“Then you understand why I have a right to know.”
“No,” she said softly. “I understand why you want to know.”
There was a difference.
I didn’t like it.
“What are you protecting?”
“My mother.”
“She’s dead.”
The instant I said it, I regretted it.
Clara flinched.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“I know,” she replied.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
She adjusted one of the flowers.
It was the first apology I had made to an employee in years.
Maybe ever.
“I’ll show you some of them,” she said.
“Some?”
“The ones about you.”
My chest tightened.
“There are letters about me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Mostly when you were young.”
I had no answer.
Clara lifted the vase and walked away.
That evening, Mother refused dinner.
Her nurse informed me that nausea had returned.
I stood outside her room longer than necessary before entering.
