. Do you know how many people have told me to not think? To move on?”
Claire licked her dry lips.
“I had an accident and the baby died.” Claire nodded, as if validating her own statement. “It was a girl,” she added.
At this, her mother-in-law’s eyes shot open and a look of panic crossed over her.
“Oh, Lotte!” she said, tears falling down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry about Pamela.”
“No, no, it’s me. Claire,” Claire said.
Birdy stared at her hard, then let out a sigh.
“I was confused,” she said, more to herself than to Claire. “For a moment I got confused.”
“That’s all right,” Claire said.
“Someone has died?” she asked. “A child?”
“The baby,” Claire said. “Our baby.”
“Oh, darling,” Birdy said, “how awful. If I weren’t in this bed, I would make you some tea and toast. Or maybe some broth.” She nodded. “I would listen to what you have to say.”
“Yes,” Claire said softly, a feeling of great affection for this woman filling her. “Yes, that’s what I need. Tea and toast and someone to listen to me.”
“We all do, darling,” Birdy said.
12
The Return
VIVIEN, 1919
Vivien returned home, tired and weary, from all the travel and from all the disappointment. She made a cup of Darjeeling tea, the kind that Duncan MacGregor had told her was most restorative. Sipping it, she thought of how David would say that Duncan probably made that up, but if the tea restored her, then that was all right. For the first time in over a dozen years, when she thought of David, he seemed far from her, a long-ago memory. This trip to Denver had almost erased possibility for her. Had almost erased hope.
A knock sounded on her door, soft, almost tentative. Vivien waited. For all these years, she had turned her life over to her clients and their grief. Tonight, she thought, she needed to turn to her own grief.
Another knock, firmer this time.
With a sigh, Vivien stood, smoothed her skirt and patted her hair in place. She imagined a person out there, heartbroken, desperate for someone to listen. Funny, she thought as she went to the door, that described her as well.
The woman standing there looked surprisingly like a younger version of Vivien herself. She had the same dark red hair, but with the glimmer of gold streaks that Vivien had had as a young woman. Her skin was smooth and pale, her lips full and pouty, just as Vivien’s had been before the lines of grief and age had arrived, before her own lips had grown thin and set. Even the woman’s eyes were the same cat-like green of Vivien’s.
“Are you the obituary writer?” the woman said immediately. No hellos or how are yous.
“I am,” Vivien said. She made allowances for bad behavior. Who knew what had brought this woman here to her doorstep?
Vivien stepped aside to let the woman in, but she didn’t move.
“So you’re her,” she said. “The obituary writer.”
Vivien nodded.
“You’re famous, you know,” she said.
“Well,” Vivien said, her cheeks coloring.
It was true that she had gained some fame for her obituaries, but she preferred to stay out of the limelight. Newspapers had offered her money to move—to Chicago or Los Angeles—and be their obituary writer. Collier’s magazine had wanted to interview her, and The Saturday Evening Post had asked if they might run some of her obituaries. But she’d declined all of these offers. She even refused to take an office at the Napa newspaper. She liked to meet people here in her home, to not have to interact with newspapermen and editors.
“No, you are. That’s why I want you to write my husband’s obituary. It has to be perfect. Special,” the woman added.
Vivien nodded. “It will be,” she said. “If I write it, it will be special.”
The woman peered over Vivien’s shoulder, into the parlor.
“Do you want to come inside?” Vivien asked.
The night air was cool, and the woman wore only a thin blouse in the palest green. Celadon. Like Fu Jing’s jade bracelet, the one she never took off.
“What I wonder,” the woman said, “is whether you ever write obituaries for people who are still alive?”
“Alive?” Vivien said.