CHAPTER 60
Evelyn
I have been preparing for this day for nearly a week. Since the evening I told Maggie that she had to ask Jamie about those letters, I’ve known I would have to be equally honest with Ursula. Maggie told me she had spilled her question to Jamie in a moment of anxiousness, and while she had gotten the most tender of answers, I could not spill anything to Ursula in a likewise kind of temperament. I had to formulate what I was going to say, how I was going to say it, and how I would respond to every possible kind of reaction from Ursula, including no response at all. Maggie hadn’t prepared herself for what Jamie would tell her about those letters. I can see that she’s confused about her feelings for Palmer now that Jamie has come home, and especially so since learning the reason he kept them. She hadn’t contemplated the response she would get or what it might mean for her future with Palmer. I couldn’t be as unprepared when I met with Ursula.
I told Dr. Bellfield that I had decided I was going to do it his way—lay it all on the table, so to speak—but that I wanted a couple days to study case files and practice what I would say to Ursula to get her toopen up to me. I think he’s grown tired of my little crusade and he waved me off to indulge in whatever approach I wanted, reminding me, though, that I have other patients.
But I am ready now. The time is right and I’m well-prepared. Today’s the day.
•••
I take Ursula’s pencil box, wrap it in a cloth napkin I took from the dining room, and head to the solarium, where many of the patients spend the afternoon now that the weather has turned.
When I step inside, I see Ursula in her usual corner by the window. Conrad Reese is also there, sitting by Sybil in the opposite corner. He appears to be reading to her. He nods hello to me and I return the silent greeting. I make my way to my patient, hoping that I’ve chosen wisely to produce the pencil box when she’s in the solarium with other people about.
I take the chair next to her, glad that no other patient is too close by. She is alone in her corner. We have a measure of privacy.
“Hello, Ursula.”
She looks up at me. “Hello.”
“How are you feeling today?”
She lifts and lowers her shoulders. “I don’t know. All right, I suppose.”
I clear my throat and position the fabric-covered box on my lap so that it is easy to reveal. “I need to ask you something, Ursula. It’s actually fairly important.”
Her gaze registers interest.
“I need to ask for your trust. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I am asking you to trust me.”
“Trust you for what?” Her tone suggests maybe she has had bad luck trusting people.
“That my sole desire and aim is for you to be well and happy.”
“I guess,” she says, sounding dubious.
I reach out to squeeze her hand in gratitude. I want her to think of it as a handshake—like we’ve agreed on this. She doesn’t flinch, but neither does she show any signs that she and I have struck a deal.
I take back my hand. “I need to show you something.” I peel back the napkin from around the pencil box.
Her eyes widen only slightly. “Who gave that to you?”
“Your roommate, Matilda, happened to know you kept it hidden in your room. She showed it to me.”
Ursula blinks languidly as she stares at the box, and then she turns her gaze back to the window. “I don’t care that she did. I don’t need it anymore. I don’t need anything inside it. She can have it if she wants.”
I steel myself for what I will say next and for whatever Ursula will say or do. “Ursula, I spoke to Rita Dabney at the hotel. She told me what happened. I know about your baby brother. I know you think it’s your fault he died.”
Ursula doesn’t move. She swallows with effort and then two tears track down her face like silver strands of light. “Itismy fault.”
“You were ill. You had the flu and were delirious with fever. It wasn’t your fault.”
She shakes her head and more tears fall. “You weren’t there.”
“It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t there. The facts are the facts regardless. Your mother had just died, Ursula. I know you loved her. I saw the photo of you and her in this box. I saw the list of hers that you saved. The necklace. She had just died, and you were very sick with the same thing that killed her. And maybe Leo was sick with it, too. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe you took him to the river because it was just too sad to see his dead body alongside your mother’s. And then your mind created the angel and the brown boat so that you could imagine him safely traveling to heaven.”
“He wasn’t dead,” she whispers, the tears suddenly falling freely. “He was alive.”
