“Iexpect better of myself. One of my special talents is paying attention, really listening to how my people are doing. Nora had been a bit out of sorts lately. I should have guessed something like this might happen.”
Jess frowned. “In what way, out of sorts?” This was the first she’d heard of it.
A pause as he considered. “Talking about the past,” he said. “I know that’s not unusual with old folk—some I’ve cared for are living back there—but it wasn’t Nora’s style. She always seemed much younger than she really is. I’d arrive for work, and she’d look at me with those bright clear eyes of hers and start talking to me about the news of the day—Brexit, Trump, climate change, whatever.”
Jess smiled at that.
“Lately, though, she seemed distracted. As if her mind was on other things.”
“What things?”
“Closer to home. She talked a bit about when she was a girl, about her brother and how close they’d been, about how tough it was when he went to war and her parents were traveling and she was here all by herself, how excited she was when he came back. And just this week, I went to fetch her from the garden seat and she had a worried look on her face, almost defensive, and when she saw me, she said, ‘I’m not going to let him take my baby.’”
“Which baby? Polly?”
“I don’t know, and I might’ve misheard, because when I asked her to repeat it, she looked at me as ifI’dsaid something strange, and then just smiled and said we should be getting inside.”
“Thatisodd. Has she said anything else along those lines?”
“Just a lot of talk about the old days. I mean, it’s not as if she’s never mentioned the past before, but Nora doesn’t usually dwell.”
“No.”
“She’d become a bit secretive, too. A couple of times she was reading in that chair of hers in the library, the one in the bay window—”
Jess glanced at the wingback, picturing Nora.
“—and when I came near to bring her a cup of tea, she quickly pulled the book against her, as if she didn’t want me to see it. Iknocked it off the table the other day by accident when I was clearing away her teacup, and it was just an old detective novel.”
“Why would she care if you saw that?”
“No clue. That’s what made it so weird.”
“And what about the attic stairs—any idea what she might have been doing up there?”
“I’m sorry, Jess. I only wish she’d told me. I’d have happily gone up for her if there was something she wanted.”
Jess ended the call, promising to update Patrick when she’d seen Nora. As she left the library, she considered what he’d said. He was right. Nora must have known that he’d have willingly retrieved anything she needed from the attic, and yet she hadn’t asked.
The whole thing felt off, but by the time Jess reached her bedroom she’d decided she was creating mysteries where there were only gaps in her knowledge. She didn’t need to guess at her grandmother’s behavior, after all—as soon as she saw Nora, she would simply ask her what on earth she’d been thinking.
There were other priorities right now: true to her word, Mrs. Robinson had made up Jess’s bed, and the crisp sheets, with their neat folds, were enough to make her swoon. She found her toiletry bag within the suitcase and went to have a shower. Hot water on her skin, the lemon myrtle smell of soap, shampoo in her hair, and, at last, some clarity of mind.
8
It was half past one by the time Jess arrived at the hospital in Darlinghurst. She was eager to see Nora, and rushing, and when she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a dark glass window, she was taken aback. Despite the hot shower and the fresh set of clothes, she appeared tired beyond the ability of a good night’s sleep to fix. With a jolt, she realized she resembled Polly when she was worrying over something.
“I’m here to see Nora Turner-Bridges,” she told the woman on the front desk, who typed something into her computer and then directed Jess down a corridor: “Ask again at the intensive care desk. They’ll give you her room number.”
Intensive care was a surprise; Jess had presumed Nora would be in an ordinary ward.
The IC nurse looked at Jess with a pleasant, distant smile when she gave her grandmother’s name. “Are you a relative?” she asked.
“I’m her granddaughter, Jessica Turner-Bridges.”
“You’ll find your grandmother in room nineteen, halfway down the corridor on the left. Don’t be concerned by the heart monitor—some people find it a bit confronting, but it’s just so we can keep a close eye on her.”
“I didn’t expect she’d be in the ICU,” Jess said.
