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“What... what is it?” Ellen asked hesitantly. “Does she have the influenza?”
Hamish shook his head. “If only. Although that kills off people too, I suppose. No, she’s had stomach pains—for months, she says now, though she n
ever did tell anybody. The doctor said it’s a cancer, eating away at her insides. He doesn’t think she’ll last very long, another week or two at most. That’s why I sent for you... I knew you’d want to pay your respects. And I didn’t know what else to do.”
Ellen could only nod, one hand reaching for the table for balance. Even in her worst imaginings she hadn’t dreamed of anything quite so dire. Aunt Ruth on her deathbed. It seemed impossible, and Ellen realized that the emotion flooding through her was sorrow. Grief, deep and real and overwhelming. She swallowed, her throat tight and aching.
“I’ll go see her.”
Ellen climbed the stairs, noting the layer of dust on the banister Ruth normally kept polished and shining. The house seemed so still, so lifeless, as if the heart of it had gone already.
She went to the front bedroom, a room she’d only entered once or twice, and knocked on the door. There was no answer.
Hesitantly, Ellen pushed it open. She saw Ruth inside, lying in bed. Her hair was unbound and had turned nearly all white. She’d lost a great deal of weight, and the skin seemed drawn tightly over the sharp bones of her face. One claw-like hand rested on her middle, and even in sleep her breath came in awful, labored gasps.
Ellen pressed one hand to her mouth, truly shocked by the sight of her aunt. Gone was the strong, robust woman she’d both feared and respected. All that was left was a pale, gaunt shadow lingering between this world and the next.
“Aunt Ruth?” Ellen whispered, her voice scratchy. After a moment, her aunt’s eyes fluttered open. The color seemed to have drained out of them. It took Ruth a moment to focus on Ellen, and when she did she smiled faintly, her breath a rattle in her chest. “It’s Ellen,” she said softly. “May I come in?”
Aunt Ruth nodded. “It’s good to see you, child,” she said, each word a long, drawn-out rasp. “I was hoping you’d come.”
As if there had been doubt that she would. And why wouldn’t there, Ellen realized with a sudden surge of self-recrimination. She’d never really wanted to be in Seaton, and her aunt and uncle must have always known that. Hesitantly she went to the side of bed. She’d had experience of many sickrooms in her year at KGH. She’d seen people die, had closed their eyes and dressed them for burial. On more than one occasion she’d wheeled a corpse on a gurney down to the morgue in the basement. She’d held a dying child in her arms, and felt grief pour over in a scalding rush.
Yet none of that prepared her for this moment. Looking into Ruth’s faded eyes, seeing the stern lines and angles of her face both softened and clarified in illness, being the subject of her wispy smile, brought Ellen right back to the coal dust and smoke of the kitchen in Springburn, her mother’s frail hand grasping her own. She remembered the confusing rush of despair and love and she gave a tiny choked cry, her throat thick with tears.
Ruth reached for her hand, her grasp so weak Ellen barely felt the brush of those bony fingers against her own. “I’m glad you’ve come, Ellen. It was good of you, considering.”
“Of course I would,” Ellen said, her voice coming out choked. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“Never mind that.” Ruth’s eyes fluttered closed then struggled open again. “I wasn’t going to send for you,” she said after a moment, each word labored and slow. “Hamish said to, but I told him it wasn’t right.”
“I’m glad he sent for me, Aunt Ruth,” Ellen said. “I want to be here.”
Ruth shook her head, barely a movement against her pillow. “Why should you waste your summer in a sickroom? You’ve spent enough time there.”
Ellen brushed at her eyes. “I don’t mind.”
Another shake of her head, and Ruth’s eyes fluttered. Just these few moments of conversation clearly exhausted her. She looked at Ellen with pain-clouded eyes that still saw all too much. “It isn’t right. What am I to you, after all?”
The words echoed in the still room, in Ellen’s still heart. Yet she couldn’t respond; even if she’d known what to say, Ruth had already fallen back asleep.
The question kept up a haunting refrain in Ellen’s mind as she went back downstairs. She busied herself with chores, tidying the kitchen and parlor, making supper. Within a few hours, the shell of a house seemed like a home again, if only in the trivialities of a lighted stove and a meal on the table.
What am I to you?
Ellen closed her eyes briefly as she saw Ruth’s sadly knowing look. It hurt her to think that Ruth wouldn’t expect her to come, perhaps wouldn’t even want her to come. Admittedly, Ellen had fled Seaton before for the comforts of Amherst Island and life with the McCaffertys... her own palpable relief at leaving Seaton time and time again both humbled and shamed her now. Ruth had obviously known how she felt, but then hadn’t Ruth been relieved too? What was she to Ruth?
Still, the Copleys had sheltered her when her own father had chosen a different path, a life apart. They’d fed her, clothed her, offered her opportunity, even if it had been without affection. Without love.
Had it?
What am I to you?
They were questions, Ellen realized painfully, she could not truly answer.
That evening Ellen pulled the overflowing mending basket towards her while Hamish sat in his favorite chair in the parlor, staring into the empty grate. The air was hot and stuffy, but Hamish didn’t want to open the windows that faced the street. He’d drawn the curtains so even a breath of air or fading sunbeam couldn’t penetrate the muggy dimness of the sitting room.
“How long has she been like this?” Ellen asked quietly, and he shrugged.
