Thomas’s expression softened.
“Because you mattered to her.”
My throat tightened.
I had not expected that answer.
He continued.
“She wrote about you often.”
“Why?”
“She said you were the reason she stayed in nursing.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Her first year was difficult.”
I remembered.
Rose had almost quit after a child died.
She cried in the linen room.
I sat beside her for forty minutes.
At the time, it felt like nothing.
Apparently our lives are full of moments we misclassify.
Thomas reached for another photograph.
Rose in a nursing uniform.
Older.
Beside a plaque.
THE MARGARET ELLIS FAMILY SUPPORT ROOM.
I stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A family room at St. Catherine’s.”
“No.”
“It was renamed about twenty years ago.”
“No one told me.”
“They tried.”
Of course.
I covered my face.
Ellie climbed down from her chair and came beside me.
“Grandma?”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know.”
“Happy crying?”
I looked at Rose’s photograph.
“I’m not sure.”
Ellie hugged me.
Her small arms barely reached around my shoulders.
Thomas looked away.
After a moment, Ellie whispered, “Did you save somebody?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Thomas said gently.
I looked at him.
He corrected himself.
“You helped somebody.”
That was better.
Ellie pulled back.
“Like the ring?”
I smiled.
“A little.”
She thought about it.
“Then maybe people remembered.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Maybe people remembered.
We assume goodness disappears because it does not make noise.
Perhaps sometimes it simply travels farther than we can see.
“What does Rebecca’s ring have to do with all of this?” I asked.
Thomas’s face changed.
Now we were reaching the complicated part.
“The ring belonged to our mother.”
I looked toward the grocery store receipt still sitting on the counter.
“Rose’s?”
“Yes.”
“She left it to Rebecca.”
“Why was Rebecca so terrified when she lost it?”
Thomas looked at his hands.
“Because she was going to sell it.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“To pay a debt.”
“What kind?”
“Not hers.”
He paused.
“Our niece’s.”
Family.
Always more complicated when money entered it.
“Rebecca has a daughter?”
“Had.”
The word was soft.
I immediately regretted asking.
“I’m sorry.”
“Her daughter, Allison, died eighteen months ago.”
Ellie had wandered into the living room to retrieve crayons.
Good.
I lowered my voice.
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
My chest tightened.
“Children?”
“One.”
“How old?”
“Ten.”
