Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout [73]
Now his handsome hand was the hand of a man half-dead. He had dreaded this, as all people did. Why it should have been his fate, and not (for example) Louise Larkin’s, was anyone’s guess. The doctor’s guess was that Henry should have been on Lipitor or some other statin, since his cholesterol had been a little high. Henry had been one of those pharmacists, though, who seldom took a pill. And Olive’s feeling about the doctor was simple: He could go to hell. She waited now, until Henry woke up, so he wouldn’t wonder where she was. When she tried to wash him, get him dressed with the help of the aide, he was groggy and heavy and kept falling back asleep. The aide said, “Maybe we should let him rest for a bit.”
Olive whispered to Henry, “I’ll be back this afternoon.”
No one answered the telephone when she called Bunny. She called Christopher—with the time difference, he’d be getting ready for work.
“Is he okay?” Christopher asked immediately.
“He had a bad night. I’ll go back up in a while. But Chris, I saw Louise Larkin this morning.”
He made no response the whole time she talked. She could hear an urgency in her voice, something desperate, or defensive. “The crazy creature suggested I cut my wrists,” Olive said. “Can you imagine that? And then said, well, maybe that would take too long.”
Christopher remained silent, even when she finished with the smashed teacup, and the name-calling “Bitch.” (She could not bring herself to say the word cunt.) “Are you there?” she asked, sharply.
“I can’t imagine why you went to see her,” Chris finally said, as though accusing her of something. “After all these years. You never even liked her.”
“She sent that note,” Olive said. “She was reaching out.”
“So what,” said Christopher. “You couldn’t drag me in there to save my life.”
“It would hardly save your life. She’s all ready to stab someone herself. And she said she knows you’ve only come back here once.”
“How would she know that? I think she’s cracked.”
“She is cracked. Haven’t you been listening? But I think she knows that from Mary Blackwell; apparently they’re in touch.”
Christopher yawned. “I have to get into the shower, Mom. Just let me know if Daddy’s all right.”
As she drove to the nursing home, a light rain dropped onto the car, and onto the road before her. The sky was gray and low. She felt an upset different from the times before. It stemmed from Christopher, yes. But she seemed caught between the pincers of some intractable remorse. A personal, deep embarrassment flushed through her, as though she had been caught in the act of shoplifting, which she had never done. It was shame that swiped across her soul, like these windshield wipers before her: two large black long fingers, relentless and rhythmic in their chastisement.
Pulling into the parking lot of the nursing home, she turned the car too sharply and came close to hitting a car pulling in beside her. She backed up, pulled in again, leaving more space, but she was unsettled by how close she had come to hitting the car. She took her big handbag, made sure to put her keys where she could find them, and stepped out. The woman—she was ahead of Olive—started to turn toward her, and in less than a few seconds a strange thing happened. Olive said, “I’m awfully sorry about that, my gosh,” just as the woman said, “Oh, that’s all right,” with a kindness that Olive felt was providential in its spontaneous generosity. The woman was Mary Blackwell. And the moment occurred so suddenly, that neither woman seemed to know at first who the other was. But there they were, Olive Kitteridge apologizing to Mary Blackwell, and Mary’s face kind, gentle, absolutely forgiving.
“I just didn’t see you there, with this rain, I guess,” Olive said.
“Oh, I know. It can be bad, this kind of day—twilight before it even gets going.”
Mary held the door open for her, and Olive passed in front of her. “Thank you,” Olive said. Just to make sure, she glanced at Mary, and the woman’s face was tired and noncombative, the remains of sympathy still there. It was like a sheet of paper