"I could read to you."
"No. Thank you. Feel sleepy."
He shut his eyes. Soon his breathing deepened.
I tiptoed over to the window and looked out, parting the curtains carefully so the light didn't disturb Papa.
Morning had come to the street. Over the way, the maid was scrubbing the step, her back bobbing up and down with her energetic strokes. A delivery boy with a basket slung over his arm went whistling round the corner. I felt cut off from them by more than a pane of glass.
This had been going on so long.
I wanted it to end. I dreaded it ending.
The door opened and Mamma came in. Her face was even paler than usual, the hollows beneath her eyes darker.
"How is he?"
"Much calmer now." We kept our voices low and both glanced towards the bed. Papa stirred but didn't wake.
Mamma was still carrying a handkerchief and I wondered if she'd been crying again. She started twisting it as if she'd forgotten she was holding it. "Do you think we should send for Tom today?"
She'd asked me this every morning since the doctor had pronounced the word. My reply was the same as usual. "No, Mamma. You know the doctor said it wouldn't be wise because of the danger of infection. And Papa specifically said we were not to send for Tom or Aunt Phyllis. Besides, it may not be necessary."
Mamma seemed to seize on my words gratefully. "Yes, of course, you're right. We'll wait." Then she stood still, as if at a loss as to what to do next.
Mamma, who'd always seemed so firm, so clear, now seemed to be softening and blurring ... like a melting candle. She even seemed to be smaller than before, as if she was shrinking.
"Why don't you try to rest?" I suggested. "I can sit with Papa."
She came to then. Drawing herself upright, she said, "I must see to my chores."
She went out of the room leaving me to watch the rise and fall of Papa's breath.
***
A few days later, after examining Papa, Doctor Kneale touched me on the shoulder and said gently, "I think you should send for your brother now."
I looked at him, not understanding. "But Papa is better, isn't he? He's been so much quieter the last day or two."
The doctor shook his head. "I fear he is sinking."
He went out and I heard him call for Mary. They spoke quietly at the door. All the time I sat there feeling numb.
Then Mary came in. "The doctor says you want me to send a telegram, Miss Louisa." Her eyes glistened as if she were holding back tears.
I roused myself. "Yes, to Tom."
"What shall I say?"
"Say, You must come now."
***
Mamma and I sat there through the evening, not speaking. There was nothing to say.
I didn't want this quiet dream to end. Papa was still here, that was the main thing. I held his hand and stroked it. He was breathing rapidly and there was a dusky tinge to his face but otherwise he lay peacefully.
At one point Mamma went out to fetch some fresh water and while she was gone, Papa opened his eyes and seemed to be listening.
"What is it, Papa?"
He spoke but his voice was a croak.
I bent towards him.
"Birds," he said. "I can hear birds."
He turned his head and looked directly at me. "Lou?"
"Yes, Papa?"
Speaking with great effort he said, "You'll make a fine doctor. God bless, my darling." Then his voice sank to a whisper. "Fetch Mamma."
Fierce wings beat about my heart.
He mustn't go. He couldn't.
Tears blurring my eyes, I stumbled to the door and opening it, called out, "Mamma, come quickly."
My voice seemed insubstantial, as if the dark shadows were swallowing it.
***
So. He had gone.
In a state of dreary blankness I did what had to be done. Mary and I drew down the blinds, silenced the clocks, covered the mirrors. I helped Mamma order our mourning clothes and write to those who needed to know. All the time I felt cut off, as if I was under a glass dome. Mamma's anguish, Tom's anger because he had come too late and he blamed me—none of it reached me.
Sometimes I sat with the body, watching the shadows cast by the candle light flicker over the waxen face. This wasn't Papa anymore. He had gone. But even so, when they came to make a plaster cast of his face, I couldn't stay but went and sat in his study. I clasped the cushion that still smelt of him. But I didn't cry.
The undertaker's men brought the coffin downstairs to the dining room and laid it on the table. I couldn't help thinking of Papa carving the Sunday joint and my heart missed a beat. But still I didn't cry.
When it was my turn to say goodbye, I looked down at the face, which wasn't Papa's face any more, just a mask. I knew I should be feeling something. But I was numb.
Sitting with all the other women in the parlour, Grace beside me, I was all right until I heard the death knell. I knew then that the body had been brought to the grave and I imagined Papa being lowered into the cold earth.
He doesn't feel it, I told myself, but still I shivered.
***