The Only One Left by Riley Sager

SIX

Lenora and I have adjoining rooms, a fact I discover after bringing my belongings upstairs. The first thing I unpack is the metal lockbox I use to store medication. The same one that got me suspended and investigated by the police after I failed to use it. Now empty, I slide it under the bed and drop the key in a nightstand drawer.

Next are my clothes. After opening the suitcase, I try the door to what I think is a closet. Instead, I find myself looking straight into Lenora’s room. Mrs. Baker is still there, putting a slim pair of headphones over Lenora’s ears. They’re attached to a brick-like Walkman resting in Lenora’s lap.

“Ah, Kit,” Mrs. Baker says as she presses the Walkman’s play button. “Let’s go over Miss Hope’s routine.”

I drift into Lenora’s room, curious. She’s a strange sight—a woman in her seventies, slumped in a wheelchair that likely hasn’t been made since the forties, enjoying the latest technology of the eighties.

“What is she listening to?”

“A book on cassette tape,” Mrs. Baker says, as if offended by the very concept. “Jessica records herself reading aloud and then gives the tapes to Miss Hope to listen to.”

“That’s very nice of her.”

“If you say so.”

Mrs. Baker goes to a sideboard beneath the window. Inside are dozens of cassette tapes in plastic cases. Scrawled on the labels in red Magic Marker are many titles I recognize. The Thorn Birds. Clan of the Cave Bear. More than a few books by Jackie Collins.

Nearby, Lenora listens to one of the tapes with a look of contentment on her face. Like a child just handed their favorite toy. She remains that way as Mrs. Baker gives me a crash course on how to take care of her. We first go over Lenora’s medications, of which there are many. Aspirin, a water pill, an anticoagulant, a statin, a pill to control muscle spasms, another to prevent osteoporosis. All of them sit on Lenora’s nightstand. Six little orange bottles arranged in a row atop a silver serving tray.

I open each bottle, familiarizing myself with the pills’ shapes, sizes, and colors. Also on the tray are a mortar and pestle. Their presence tells me I’m to crush the pills.

“I mix them in with Miss Hope’s food, right?”

“Three with breakfast, three with dinner,” Mrs. Baker says. “The bottles are marked.”

I note the stickers on the bottles as she continues, telling me how I’m to spend two hours each day—one in the morning, one in the evening—gently moving Lenora’s arms and legs to improve her circulation. Each morning and evening I’m also supposed to brush her teeth, brush her hair, and change her out of her sleeping clothes and into her daytime clothes and back again. I need to feed her. And bathe her. And help her onto the toilet when she can manage to go or change her adult diaper when she can’t.

We talk as if Lenora isn’t in the room with us, silent and still in her wheelchair. Occasionally, I glance her way, trying to get a read on how much she’s aware of what’s going on around her. Half the time, she seems oblivious to our presence, content to stare out the window and listen to her book on tape. The other half, though, I sense acute concentration. As if she’s keeping track of my every move. At one point, Lenora’s gaze leaves the window and drifts my way. A sidelong glance she doesn’t want me to notice. When I do, her eyes snap back toward the window.

“What does Miss Hope do for fun?”

“Fun?” Mrs. Baker says, as if she’s never heard the word. “Miss Hope doesn’t have fun. She rests.”

“All day?”

I scan the room, which is larger than mine but also stuffy, in both air flow and furnishings. The windows are firmly shut, making me question when they were last opened. A crisp ocean breeze would do wonders. But it doesn’t smell like a sickroom, either. A relief. I’ve spent far too much time moving around sticky rooms that smell of sweat, body odor, and decay.

As for the furniture, well, not much can be done about that. In addition to the sideboard and faded divan, there’s an armoire against the opposite wall, a desk in the corner, an armchair that matches the divan, and several side tables with Tiffany lamps. It’s frilly and slightly girlish and makes me conclude that this was Lenora’s childhood bedroom and has remained unchanged for decades. The idea of a woman sleeping in the same room she had as a child would be weird if not for the fact that I have just been doing the same thing.

The only nod to modernity is a Hoyer lift next to the bed, which allows for easier transfer to and from a wheelchair. I’ve used them plenty of times, although this looks to be an early model. Its U-shaped base, angled support pole, and hydraulic pump aren’t as sleek as other versions. At the top, dangling from what looks like an oversize coat hanger, is a nylon sling.

The bed itself is crowded with pillows, which bear a human-shaped indentation. I shudder at the thought of being forced to lie there all day with nothing to do.

“Surely there’s something she likes to do,” I say, searching for a television somewhere in the room. Most of my other patients loved having the TV on, even if they didn’t really watch. Just the sound of it kept them company.

Instead of a television, I spot a typewriter atop the desk. It’s old—mint green, off-white keys, clearly a relic of the sixties—but in working condition, as evidenced by a sheet of paper slid into the carriage.

“Is that for Miss Hope?”

Mrs. Baker gives the typewriter a passing glance. “In her youth, she wanted to be a writer. When Mary discovered this fact, she bought a typewriter with the intent of teaching Miss Hope how to use it.”

“Did she?”

“No,” Mrs. Baker says. “But over the years, we’ve devised a way for her to communicate her needs. She can answer yes or no questions by tapping her left hand. Once for no, twice for yes. It’s not perfect, but it’s worked well so far.”

I again flex my left hand, unnerved by the idea of having only that with which to communicate.

I shoot another quick glance at Lenora, who’s resumed watching me. This time, she doesn’t try to hide it. Lenora simply stares.

“As for Miss Hope’s care,” Mrs. Baker says, stressing the word to make it clear she thinks all other topics are frivolous, “dinner is served at seven. While you’re certainly welcome to join us in the kitchen after feeding Miss Hope, most of the nurses have found it easier to eat here with her. After dinner, it’s time for a second hour of circulatory therapy, followed by Miss Hope’s bath.”

She opens a door on one side of the armoire. Inside is a bathroom with gleaming white tile, a radiator hissing beneath the towel rack, another Hoyer lift beside the clawfoot bathtub, and a sink high enough to accommodate Lenora’s wheelchair.

“Miss Hope is put to bed promptly at nine. If she requires assistance during the night, Miss Hope will use this call button to summon you.”

Mrs. Baker goes to the nightstand on the left side of Lenora’s bed and picks up a thick plastic square that resembles an Atari controller missing its joystick. The button is the same, though. A fat red circle Mrs. Baker presses with her thumb. A loud buzz erupts from my room. Accompanying it is a red light I can see through the open adjoining door, flaring from a plastic stand on my night table.

“Are there any questions?” she says.

“If I think of any, I’ll be sure to ask.”

“I don’t doubt that in the least,” Mrs. Baker says, her voice dry as tumbleweed. “I now officially entrust Miss Hope to your care. May you serve her well.”

The words are uttered with zero enthusiasm, as if Mrs. Baker doubts this will come to pass. Then she turns and leaves the room, her black skirt swishing. I remain by the door a moment, swaying slightly. While I’d like to think it’s the fault of the mansion’s tilt, I know the real cause.

I’m now alone with Lenora Hope.

My pulse quickens unexpectedly. After seeing that bit of myself in Lenora’s eyes, I didn’t think I’d be so nervous. But the room feels different now that it’s just the two of us. There’s a charge in the air, likely muffled by Mrs. Baker’s presence. With her gone, I can feel the full weight of it, electric and vaguely foreboding.

And scary. Surprisingly so.

Years ago, when I was young and my father still spoke to me, we were in the backyard when a bee landed on my arm. Before I could shriek or run away, my father gripped me by the shoulders and held me in place.

“Never show fear, Kit-Kat,” he whispered. “They can tell if you’re scared—and that’s when they sting.”

I remained still, pretending to be brave as the bee crawled up my arm, across my neck, onto my cheek. Then it flew away, leaving me unscathed.

I try to summon that same illusion of fearlessness now as I approach Lenora, leaning slightly to counterbalance the tilted floor. I check the Walkman in her lap. The cassette inside no longer turns, having come to the end an unknown number of minutes ago. I gingerly remove the headphones from her ears and set them on the sideboard with the Walkman. It prompts an annoyed look from Lenora.

“Sorry,” I say. “Now that it’s just us, I thought we should—I should—talk. Let you get to know me better.”

I take a seat on the divan and face Lenora, whose gaze drifts a bit before those green eyes zero in on me once again. In addition to being unnervingly bright, her eyes are subtly expressive. A byproduct of not being able to speak. Lenora’s eyes must do all the work. Right now, they flicker with wariness and a wee bit of indecision. As if she doesn’t quite know what to make of me.

Likewise, Lenora. Likewise.

“So, Miss Hope—”

I stop, hating the way it sounds. It’s too formal, no matter what Mrs. Baker says. Besides, I’ve always found that addressing a person by their first name makes them seem less intimidating. Which is likely why Mrs. Baker never shared hers. It was a power move. Since Miss Hope is intimidating enough without the formality, I make the split-second decision to use her first name when Mrs. Baker isn’t around.

“So, Lenora,” I begin again. “As I said earlier, my name is Kit. And I’m here to help you with anything you need.”

Which is everything.

Another daunting realization.

All my previous patients could feed themselves or walk with assistance. And all of them could speak, letting me know what they needed and when. All Lenora can do is use her left arm, and I have no idea if that goes beyond her being able to press a red button.

“Let’s start by testing that communication system Mrs. Baker told me about,” I say. “You can do it, right?”

Lenora curls the fingers of her left hand inward, forming a loose fist. She then drops her knuckles against the armrest of her wheelchair once, twice. That’s a yes.

“Awesome,” I say. “Now let’s see what kind of shape you’re in.”

I fetch my medical bag and do a routine check of Lenora’s vitals. Her blood pressure is a little high, but not worrisomely so, and her pulse is normal for a woman her age and in her condition. When I test her reflexes, all of Lenora’s limbs react in some capacity. Normal for both her right arm—paralysis doesn’t mean the body can’t react—and her legs, which are too weakened by polio to use. As for her left arm, it responds exactly the way the working arm of someone in their seventies should.

The only cause for minor concern is a faded bruise on the inside of Lenora’s forearm. It’s small—just a smudge of purple surrounded by yellow—and seems to be healing correctly.

“What happened here?” I say. “Did you bump into something?”

Lenora taps twice. Another yes.

“Does it hurt?”

A single tap this time. No.

“Let me know if it does. Now, let’s see what else this arm can do.” I clasp Lenora’s left hand. It’s cold and pale. Practically translucent. A road map of veins runs just beneath the papery skin. “Move it for me, please.”

Lenora’s fingers wiggle in my hands.

“Good. Now make a fist. As tight as you can.”

Her nails scritch against my palm as her hand curls into a fist tighter than the one she made to tap on the armrest.

“Not bad,” I say. “Let’s see how much that hand can hold.”

I grab a pill bottle from the tray on the nightstand and place it in Lenora’s open palm. She wraps her fingers around the bottle, keeping her grasp steady.

“Very good,” I say as I return the pill bottle to the tray.

Searching the room for another object to use, I spot a snow globe atop the sideboard. Roughly the size of a tennis ball, it’s clearly old. The globe is glass, not plastic, and inside is a hand-painted scene of Paris, including a tiny Eiffel Tower rising to the top of the dome. I give the snow globe a shake. Any liquid that had once been there is long gone, leaving the gold flakes inside to dryly tumble like reused confetti.

I put the snow globe in Lenora’s left hand. Though small, it’s heavy, and her hand trembles under its weight. A noise leaves her throat. A tiny, tortured croak that makes me immediately take the snow globe as Lenora’s hand drops back onto the armrest. She frowns, looking disappointed that she failed.

“It’s okay. You tried your best.” I put the snow globe back on the sideboard, the motion setting off another glittery plume. Back at Lenora’s side, I take her hand. Under her skin, the veins pulse slightly. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

Lenora curls her hand into a loose fist and gives my palm a single, sad tap.

“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.

She knows what 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 of both hands.

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 loud thwack.

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

I smile despite my nervousness. “Hello.”

Lenora bobs her head toward the typewriter. A sign she wants to keep going.

“Isn’t this hard for you?” I say.

Once again, her left hand roams the keys before pressing a letter. Her typing isn’t fast. I suspect she averages about a word per minute, which isn’t much worse than me in the typing pool. Unlike me, she’s persistent, working with intense concentration. As she hunts and pecks, her brow furrows and her tongue pokes from a corner of her mouth. Soon she’s typed nine more words, each one broken by a thwack of the space bar.

my body is dead but my mind is alive

Lenora stares up at me expectantly, nervously biting her lower lip, trying to gauge my reaction. It’s such a pure expression. Her feelings are so evident that she reminds me of a teenager. Someone who can’t help but wear her heart on her sleeve.

It occurs to me that Lenora could still be like a teenager in so many ways. For decades, she’s been living in this house, in this very room, surrounded by objects of her youth. Nothing about her life has changed since she was seventeen. Without family or friends or even a change of scenery to push her into maturity, Lenora might still mentally be a teenager.

Which means there’s a chance her emotional state now is exactly how it was the night her family was murdered. The rhyme again skips through my memory, taunting.

At seventeen, Lenora Hope

Unnerved, I pull my hand away from the typewriter, as if Lenora’s about to reach out and grab me. She notices, of course, and nods for me to hit the typewriter’s return bar. I do, quickly and abruptly, making sure there’s no contact between us.

In response, Lenora types out three small but meaningful words.

dont be scared

Another nod from her. Another swift swipe of the return bar from me, allowing Lenora to type another line.

i cant hurt you

If the goal was to put me at ease, then Lenora has failed miserably.

I won’t hurt you.

Now that would have calmed my nerves.

What Lenora ended up typing does the opposite. That insidious, apostrophe-less can’t suggests a lack of capability, not willingness.

And that Lenora would hurt me if she could.