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“Same here,” I say. “Was the snow globe a gift from someone who was?”
Two taps this time.
“Your parents?”
Another two taps.
“Do you miss them?”
Lenora thinks about it. Not for very long. Just enough for me to notice the pause. Then she taps twice against my palm.
“And your sister?” I say. “Do you miss her, too?”
I get a single tap this time. One so adamant it stings my hand.
No.
A troubling answer, accompanied by a more troubling thought—Lenora used this hand when she killed her sister.
With a rope.
And her father
With a knife.
And her mother.
That happy life.
Knowing that the hand I’m holding did all those horrible things makes me let go of it with a gasp. Lenora’s hand plops into her lap, prompting a sharp look, part surprised and part hurt. But soon her expression changes into something more aware, almost amused.
Sheknowswhat I was thinking.
Because I’m not the first caregiver to think such things.
Others have, too. Some might have also dropped her hand like a hot potato immediately after. Even Mary. Like me, they probably also wondered not just how Lenora killed her family, but why. That’s the big mystery, after all. There must be a reason. No one slaughters their entire family without motive.
No one sane, that is.
I look at Lenora, wondering if beneath her silence and stillness madness churns. It doesn’t seem that way, especially when Lenora stares back. I sense a keen intelligence at work behind those green eyes as she moves them from me to the typewriter at the desk. The look is urgent. Almost as if she’s trying to tell me something.
“You want to use that?” I ask.
Lenora taps twice.
“Mary showed you how?”
Another two taps. Emphatic ones that echo through the room. Even so, I have my doubts. It seems impossible that someone in Lenora’s condition could use it, even with assistance. I was fired from a typing pool. I know how hard those machines can be for someone who has the use ofbothhands.
Still, I wheel Lenora to the desk and place her left hand on the keyboard. She’s changed subtly now that we’re alone at the typewriter. Brighter and more alert, her fingers slide over the keys, as if she’s carefully deciding which to press first. Settling on one, she uses her index finger to push down with all her might. A typebar springs from the machine and strikes the paper with a loudthwack.
Lenora beams. She’s enjoying this.
After pressing eight more keys, including the space bar, she exhales, satisfied.
Because she can’t do it herself, it’s up to me to tap the return bar, bringing the carriage back to its starting position. The motion inches the page up a line, letting me see what she just typed.
hello kit