I was driving my son, Nicholas, the only child left, to take his mother, Agnes, to the oldpeoples home. The sky was a dull, weeping gray, as if the heavens themselves sensed the bitter sorrow that settled over Littlebrook. I stared out of the little clinics window, feeling my own heart squeezed, as though two cold pliers were turning it slowly inside my chest. The whole village seemed emptied; the dogs no longer barked, the children hid away, even Uncle Toms restless cock fell silent. All eyes were fixed on the house of our neighbour, Mrs. Vera, the matriarch of the lane. By her gate stood a city car, foreign and shining like a fresh scab on the skin of our hamlet.
Nicholas, her only son, arrived three days earlier, slickcoated with expensive aftershave, smelling of polished streets rather than our damp earth. He was the first to come to me, claiming he needed advice but truly seeking justification.
Mrs. Edith, he said, not looking at me but at a jar of cotton tucked in the corner, Mum needs professional care. Im stuck here all day, pressures and aches Itll be better for her. Doctors, attention I sat mute, watching his clean hands, nails trimmed neat as a schoolboys. Those same hands had once clutched Veras skirts when she pulled him from the icy river, had reached for the pies she baked without sparing the last knob of butter, and now were signing a sentence that felt like a verdict.
Nick, I whispered, my voice trembling as if it werent my own, a home for the aged isnt a home at all. Its a staterun ward. The walls are strangers.
But there are specialists! he shouted, as if convincing himself. Whats left here? Youre the only one for the whole village. What if she needs help at night?
In my mind I heard the old walls whisper: Here the boards creak as they have for forty years, the apple tree by the window was planted by your father. Isnt that medicine? Yet I said nothing. What could I say when a man has already decided? He left, and I shuffled toward Veras bench.
Vera sat on her weatherworn porch seat, straight as a taut string, hands trembling delicately on her knees. She didnt cry; her eyes were dry, staring down the river. When she saw me, she tried to smile, but it came out more like a sour gulp of vinegar.
Here you are, Mrs. Semyonova, she said, voice rustling like autumn leaves. Your sons arrived to take her away. I sat beside her, took her handcold, rough, the sort of hands that have tended garden beds, washed linen in icy streams, rocked little Kolya to sleep.
Maybe you could speak with him first, Vera? I whispered. She shook her head. No need. Hes decided. It eases his mind. He loves the city, thinks hes doing good.
Her quiet wisdom sank into my marrow. I didnt howl, I didnt curse. I simply accepted, as I always had accepted drought and rain, the loss of a husband, and now this.
That evening, before my departure, I visited again. She had gathered a bundle: a photograph of her late husband in a frame, a soft downy scarf I had given her for her birthday, and a tiny copper icon. All of her life folded into one linen knot.
The house was tidy, floors scrubbed, the air scented with thyme and a strange cold ash. She sat at a table set with two cups and a saucer bearing the remnants of jam.
Sit, she nodded. Lets have tea, one last time. We sipped in silence while the old clock on the wall tickedonce, twice, once, twicecounting down the final minutes of her stay. That hush held more scream than any outburst could. Each crack in the ceiling, each loose tile, each whiff of geranium on the windowsill echoed the farewell.
Then she rose, went to the chest, retrieved a bundle wrapped in white cloth, and handed it to me.
Take this, Edith. Its a tablecloth my mother embroidered. Keep it as a memory. I unfolded it to find blue cornflowers and red poppies stitched along the edge with such deftness that my throat tightened.
Vera, why? I stammered. Dont burden yourself or me. Let it stay here, waiting for you. She only gave me those faded eyes, full of a universal longing, and I sensed she did not truly believe.
The day came. Nicholas fidgeted, placing Veras bundle in the boot. Vera stepped onto the porch in her best dress, the same downy scarf. Neighbouring women, brave enough, gathered at the gates, dabbing tears with the edges of aprons.
She scanned each cottage, each tree, then turned to me. In her gaze I saw an unspoken question: Why? and a plea: Remember.
She entered the car, upright and proud, not looking back. Only when the vehicle rolled forward, kicking up a cloud of dust, did I glimpse her face in the rearview mirrora single, miserly tear trailing down her cheek. The car vanished around a bend, and we stood watching the dust settle like ash on a burnt field. The heart of Littlebrook seemed to stop that day.
Autumn passed, winter hurled its blizzards, and Veras house stood lonely, windows boarded up, snow piled to the porch, untouched. The village felt orphaned. Sometimes I walked past, halfexpecting the gate to creak, Vera to appear, adjust her scarf, and say, Good day, Edith. But the gate stayed mute.
Nicholas called a few times, his voice heavy, saying his mother was adjusting, the care was good. Yet I heard in his tone a yearning that told me he had locked himself into that sterile ward.
Then spring arrivedonly the sort that belongs to a countryside, air scented with thawing soil and birch sap, sunshine so gentle you want to press your face to it and squint with joy. Streams sang, birds went mad with song. One day, while I hung laundry, a familiar car rolled up at Veras gate.
My heart gave a startled thump. Could it be a trick? The car halted, and a thinner, greyerhaired Nicholas stepped out, his hair now silvered at the temples. He opened the back door, and I froze.
From the car, leaning on his arm, emerged Vera herself. She still wore that same downy scarf, squinting against the bright sun, breathing as though the very air were a drink.
I, almost unthinking, walked to them, my legs moving on their own.
Edith Nicholas looked at me, guilt and relief tangled in his eyes. I couldnt she faded there, like a candle in the wind. She stared out the window, silent. I came back, and she looked at me as if she didnt know me. Ive realised, foolish as I was, that it isnt walls or scheduled injections that heal. The home soil heals.
He swallowed, his throat tight.
Ive arranged work, will come every weekendlike a spear thrustany spare moment. Ill stay, and Ill ask the neighbours to help. Well manage together. She belongs here, not there.
Vera brushed her hand along the rough gatepost as if smoothing the skin of a beloved face. Nicholas unlocked the boards from the windows. The house exhaled, alive again.
She stepped onto the porch, paused at the threshold, closed her eyes. I saw her lashes tremble, inhaling the scent of her own homea scent no substitute could match. Then she smilednot bitter, not forced, but genuine, the kind a traveler finally feels returning home after a long, frightening journey.
By evening the whole village gathered around hernot with questions, but simply to be. Someone brought a jug of milk, another a fresh loaf, a third a jar of raspberry jam. They sat on benches, talked of seedlings, weather, the rivers recent floods. Vera sat among us, small and frail, yet her eyes shone. She was home.
Late that night I sat on my own porch, sipping mint tea, watching the light glow warmly through Veras kitchen window. It seemed not just a bulb but the beating heart of our village, steady, peaceful, happy once more.
And you wonder, after all, what matters more to our elderssterile wards and clockwork care, or the creak of a familiar gate and the chance to touch the apple tree your father planted?
