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Show 153 She didn't answer. "I think she is," the nurse said. Hunt touched her. Her head jerked; eyes pulled themselves apart. "Why don't I let you rest again," he said. "All right," she said, her eyes already sliding, drifting down: "If . . . "I'll come back," he said; "in just a bit." "Fine," she said. Then bobbed. Then floated. Hunt heard the Irish nurse exit, steps, like a diminishing clock, in the background. He recalled the sulky, petulant girl who had asked him if he taught. His mind touched his wife and children. "Try to eat as much as you can," Hunt prompted gently; "Pop says you should." The advice flickered, like a butterfly, just in front of her face, then - Hunt saw it - went somewhere else. He leaned down, kissed her head. Her hair was brittle. But it smelled clean. Like clean dry leaves, freshened by wind and light. God: He loved this woman! He started out. "Thank you so much for the book," he heard her say - a surprise - from her place. He turned. She seemed almost too drawn and miniaturized in the wing-chair to be real. "Thank you for the light," he said across the space. But there was no way to be certain that the words were heard. |