Elena. Part 52

"Yes," she said, but then she s.h.i.+vered. "I am a little cold."

I brought a large blanket from the bedroom and wrapped her in it very snugly.

"Better now?" I asked.

"Much better," Elena said. She offered me a smile. "Would you mind reading to me awhile?"

I took the copy of What Maisie Knew from the table beside her chair and began to read. It was a typical Jamesian scene, so English, and in this case not at all compelling. I kept looking up over the page to see my sister, wrapped in her blanket, her eyes half-closed, and after a moment I found that I could not go on, that my voice was breaking almost with each word.

Elena's eyes s.h.i.+fted slowly toward me, but she said nothing.

"I can't, Elena," I stammered, "I can't."

"Then don't, William," she whispered.

Suddenly I rushed forward and gathered her into my arms. I began to cry, and as I did so, I could feel something shudder in her body. I buried my face into her shoulder, still crying, though almost silently. After a moment, I felt the warmth of her breath upon the side of my face and realized that with great effort she had lifted her head far enough to press her lips into my hair.

The sky was no more overcast than is usual on the Cape in the last days of September. The sea was neither unnaturally calm nor excessively agitated, the wind neither bl.u.s.tery nor subdued. Elena had been sitting in her chair all morning, dressed in her blue robe, her long white hair flowing over her shoulders. She watched the sea, following any movement, a boat or a gull. She had spoken only a few words the entire morning.

Toward noon I carried in a tray with tea and toast, which was about all Elena was able to eat.

"Some refreshment?" I said lightly.

Elena glanced at the tray, then up at me, her eyes barely open, languid, "It will not be long now, will it?" she asked.

"No, Elena, I don't think it will be long."

She turned back toward the window, "I feel cold."

"Would you like a warm drink? Another blanket?"

She smiled softly and closed her eyes.

"You might even like a warm bath," I said.

She said nothing. Her eyes remained closed. I could hear a low murmur in her breath, almost a purr.

"Should I read to you?"

Elena's eyelids fluttered, but she said nothing.

I placed the tray on the table beside her chair and knelt down beside her. "Elena?"

She did not answer. Her face was quiet, calm. She seemed but the residue of an elemental force.

"Elena?"

Nothing.

"Elena?" I repeated. I could hear the edge of panic in my voice. "Elena?"

Her eyes opened very slowly. "Still here," she said very weakly, then she closed them once again.

"Is there anything you want?" I asked desperately. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

She did not answer, nor did her eyes flutter in response. She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Her breathing continued rhythmically. I listened to it for a while, waiting for it to stop. After a time I walked back into the front room and sat down. I could see her sitting in her chair, her hair like a silver fan across her shoulders.

For the next two hours, I made myself busy about the house. I washed things that did not need was.h.i.+ng, swept corners already neatly swept. I did not want to go back in that room, fearing the worst, but I did so every few minutes.

She was breathing quite well at three o'clock. The clouds had cleared an hour before, and a slant of sunlight cut across the western corner of the room. It seemed like an impertinence.

I pulled up a small chair and sat down beside her. Then I reached over and took her hand.

"Elena?"

She did not answer. I did not bother to call her name again. She was breathing steadily, but in quick, shallow breaths. I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands in my lap, and waited. A few minutes later, I heard her take in a very deep breath, then the fingers of her hand unfolded and stretched out, as if in search of some final truth. She held her breath a moment, then released it with a sudden rush. She did not draw another.

I sat beside her, studying her face. I thought of various ways that I might describe it in a memoir or to the press. Exalted phrases came to mind, but I remembered that, toward the end, Elena had tried as much as possible to leave mere rhetoric behind.

I lifted her from the chair and brought her over to the day bed. I laid her down on her back, placed her arms at her sides, spread her hair over her pillow, and closed the robe around her throat.

There was still enough light for me to take a short stroll on the beach, so I walked down the stairs and turned right, heading slowly toward the jetty. It was very calm, and I was able to walk out onto the rocks. The water lapped softly at the stones beneath my feet.

At the end of the jetty, the water swirled in a white froth, moving in and out of the crevices like breath. I looked back toward the house, and from that distance I could see her chair sitting by the window, empty now. It seemed very small, and suddenly I remembered that first morning so long ago when they had brought her home, wrapped in a pink blanket, a child no larger than a rolled-up newspaper. I remembered how my father had lifted me into his arms so that I could look down at my sister. They are strange, our first impressions, but they are not as powerful as the last. And in the time that is left to me, I shall continually recall how very large she was.

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