Nelson DeMille - The Gate House

“She is, however, lucid now, and all her mental faculties are intact.”

“Good.”

“Her pain is tolerable and manageable.”

“That’s good.” I had the feeling I was supposed to be asking questions to elicit these statements, so I asked, “How are her spirits?”

“Remarkably good.”

“Many visitors?”

“A few. Including your mother and your wife.”

“My ex-wife.” I inquired, “They’re not here now, are they?”

“No.” She glanced at my gift and said, “She’s going to love that Teddy bear.”

Mrs. Knight stopped at a door and said to me, “I’ll go inside and tell her you’re here.” She added, “It’s very good of you to come all the way from London to see her.”

“Yes, well… she’s a wonderful lady.”

“Indeed, she is.”

I wondered if there was another Ethel Allard here.

Mrs. Knight was about to open the door, but I asked, “How long…? I mean-”

“Oh, I’d say about half an hour at most.”

“Half an hour?”

“Yes, then she gets tired.”

“Oh. No, I meant-”

“I’ll stick my head in every ten minutes.”

“Right. What I meant… I’ll be in town for only a few more weeks, and I wondered if I’d have the opportunity to see her again.” Mrs. Knight was either not following me, or didn’t want to address the subject, so I asked bluntly, “How long does she have left to live?”

“Oh… well, we never speculate on that, but I’d say the end is near.”

“How near? Two weeks?”

“Maybe longer.” She informed me, “Ethel is a fighter.”

“Three?”

“Mr. Sutter. I can’t-”

“Right. I had an aunt once who-”

“You have no idea what I’ve seen here. Death is the great mystery of life, and so much depends on attitude and prayer.”

“Right. I believe that. I’ve been praying for her.” I need her house.

Mrs. Knight 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.

It 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.

On the sky blue wall facing the bed was a television, and sitting on the tile floor, near the window, were a few floral arrangements and a small potted Norfolk pine.

All in all, not a bad anteroom to the Great Beyond.

Ethel was sitting up in bed, staring at the opposite wall, and didn’t seem to notice me. I moved to her bedside and said, “Hello, Ethel.”

She turned her head toward me and, without a smile, replied, “Hello, Mr. Sutter.” I recalled that Ethel reserved her smiles for when she had the opportunity to correct you on something.

I said to her, “Please call me John.”

She didn’t respond to that, and said, in a clear voice, “Thank you for coming,” then asked, “Are you looking after my house?”

“I am.” I asked her, “How are you feeling?”

“All right today.”

“Good… you look good.” In fact, in the full sunlight streaming over her, she looked ashen and emaciated, but there was still some life in her eyes. I noticed, too, a touch of rouge on her gray cheeks.

I hadn’t seen her in years, but we’d communicated by letter when necessary, and she’d been good at forwarding my occasional mail to me every few months. And, of course, we exchanged Christmas cards.

She asked me, “Have you tended to my garden?”

“Of course,” I lied.

“I never let you or George in my garden,” she reminded me. “Neither of you knew what you were doing.”

“Right. But I’ve learned to garden in England.”

“Nonsense.”

“Well… right.”

She said to me, “You’ve been back for over a week.”

“Right…” I explained, “I would have come sooner, but I thought you might be coming home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Don’t-”

“Why don’t you sit? You’re making me nervous standing there.”

I sat in the armchair beside her bed and handed her the Teddy bear. “I brought this for you.”

She took it, looked at it, made a face, then set it beside her. I guess she didn’t love it after all.

I was batting about zero for three or something, so I picked another subject and asked her, “How are they treating you here?”

“All right.”

“Is there anything I can see to?”

“No.”

“Well, if you think of anything-”

“What is the purpose of your return from London, Mr. Sutter?”

“John.”

“Mr. Sutter. Why have you returned?”

Well, Ethel, I need to get my things out of your house before you die and the Iranian guy changes the locks.

“Mr. Sutter?”

“Well, I came to see you, of course.” This sounded a bit insincere, so I added, “Also, I have some business in New York, and I thought this might be a good time to recover some of my personal effects from the gatehouse.”

“You’d better hurry. That Iranian man won’t let you stay. Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“You should speak to him. My life tenancy allows for a reasonable amount of time to have my property removed.” She asked, rhetorically, “But who knows what he considers reasonable.”

“Let me worry about that, if the time comes.”

“Augustus should have been more specific.”

Well, not too specific, Ethel. I’d actually seen the document in question, and it names both George and Ethel, of course, and mentions their loyal and faithful service over the years. George was certainly loyal and faithful, and Ethel was… well, apparently a good lay. I often wondered if George understood the reason for Augustus’ generosity. Anyway, I said to Ethel, “It’s premature to-”