Tilly lay in bed now, while Ada moved about the flat. She could hear her mother’s knees and ankles popping as she cleaned at night, her dull humming as she started taking care of the kitchen again and preparing the window boxes for vegetables. Her father was busy in the grocery, his work ethic as improved by the fall, her mother said, as his comprehension was diminished. Now and then, Ada came to the bed and pulled Tilly close. She touched her cheek to the top of her head, so that Tilly felt like a baby bird tucked under a wing—that press of comfort, wordless. When it worked, Tilly fell asleep. When it didn’t, Tilly held her breath so as not to have her mother’s scent in her nose. Rev. McNeely visited. At first Tilly thought it was a condolence call, but as she listened to their conversation from the bedroom, she realized her mother had asked him to come. “I think I could endure anything,” she said. “I’m not even scared. If I died I would miss Tilly, but I feel as though I have a child on each side of an abyss now and death would be just crossing over to spend time with the one I haven’t seen in a while.”
